#literally enough to make him smile as he turned his gaze out the window………

[kefiteria]

Where the Marble Cracks

pair: Vil Schoenheit x gn! reader

summary: Vil is literally losing his mind because one (1) person asked him a normal question in alchemy class. Suddenly his sunscreen isn't working, his potion's failing, and his skincare bottle is rolling away in protest. Rook’s like, “You're in love,” and Vil's like, “How dare you say something so true and vile??” Meanwhile, reader’s just vibing, politely asking for notes, and Vil's sculpted self-control is cracking like cheap contour. Will he confess? Absolutely not. Will he continue spiraling beautifully? Absolutely.

a/n🍨: I was pondering life and the comfort of warm chicken porridge... and somehow, this spilled out of my head

✨[twst masterlist]✨

Marble must be struck—again and again—until the excess falls away, revealing the form beneath. Precision births beauty. Admired, yes… but never touched.

So then, tell me—

Why does something in my chest still pulse, pliant and unrefined, as if I were not carved of stone, but something far too human?

The bottle did not shatter. That, somehow, was more insulting.

It landed with a noise too vulgar for the room’s curated silence—a click, a roll, a sigh. Serums don’t scream. They wait, obedient. They rest in rows like soldiers in porcelain armour, unspeaking, unchanging.

Not unlike himself, or so Vil preferred to believe. Yet, his hand still hung in the air—elegant, pale, but trembling. Barely. Only just. Enough.

Epel stood in the doorway, hesitant as a child who had stumbled into the wrong theatre. “Vil...? Uh. You okay?”

“I’m always okay,” Vil answered, without looking. “If anything, I’m exquisite.”

A pause. Then, with the audacity of youth, Epel asked: “Are you sure? You seem, like… distracted.”

“Distracted?” Vil repeated, tasting the word like something sour. “How quaint. No, Epel. I am focused. If I seem remote, it is only because I am ascending.”

He reached for the fallen bottle with practiced grace. But he was not quick enough to hide the sharp inhale, the split-second falter of his fingers as they brushed cold glass.

Epel mumbled something—aight then, sorry—and made his retreat, his boots squeaking slightly as he fled like a mouse sensing a storm behind the silk curtains.

But the quiet did not last long. Rook never needed to knock. He entered like a breeze through an open window—soft but knowing, and with eyes that saw far too much.

“Ah, mon roi,” Rook said, all moonlight smile and danger. “You wear tension like a robe tonight.”

Vil turned slowly, delicately—as one might when forced to address a spectre. “If you’ve come to recite riddles, Rook, spare me. I am not in the mood.”

“You are never in the mood when you are in love.” Rook tilted his head.

The silence that followed was not a pause. It was a lurch—the stomach in free fall, the breath caught mid-rib.

“I beg your pardon?” Vil’s voice sliced, silk-wrapped steel.

“I said,” Rook repeated, stepping closer, “you’re in love. Clearly. It bleeds out of you like light through a crack in marble.”

Vil stiffened. “You’re mistaken.”

“Non. I’m observant.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Then make time,” Rook said gently. “Before it corrodes you.”

For a moment—just a moment—Vil saw the shadow of something hideous in the mirror. Not a wrinkle, not a flaw, but a warmth that did not belong. A blush, not painted. A gaze, unfocused.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Vil snapped. “Leave me.”

Rook inclined his head, utterly unruffled, and vanished like perfume in the air.

【Laboratory | 11:09 A.M.】

There was a strange hollowness to the room today.

Perhaps it was the angle of the sun, too direct against the high windows. Or perhaps it was the hum of students grinding herbs and adjusting burners—just a shade too loud, too persistent. Whatever the cause, Vil found it unbearable.

His potion refused to obey.

It had turned a dull, lifeless gray, the colour of wet ash—when it should have been lilac by now. Faintly iridescent. Predictable.

He had brewed this mixture a dozen times before. Perhaps more. It was almost beneath him. The kind of assignment he could complete in silence, with his mind elsewhere, and still have enough finesse left over to critique the colour gradient.

Yet here he stood, brows faintly drawn together, lips pressed into a pale line, watching a perfectly useless pool of potion fizzle in front of him like flat champagne.

Crewel’s boots struck against the stone in crisp succession, his voice trailing after him like the scent of musk and worn leather. “Schoenheit,” he said, pausing beside Vil’s station with a measured lift of his brow. “This doesn’t look promising.”

“It’s nothing,” Vil replied, the smile curling his lips tighter than he intended. “A minor inconsistency.”

He didn’t mention that his gloves felt too tight today. Or that his sunscreen had refused to settle this morning, sitting on his skin like a foreign film he couldn’t quite translate. His foundation hadn’t absorbed either. The mirror had shown him a version of himself that felt… detached.

He didn’t like that version.

Across the room, the door opened.

Not dramatically. Not late. Just… gently. Unassumingly.

You stepped in, arms wrapped loosely around your notebook, the pages worn and curling at the corners. You made your way to the front where Crewel stood, waiting with the poise of someone respectful, not timid.

“Professor Crewel,” you began softly. “May I ask about the herb ratios in yesterday’s draught? Mine came out slightly too viscous—I thought it might be the dragon root concentration.”

Vil did not turn, but he listened. Every word.

Crewel glanced toward the board. “Mm. Makes sense,” he said. “You're making the colour-reactive salve, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect timing. Schoenheit’s working on the same compound. You’ll pair up with him.”

There was a beat. A quiet shift in air pressure.

Vil didn’t look up, but something in his hands stiffened—his thumb twitching slightly against the edge of the glass beaker.

“With all due respect,” he said, still facing forward, “I am more than capable of completing this alone.”

“Clearly,” Crewel drawled, casting a meaningful glance toward Vil’s graying potion. “Consider it reinforcement. Education isn’t meant to be a performance.”

You only nodded. “Alright.”

No protest. No smugness. No glee at the assignment. Just an alright—as simple and exact as a period at the end of a well-formed sentence.

You crossed the room and took your place beside him, careful not to knock anything over. You didn’t say anything more for a moment—just surveyed the workstation, then the failed potion, with a quiet, thoughtful glance.

Eventually, you spoke—gentle, almost casual, but not flippant.

“Did it curdle too fast?” you asked, voice low, so it wouldn’t carry. “Mine did that when I over-ground the dragon root. It gets weirdly temperamental if the humidity’s off.”

Vil blinked in utter confusion.

You weren’t joking. Or teasing. Or poking holes in the castle he’d built around himself. You were just… offering a thought. A suggestion. And worse—you assumed he could fail without being any less for it.

He cleared his throat lightly. “I doubt the problem is so elementary,” he said coolly, adjusting the angle of the burner. “But thank you for your… concern.”

You nodded once. No apology. No defensiveness. Just a quiet hum of acknowledgment.

“Mm,” you said, reaching for your notes. “Well. Let’s see what happens when we try it together.”

He looked down, and this time, the potion wasn’t the only thing stirring.

Of all the circumstances… of all the names, the faces, the distractions he’d trained himself to ignore—

Why was it this one?

Why was it you?

Not a starlet. Not a rival. Not a figure in his crafted world of posed smiles and editorial gloss.

But you, with your uneven margins and earnest gaze. You, who didn’t see him as a myth to be adored or envied—but just someone to pass the salt to, or to borrow a page from.

And perhaps that was it.

He had spent so long on the pedestal—polished, poised, revered—that he’d forgotten the feel of cold stone under the chisel. Forgotten what it meant to be the marble, not just the sculptor. To be something shaped, undone, touched not with reverence—but with the nerve-wracking possibility of being known.

Damn it—

Now he felt the fracture forming. Hairline. Invisible to the world. But not to him. Never to him. It was mortifying. It was infuriating. It was… intoxicating.

His fingers reached for the dragon root. Yours did too. They didn’t touch. They didn’t have to.

The heat of it seared through the air—foolish, silent, undeniable. The gap between your sleeves mocked him with its possibility.

In that breathless, blistering second, Vil felt something slip. Not his pride—no, that had been cracking for days.

Something deeper. Something dangerously tender.

This is how it begins, doesn't it?

Not with thunder. Not with roses. But with a tremor in the sculptor’s hand. A falter before the final strike. For the first time in his relentlessly calculated, immaculately curated existence—

Vil thought, Sevens, I am absolutely doomed.

Worse still—

He didn’t mind.

What an exquisite ruin it promises to be.

[deklo]

[er1nne]

rafe hates when you buy things without using his card

(do not copy or plagarize, original work) The Range Rover hummed quietly, its blacked-out interior wrapping you and Rafe in a cocoon of shadows and muted streetlights. It had been his idea to take you for a nail day—completely unprompted but not surprising. Rafe had a way of knowing when you needed a little spoiling, especially after the week you’d had. The air smelled like his cologne, something expensive and sharp, mixing with the faint scent of leather from the seats. You were reclined comfortably with both legs stretched out, your freshly painted white toes wiggling lazily as you scrolled through your phone.

Rafe sat in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh. His thumb stroked absentminded circles into your skin while his sharp blue eyes flicked toward the darkened street ahead. Traffic was crawling, a sea of red taillights stretching endlessly ahead. Rafe didn’t seem too bothered, one hand resting on the wheel while the other stayed on your thigh. His thumb moved in slow, hypnotic circles against your skin, his blue eyes flicking between the road and the glow of your phone screen. He was calm—you liked him this way.

“What’s got you so quiet, huh?” His voice broke the silence, smooth but with an edge that always demanded your attention.

“Just trying to check out before everything sells out,” you mumbled, barely glancing up. You were busy, furiously tapping away as you finalized your cart. The latest House of CB drop was a battlefield, and you weren’t about to lose.

“Lemme see.” He leaned closer, his sharp gaze cutting toward your screen. When he caught sight of the digits you were typing, his brows furrowed, his jaw tightening. “Wait, is that your card?”

You paused, immediately bracing for what was coming. “Yeah? Why?”

Rafe let out a short, irritated laugh, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You have all of my cards saved to your phone, and you’re using your own card? What the hell for?”

“It’s not a big deal, Rafe.” You kept your voice calm, like you weren’t trying to spark an argument in the middle of what was such a nice day. “It’s not like I can’t afford it.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a humorless smirk. “Afford it?” he repeated, voice tinged with a certain tone to it. “Sweetheart, I literally pay for your life. Why do you even have a card? For decoration?”

You glared at him, but the faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. “Rafe—”

“No, seriously,” he cut in, shaking his head as if the idea itself was absurd. “What are you holding onto that thing for? Just in case I drop dead tomorrow and you suddenly need it?”

You huffed an air of annoyance as a pout covered your slightly glossed lips and starred out the car window. The car filled with an almost unbearable silence. His hand, which had been rubbing your thigh, went still.

He turned to glance at you a few times before looking back at the road, the corner of his mouth twitching with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “Afford-” he repeated again slightly scoffing, voice low and slow, like he was trying to decide if you were messing with him. “Do you even hear yourself?”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms leaning slightly closer to his natural warmth. “It’s not that much.”

“To you. To me, that’s pocket change.” His fingers drummed a little harder against the steering wheel now, a restless energy creeping into his movements more obvious than ever.

“Rafe,” you started to whine, but he cut you off, shaking his head.

“Nah. Don’t start.” He turned fully to face you now, his hand lifting to cup your jaw, gently but firmly enough that you couldn’t look away. “Why do you always make this a thing? Is it so hard to let me take care of you? That’s why I’m here. To take care of you. You’re supposed to let me.”

Your resolve faltered under his intense gaze. He wasn’t just irritated—he was hurt. His words were a reminder, the same ones he’d given you before. Rafe wasn’t just possessive for the sake of it—he hated seeing you stress over anything, especially when he had the means to give you whatever you needed, whenever you wanted it. He didn’t want you holding onto burdens you didn’t have to carry. He’d told you before how it made him feel when you refused to lean on him, how he hated the idea of you ever struggling when he had the means to make your life easier. Rafe always told you how much he loved taking care of you, he felt proud to. Anything you ever want, he would give you, plus more.

“I’m not helpless,” you said softly, and it sounded weak even to your own ears.

“Did I say that you were?” he shot back immediately, his sharp blue eyes flicking from the road to meet yours. There was no trace of anger in his voice, just a steady, unyielding determination. “I know what you’re capable of. But you don’t have to do it all alone anymore.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his gaze softening, though his tone stayed firm. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re mine, remember? So stop making it harder than it needs to be. Let me do my job.”

Even while navigating the slow-moving traffic, his focus on you didn’t waver. His eyes flicked back to yours, holding them for just a second longer than he should have, but long enough to make your heart skip a beat. You felt the weight of his words settle over you, the quiet conviction in his voice leaving no room for argument.

“Rafe…” you started. You stared at him for a long moment before finally relenting, handing over your phone with a quiet sigh. “Fine. Just this once.”

He smirked, already deleting your card details and replacing them with his own Amex Black information. The confirmation dinged almost immediately, and he handed the phone back to you, smug satisfaction written all over his face. “There. Easy. Now you’ve got your shit, and I’ve got my peace of mind.”

“Thank you,” you muttered, cheeks warming as you avoided his eyes.

Rafe tilted your chin up, his fingers brushing against your jaw as he pressed a lingering kiss to your lips. “Don’t thank me, baby. Just stop making this harder than it has to be. Just let me take care of you?” A small pout covered your slighly glossed lips as you responded to him in a small voice, "Okay."

“That’s my girl,” He smiled and leaned back in his seat, hand returning to your thigh as he glanced toward the street, his usual sharp focus slipping back into place.

You smiled slightly, your frustration melting away as you leaned into him. Because no matter how stubborn you could be, you both knew he’d always win in the end. And deep down, you didn’t mind.

[cherienymphe]

Everybody Knows That I'm A Good Girl, Officer (Coriolanus Snow x Reader)

WARNINGS: Dub-Con, power imbalance, abuse of power, degradation, manipulation, slight stalking, choking, semi public sex, mentions of cockwarming, mentions of gun kink, dom/sub elements, free use elements, jealousy

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies

summary: ...and everybody knows. Everybody knows...that he fucks you.

~

You didn’t know a thing about Coriolanus Snow.

Not until he quite literally cornered you in the meadow one day.

Peacekeepers came and went, especially in District 12, so you never took it upon yourself to pay attention to any new face that appeared on the streets of your district in those blue uniforms. In truth, you never took it upon yourself to pay attention to any of their faces. They all perfectly blended together into one faceless being that was merely a puppet of The Capitol, anyway.

However, standing in front Coriolanus Snow, you wondered how you missed him. Not because he was handsome—and he was—but because there was a hard glint to his blue gaze that told you he wasn’t the average capitol dog. Gun tight in his hand at his side, he stared at you like he wasn’t at all surprised to find you there.

He wasn’t.

You learned that Coriolanus Snow liked to watch you, silent footsteps shadowing yours as he wondered what you were up to when you crossed the district line. He liked to watch you pick flowers and write underneath a tree and bring back the occasional caught animal for your ma and pa. He watched you play with the children in your district and help that old neighbor with her window…and steal food on occasions when your family couldn’t afford it.

“You could get into a lot of trouble for that.”

His tone was even and strong, but something about it told you that he didn’t want you to get in trouble for that.

“I know,” you told him, jutting out your chin as if challenging him to do something about it.

You said nothing, merely pressing your back to the tree when he moved closer, the gentle breeze ruffling the tall grass around his feet. You said nothing when he stood so close that you could smell him, wondering to yourself what a peacekeeper could possibly have access to that would make him smell so good. You even remained quiet when his free hand reached for yours, the softness of it shocking you, a sharp inhale when he turned your hand over.

Your palm was lightly stained from the bird you’d killed.

You curiously eyed him, a slight frown between your brows as he studied the skin. You drank in his prominent nose, full lips, and those unsettling blue eyes. Staring at them for too long actually made you uneasy, and when his gaze lifted to meet yours, you couldn’t look away fast enough. It only then occurred to you that you were out in the woods alone…with a peacekeeper who could do absolutely anything he wanted to you.

His next words surprised you.

“If someone other than me were to catch you…I can’t imagine what they’d do to you,” he murmured, making your frown deepen. “So, I would advise you to stop.”

By the way the corner of his mouth twitched, you knew that your shock and confusion was all over your face. When he dropped your hand, he pointed his gun at your catch of the day in a gesture for you to get your things, waiting for you to grab your dinner and your book.

You thought that he was letting you off the hook.

You thought wrong.

You learned that Coriolanus Snow was not a good man.

“Your daughter dropped these, ma’am, and I knew she’d kick herself if I didn’t bring these home.”

That smile on his pink lips was perfect, blue eyes twinkling when your mother thanked him profusely for bringing home your groceries—groceries you both knew you didn’t buy. When your eyes met his over her shoulder, that charming smile didn’t move an inch, and the longer he stared at you, the more uncomfortable you felt.

“Thank you,” you told him the next day, seeking him out.

He wasn’t technically on duty, and you found your gaze lingering on the dog tag around his neck. However, you found your gaze lingering on his face instead when he took a step closer, gaze unreadable.

“Anytime.”

It was a strange thing to say about bringing you food that you didn’t buy, and when he took another step towards you, your face pinched ever so slightly. You were all too aware of your close proximity, and when you felt his chest lightly brush against yours, your lips parted in realization. The moment it clicked had your blood running both hot and cold, uneasy and conflicted.

As you stared at each other, there seemed to be a lot of unspoken words between you, Coriolanus with one hand on the wall and you with one hand fidgeting with your shirt. You looked between his eyes, looking for some hint of hesitation, some evidence that deep down this wasn’t something he actually wanted to do…but there was none. There was a resolve in his gaze that felt all too familiar. It was the same determination you were sure was in your gaze anytime you swiped food for your household.

The same determination when your desperation won.

You took a deep shuddery breath.

“Anytime…?” you wondered, keeping your eyes on him.

Something in his face relaxed, evening out as he completely crowded you, now.

“Anytime.”

When his lips met yours, you didn’t exactly know what to do, feeling both unsure and sure at the same time. You were sure that you wanted to live comfortably and not have to wonder how you’d get your next meal, but you were so unsure of how this would end and what this would mean for you. You wouldn’t be the first girl to give herself to a peacekeeper or the mayor or whoever else she needed to just to ease the weight in her chest.

Coriolanus kissed you like he was the hungry one, lips moving against yours in a way that left you breathless. His hand wouldn’t stop kneading into your waist through your shirt, and his other found a home on your face, thumb brushing over your skin and tilting your head back. The only thing to pull you apart was a noise coming from inside the building you were pressed against, and when the blond man told you to hurry home, you did.

You learned that Coriolanus Snow liked obedience.

He wasn’t the kind of man who enjoyed repeating himself, and you learned that quickly, so now when he told you to get on your knees, you didn’t hesitate. When he told you to open your mouth, you did, and when he practically begged you to look up at him, you did. Coriolanus would never beg, he would never do that, but it was evident in the way his voice strained—the way the words left him breathlessly.

Or maybe that was because you had your lips around his cock.

With a hand in your hair and a hand on your chin, he gently guided you to take him into your throat again and again. You were no virgin, but there were still a lot of firsts to be had for you, and sliding your tongue over the tip of him was one of them. The feel of his fingers massaging your scalp soothed you, made this less nerve-wracking, and to your surprise, it even stroked a slowly burning fire between your legs.

There was such a stark contrast between the gentle touch of his fingers in your hair and the harsh hold of his hand on your chin. It wasn’t the easiest to take all of him into your mouth, and you couldn’t swallow down the noise that escaped when he hit the back of your throat. His smooth baritone reached your ears when he gently shushed you, softly telling you to use your hands.

“Wrap them around me,” he whispered in the otherwise quiet room.

Coriolanus liked obedience…so you did.

Your hand slid along his length in time with your lips, twisting around his cock, an easy task with the help of the mess you were making. He didn’t seem to mind though, only groaning above you, and when you glanced up at him from beneath your lashes, you took in the way his head was thrown back, the skin of his throat straining and bobbing as he swallowed.

When he lowered his head, you started to look away, but the tightening of his hand in your hair told you not to. You kept your eyes on his as best as you could, sucking your cheeks in and flattening your tongue against the side of his cock. Every bob of your head made him shudder, and you dropped your hand when his hands came to rest on both sides of your head.

Remaining still for the man standing over you, you kept your mouth open as he slowly began to push his hips forward. With every surge of them, his cock dipped into your waiting lips, sliding over your tongue and against the inside of your cheeks. His thumbs brushed against your cheeks as he lost himself in his movements, blue eyes gazing down at you as he filled your mouth.

You didn’t know why—couldn’t understand it—but something about his outright use of your body and your lips had you squeezing your thighs together. It made heat settle in the pit of your stomach, twisting and burning violently until your not-so-subtle movements became noticed by him. In between his uneven breathing, a soft chuckle reached your ears.

“You’ll get your turn.”

…and he was a man of his word.

With the taste of him still on your tongue, Coriolanus had one forearm completely pinning your hips to the bed as he pressed his face between your thighs. Another first ripped away from you, wide gaze on the ceiling as you fought to keep from squirming. The feel of his tongue inside of you was jarring, and you couldn’t stop your toes from curling at the warm feel of it quite literally lapping at you.

Your hands came down to rest on his short blond hair, hips attempting to lift from the mattress, chest arching upwards towards the ceiling. When he hummed between your legs, you felt it all over, and you couldn’t stop the moans that climbed out of your throat. With him holding you down, the only appropriate thing to do was claw at whatever you could, turning your head from side to side.

It wasn’t enough for you to come into his mouth once. Coriolanus needed to know that he was the best you’d ever get, and even when you were out of breath and exhausted and overstimulated, he didn’t let your thighs go, only using them to drag you closer as he knelt between them. His perfect teeth winked at you when he leaned in to kiss you.

If your ma and pa wondered what kind of job you lucked out with to afford all of the food and clothes you started to bring home, they didn’t ask. Although, something in you suspected that they had an inkling of just what you had to do to bring home the freshest bread and the warmest clothes they’d ever had. You started to suspect that everyone did.

Coriolanus wasn’t exactly the most discreet, and you learned that he didn’t intend to be.

On the off chance you crossed paths in the street, he stopped you for all to see, voice lowering as he got really close and asked you how you were. You would feel the eyes of his peacekeeper friends on you as the unspoken questions lingered between you. Did you need more food? Did you need a new dress? You would tell him that you were fine, code for you didn’t need anything at the moment, and he wouldn’t try to hide his perusal of you, those unsettling blue eyes slowly dragging over your frame.

He didn’t seem the kind of asshole to brag about such things, but you weren’t stupid. Even without saying it, he made your arrangement abundantly clear. The way he talked to you, studied you, and ran his fingers over the back of your arm without a care as to who saw. Coriolanus had staked a claim on you, an unspoken display of ownership, and you wrote it off to some sick power trip.

…but you learned that Coriolanus Snow was a very jealous man.

That revelation struck you as odd because you didn’t think anyone would have anything he’d be jealous of, and you certainly didn’t think he’d be jealous over you. You were some average thieving girl whom he exploited the first moment he saw an opportunity to do so. Considering that he was willing to do it to you, you didn’t doubt that he was willing to do it to someone else should he find himself unable to have you anymore. That was what you believed anyway…

Until his fist was ruining the face of some District 12 boy you’d grown up with. You were far from friends, but he’d been a familiar constant in your life for years, and so sharing a drink with him while everyone danced to the live music on stage seemed like nothing at all to you. You didn’t even think there were lines to cross, a sentiment that was quickly corrected.

With one hand curled around your throat—holding you in place—there wasn’t any other option but to take Coriolanus’ thrusts. The sound of guitars and flutes and fiddles bled through the thin walls, everyone quickly moving on from the brief display of violence they’d witnessed. You could still remember the shock on your face as other peacekeepers pulled him off of the unsuspecting man who’d never been anything more than an acquaintance, really.

Your horrified gaze had met that of a familiar blue, and there wasn’t much time to do anything before Coriolanus neared you, reaching for the back of your neck as he walked you away from the crowd. It had been hard to ignore the numerous eyes following your movements, and you wondered now if they quickly moved on from the display because it was nothing or because they were too nervous to get involved with Coriolanus and the girl the whole district knew belonged to him.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out in some back room, your chest pressed to the table.

Your eyes were squeezed shut as he stretched you out, cock pushing into you and throbbing with every push of his hips. You knew that the words wouldn’t change anything, but you felt compelled to say them, anyway. His fingers were tight against your neck, and every time you reached up towards them, he only squeezed tighter. Despite the discomfort, you couldn’t stop your stomach from squeezing, coiling tight as you gripped him.

When he pulled you up so that your back was firm against his, his hold on your neck loosened a bit, and you took a deep inhale. His thumb was pressed to your jaw, and he brought his face down to rest on the other side of your neck where his arm didn’t rest, pressing open mouthed kisses there.

“You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for,” he whispered against your skin.

It was the truth, and at your silence, he squeezed your neck again.

Your nails scraped against the table he fucked you on, upper body straining as he kept you upright and against him, hips lifting to push his cock into you with the kind of thrusts meant to make a point. When his teeth grazed your skin, you shuddered in his hold, and despite the fact that you couldn’t hear his laugh, you felt it deep within his chest.

“He can’t give you what I can…”

You started to tell him that you knew that, but Coriolanus didn’t let you.

“…so, don’t go thinking he can.”

“I wouldn’t…”

Your words died in the air when he pushed you back down, completely pressed against you and pinning you between him and the table.

“Wouldn’t you?” he hummed, his free hand trailing over your visible cheek. “Everybody knows your price.”

The demeaning words made your stomach turn, but the way he curved his hips against you only had you clenching down on him at the insulting insinuation.

“They see the nicer clothes…the better living conditions…and they know why. They know what you did to get that.”

His lips brushed against your skin with every word, and as if it make his point, he reached down between your legs to brush his thumb over you, making you gasp. With the circling of his fingers, you fidgeted beneath him, toes pushed to the absolute tip to get some reprieve and lips parted as you scraped and clawed at the table.

When he came inside of you, something he never did before, he held you down, forcing you to milk his cock until he was completely satisfied. The nice dress he’d gotten sewn for you was ripped, and you reached up to touch it with trembling lips the moment he let you go. He was so determined to get his hands on you the moment the door was shut that you liked to think it was an accident, but the way you were forced to wear the jacket of his uniform as you walked out made you think otherwise.

Even though Coriolanus was nowhere near you once you rejoined the crowd, his presence was still loud and clear. No one needed to be a genius to figure out where you’d been, and as you glanced around, you realized that he was right. The discreet looks and nervousness around you… Everyone knew.

…and you didn’t know how to feel about it.

You learned that Coriolanus Snow liked to have you whenever and wherever he wanted.

Whether it was in his bunk when he should’ve been on duty or in your room during the early hours of the morning when your pa was in the mines and your ma was asleep or between the openness of the trees when you were only amongst the grass and the birds. He didn’t like disobedience, and so, he didn’t like the word no. So, you never uttered it.

Even when you wanted to.

“Good girl,” he purred into your lips when you did as he wanted, reaching down between you and sliding yourself onto his cock.

It was late when he knocked on your door, gently telling your ma to go back to bed when you answered it. You didn’t know if you wanted to see the look on her face when you left with him, afraid of what you’d see. There was a rare stillness about District 12 when you crossed the district line, Coriolanus’ fingers brushing over your neck the entire way.

The only light was from the moon, his soft hands gripping your hips and guiding you over him. His gaze alternated between your face and his lap where you two connected. Occasionally he lifted his own hips, driving his cock up into you and making you gasp. His hands ran up and down your frame, kneading your skin and basking in the thin layer of sweat that clung to you—to both of you.

“Show me how bad you want it,” he’d murmur in the darkness, completely letting you go.

He opted for leaning back on his elbows, his own pink lips parted, blue eyes glinting under the light of the moon as he watched you fuck yourself onto his cock. Your hands pressed against his chest, keeping yourself upright as your lashes fluttered. There was a burn in your hips that ached too good to stop, the sound of you squeezing him and sliding up and down him loud to your ears.

“Make yourself come,” he’d whisper, refusing to touch you as his voice lowered. “Work for it.”

When you finally did tense on top of him, shuddering and pressing your nails into his chest, the blond man wouldn’t hesitate to circle his arm around your waist, flipping you before you could even catch your breath. Back pressed into the grass, he snapped his hips against yours, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud in the air.

Under the cover of darkness, Coriolanus allowed himself to lose control, holding your throat and pushing into you—taking full advantage of having you at his mercy. He plunged his cock into your walls, praising how wet you were for him and how snugly he fit inside of you.

“Whenever I want,” he told you.

“Whenever you want,” you agreed, nails digging into his back.

When you returned in the early hours of the morning, your ma never acknowledged it. She never acknowledged how the house stayed stocked with food despite you never going to the market. Her only acknowledgement of the clothes sewn for her were quiet ‘thank yous’…but she knew. Everyone knew.

…and it bothered you less and less until it didn’t bother you, at all.

It couldn’t bother you.

…because if it did you would have to say no when Coriolanus wanted you to rest in his lap, cock fitting snugly inside of you as he held you there. You would have to say no when he brought you another dress he had made or the freshest groceries you would’ve never been able to afford. You would have to say no when he asked if you were his good girl, demanding you prove it as he slid his gun between your legs, telling you to remain completely still.

…but you didn’t say no to any of that because it didn’t bother you—because it couldn’t bother you. Even when the discreet looks were hard to ignore or your ma started to ask if you’d be out late or you started to feel cheap and used. You couldn’t let it bother you.

You were his good girl, and that was what he told you when he tied a pretty delicate ribbon around your neck for all to see one evening.

It was soft.

White.

Just like snow.

[aetherraeys]

relieving the pressure

remus lupin x afab!reader ⊹ 4.2k

for this request x

cw ⟢ smut 18+ mdni, very domestic, established relationship, fluff, soft remus, very attentive!reader, swearing, p in v, riding, creampie, aftercare

summary: you always take such good care of remus before the full moon, moodswings and all—he's just so overwhelmed with love for you. (techincally part two of this, but can be read alone)

a/n: REMUS SMUT MWHAHAHAHAH gosh the second i started this i literally couldn't think about anything else. WRAP BEFORE YOU TAP PLS, not proofread x

The warmth that radiated off you was so soothing, and in combination with the tender twist and coil of your fingertips through his hair, Remus really didn’t stand a chance—the low lulling call of sleep beckoning him forward. Unable to fight against the exhaustion that had been looming over him and the mental fatigue of the day’s emotional whiplash.

You felt the rise and fall of his chest slow, the small hum of his content sighs coming to a stop and his hand falling limp against your waist—sleeping.

For a long while, you continued to indulge him, carding your fingers through his hair, letting them settle at the nape of his neck—before slowly, delicately peeling yourself from him, adjusting the pillow beneath his head, the duvet over his body. Silently treading around the room to close the curtains in exchange for the small bedside lamp, switching on the diffuser as your exited—leaving the door just barely ajar.

Unfortunately for Remus, the ache of his limbs jolsted him awake not long after you left, his arm reaching out in search for the warmth of your presence. And the lack of your discovery cause a small pout to settle onto his lips, tossing and turning to get a look at the clock, 7:38pm, barely and hour and a half of sleep.

Pursing his lips together with a sigh of reluctance, he forced his way out of the duvet’s cozy embrace—a sharp wince making slipping into the air with first steps he took. Stopping at the door frame when he noticed the lack of life in the living room, the heavy trickle of water reaching his ears as he turned into the bathroom.

You hadn’t noticed him watching, perched on the edge of the bath, the sound of the running tap accompanied by your light absentminded hums—and the corners of his lips twitched up in admiration, as your fingertips glided through the surface of the water. After a few more moments of observation, he stepped onto the cold tiles of the bathroom, the flitting of light from his shadow over the burning candles alerting you to his presence.

Immediately your lips stretched into a warm smile, walking over to him and wrapping him up in your arms. His head instinctively fell into the crook of your neck, taking a deep inhale—letting you fill all his senses, mumbling into your skin. The vibrations made your shoulders inch up as a giggle bubbled in your chest, leaning back to meet his gaze—eyebrows raised as an indication for him to repeat himself.

His hands settled on the curve of your hips, walking you backwards till your back pressed against the sink. You still looked up at him, eyes swimming with a soft, silent fondness that made his throat dry—your hands trailed up his sides, over his chest and neck, running over his hair before residing on the curves of his jaw, thumb tracing lightly over the scar by his lip.

“What y’doing?” His voice low and hoarse from disuse.

You stayed quiet for a moment, drinking in his appearence, the disheveled mass of curls on his head, the cowlick at the front of one of his brows, the slightly sunked dark circles that rested beneath his eyes; “Mmm, just running a bath,”

He knew it was for him, if the candle placement wasn’t telling enough, the book he’d been reading resting on the ledge by the window was a dead give away. Remus hummed back in response, leaning down and pressing small kisses across your face, leaving the last against your lips, grinning into the touches.

When you eventually pull away from him, leaving away, checking the rising water level—almost ready—he switched to holding your free hand, trailing behind you as you walked to the other cabinet. Shockingly clingy considering his previous mood, it still brought a small smile to your face—trying to work around the one handed handicap situation he’d put you in. When you reached for a small packet, you made an attempt to unzip it to no avail. Turning to look at him, your words littered with a huffed chuckle—

“I’m gonna need my other hand, bubs,”

Something similar to a pained groan rumbled in Remus’ chest as he released your hand—opting to wrap his arms around your middle, head resting lightly against your shoulder.

Opening the packet, you waddled over to the bath, Remus still clinging to your back, taking the small scoop and emptying it into the water—small buds of lavender rising to the surface as you leaned and ran your hand through bath.

“Am I the main ingredient in your soup?”

His words were muffled against your skin and your body shook with the giggles that ran through you—adding another scoop and turning off the tap before spinning to look at him, lips still stretched into a grin.

Your hand came up under the hem of his jumper, fingertips ghosting over the warm skin of his torso, and he made no attempts to fight against you—removing his jumper in one swift moment while you murmured. “It’s a bath salt, it should help with the aches,”

He leaned into your hold, hands rubbing small pressured circles onto the top of his hips—beginning his light assault again, this time peppering small kisses along your pulse, drifting up to the thin skin behind your ears. His voice was low and gravelly sending shivers down your spine.

“Will you join me?”

Letting out a soft hum of approval, Remus waste no time mimicking your actions and ridding you of your top—dropping it to the floor, joining his with a small thud.

Greeted with the newly exposed skin, his lips trailed to the tops of your shoulders, fingertips skimming over your spine, reaching up to unclasp your bra and roughly tossing it behind him. Soft sighs spill from your lips, basking in the affection before you eventually breathed—“It’s gonna get cold, Rem,”

Only then did he detach from your skin slightly, and with a squeeze of your hips, he stepped back, giving you both space to shimmy out of your bottoms.

His bones thanked him as the water embraced him, leaning against the cold ledge of the bath, coaxing him forward, you took your seat behind him, arms cradling his body as his did before. His hum vibrated low against your skin when he felt the warmth of your lips against his spine. You reached up, plucking the small vial of eucalyptus oil—dropping a pipette full into the water as well as your hands.

Using the heat of your hands to work it into his skin, Remus’ eyes closed as you started to work the tension out of his shoulders—letting his head hang forward, basking in the soothing lull of the water, as well as the attentive press of your fingers into his aching muscles.

“Does that feel okay?” Your voice was just above a whisper, breathy and honeyed against his neck, thumbs working their way down, on each side of his spine—goosebumps forming in their wake.

“Mmmm, feels really good, love,”

Once your hands reached the base of his spine, they snaked round back to his hips—kneading lightly into the flesh, pressing small pecks against his shoulder blade. Taking extra care to work out the knots that formed under his skin before bring your hands up to his hair—saturating the curls with water, massaging gently into his scalp as his rested his head against your shoulder. Looking up at you, eyes filled with contentment.

Your voice was soft and soothing in his ears; “Close your eyes,” reaching over him and adding a dollop of shampoo into your palm before lathering, sighs of relaxation spilling form his lips when the sweet jasmine scent took over his senses. For a few long drawn out minutes, you worked your fingertips into him in relative silence—bar the gentle melody you hummed lightly, soothing something deep in Remus’ bones.

By the time you’d washed, rinsed and conditioned his hair—he was sure he’d fall asleep right then and there if he wasn’t careful. After a final hum, more breath than words, he murmured, “Your turn, love,” When you stood, stepping out of the water, Remus quickly shifted back, making space for you.

The surface of the water sloshing against his torso as you re-entered, instinctively you laid your head against his chest, absorbing the familiar heat that radiated off of him—you lay against him for a while, his hands holding yours, rubbing absentminded patterns on your skin. Dipping your head lower, you submerged your hair into the water—eyes closed, letting the low dulling whoosh of the water bounce between your ears.

Just before you lifted your head, you opened your eyes to find Remus, his sights already on you—unfairly fond. Shampoo already lathered in his palms, waiting for you to full re-emerge, the softest smile twitching at the corners of his lips.

He repeated your actions, rinsing and resting his chin on your shoulder. With a deep inhale through your nose, you turned to look at him slightly—he was all but melting into you—voice gentle and candied, “Feel better, Rem?”

His lips stretched into a wide, crooked grin—burying his cheek into the curve of your shoulder when he responded, “Much,”

You waited for a few more minutes before shifting forward, a pout etching itself onto his lips at the loss of contact. Reaching for a towel as you stepped out and over the edge the porcelain, when you turned back to him, his expression resembled that of a kicked puppy. Brows furrowed high on his forehead, pout curling down into a frown, his fingers gripped the edge as if he were going to pull himself out.

Instead, you leaned over to the window-cill, adding another few drops of oil into the water—you let your fingertips massage small circles onto the highpoint of his forehead, whispering to him—

“Stay in a little longer,”

His eyes were closed, sinking further into the water, your voice sounded almost hypnotic to him, mindlessly nodding to your words. Feeling the soft press of your lips against his temples before you padded out to dress and dry yourself.

It wasn’t long before Remus made his way into the bedroom, draining the bath just before his skin could raisin. His bed clothes were laid out on the side of the bed, warm to touch, and his heart ached at the extra lengths you went to to make him comfortable.

The loud whirring of the hairdryer coming to a stop as your turned to him, sitting cross legged in the middle of the bed—clad in a tank top and a pair of his boxer shorts, and as he got dressed he couldn’t help but admire, eyes glued to your form.

A half-exasperated smile twitched at the corners of your lips at his staring, bringing your hand down to at the bed with a few soft pats. Remus crawled into the spot you’d sat in, still warm from your presence. Towel hung loosely around his neck, tips of his hair still dripping onto it—he leaned back, arms supporting his weight as your leg swings over his, settling onto his lap.

His brows quirk up slightly accompanied with a lazy smirk, automatically shifting his weight to free his hands, letting them curve and rest on the round of your thighs. Rolling your eyes at him, but it had no real bite—your hands run though his wet tufts a few times, and his eyes are swimming with adoration.

Placing one small peck on his lips—puling away just a quick as you came in, and he found himself following your lips as they left. Only to be met with your finger, abruptly stopping his chase in its tracks—raising the hairdryer into his view a semi-smug, knowing grin extending across your face, tongue darting out to wet your lips.

The steady whirring hum of the dryer started and Remus squinted as the cool pressurised air hit his skin, one hand combing through his locs, the other shaking the dryer around his head. He let his hands wander over your skin, fiddling with the hem of his boxers on you, pads of his fingers drawing patterns against your thighs lightly, dragging the back of his nails down the exposed skin of your spine as you worked away.

When you’d finally dried the last section of his hair, Remus’ hands rested comfortably on the curve of your ass, and he couldn’t fight the temptation, pinching at the flesh. As the dryer bounced against the bed, you jolted on his lap at the feeling—a sharp gasp leaving your lips, swatting his shoulder slightly in feigned annoyance.

He barked out a laugh, palm rubbing soothingly over the spot, his head falling into the crook of your neck—body shaking insync with his laughter. Seamlessly, his hands continued on their wandering path over your body, pulling you closer into him as he pressed small kisses against your collarbone.

A huffed scoff slipped passed your lips as your breathed—

“Restless, are we?”

He didn’t respond with anything more than a dreamy sigh against your skin as he indulged further, basking in you, his lips moving languidly up the side of your neck. Words tumbled from his lips, muffled against your throat, a quiet confession lost to the warmth of the moment. Your hands find their way to his jaw, pulling him back slightly—he looks at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky yourself, slowly leaning up your lips murmuring again—clearer this time.

“I don’t deserve you,”

There was no time for you to protest, to correct his words before his lips were pressed against yours and his fingers were spread, wrapping around the dip of your waist—pulling until you were flush against him. The once slow, languid pecks bloomed into unrestrained, craven touches. He moved his lips against yours—yearning, the burning in the pit of his stomach suddenly too much to bare, indulging himself with rough kisses. He couldn’t help it; it was impulse—his heart swelled—overflowed with adoration.

You loved him like it was second-nature, easy—an instinct, and Remus didn’t know what to do with himself.

He’d become feverish, gripping onto you with vigor despite the mild ache of his joints, overwhelmed with affection for you, an airy “thank you,” passing his lips into the small space between you. Your fingers tangling the tufts at the base of his neck, detatching your lips, taking the opportunity to plant kisses all over his face, muttering against his jaw; “Don’t thank me, Rem,”

A low hum rumbled in his chest as you worked your way down his neck, littering kisses and nibbles along the way. His palms are hot against you, sliding under the fabric of your top, curling around the curve of your breast in a mean grasp, earning him a light gasp. In an endless pursuit for your lips, he took his oppportunity, the second your lips disconnected from his neck.

Bringing your lips together with a quiet groan, Remus was getting more handsy by the second, hands drifting and taking a bruising hold on your hips, driving your hips forward to rock roughly against his. Words muffled by your lips, hoarse and honeyed—

“So pretty,”

Your breath hitched as he guided your hips over his, the friction sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers dug into your waist, desperate, as if trying to pull you deeper into him, to feel you more completely. Your name tumbled from his lips between kisses, each syllable a whispered prayer against your mouth.

A soft moan slipping from your lips "Mmf—Rem," threading your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to draw out a groan from deep within his chest. He shuddered beneath you, the tension in his body unraveling with each slow roll of your hips against his.

Holding your firmly before letting his back fall against the bed with a light thud, hand trailing down—slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. Squirming against him when the rough pads of his fingers made contact with your clit, making small teasing circles over the bundle of nerves, drinking in each sound that fell from your lips—rocking feverishly into his touch.

Detaching with a sharp gasp, head falling into the junction of his neck when he slipped in a finger, pushing, and curling upwards—whining into his ear, breathy pants of—”f-fuck, hah—Rem,”

Gods did he love the way you sounded, the sweet, almost melodic pitches your voice would make—how you try to focus on your breathing patterns, gripping hard onto his hair when he pushed a second finger past the ring of muscles, tightening the coil that blossomed in the pits of your stomach.

Breathing completely erratic, trembling against him, more heat radiating off you with each stretch and scissor of his fingers, curling and curling, making your head spin. Peeling away his harsh grip on your hips, to take your jaw in his hand—compelling your gaze onto him. Cheeks and lips flushed red—brows knit high on your forehead in pleasure.

Remus pushed your lips together, greedy, indulgent—wanting.

And as his fingers slowed, slowly pulling them away from your core with a shudder, you wasted no time wiggling out of your shorts, tearing his off of him with an urgency that forced an incredulous laugh out of him. Though, it was cut off in an instant—a rough groan forcing its way out of his throat when you straddled him.

The friction without clothes made him dizzy, twitching against your clit, jaw tightening when the rich, candied tone of your voice reached his ears—ringing in his head over and over—

“Wanna make you feel good, Rem,”

He couldn’t even appreciate the sight of you sinking onto him, eyes screwing shut, brow curling into an arch on his forehead, jaw slacking at the feeling of you—sucking him in further—inch after inch.

Fingers splayed over the pretty little happy trail to steady yourself, the air punching its way out of your lungs when you finally reached the base, a choked out, gasping moan sounded beneath you,“f-fuckkk,” reverbrating around the room.

And you gave him no time to recover, compose himself, push away the desperate clench that made him want to spill inside you immediately, no, your hips moved against him in harsh mean rocks.

His eyes rolling into the depths of his skull, hands gripping—clawing at the flesh of your waist, seeking a slither of mercy from your sinful bucks. It was hypnotising, just the feeling alone, the way you swallowed all of him, the dragging of your walls with each grind. And the angle—he was so impossibly deep, you couldn’t think straight if you tried, stretching you out, making your legs trembled by his side.

“h-haah, shit—dove, wait,”

He couldn’t contain himself, sweat beading by his temples, biting hard into his lip—his hips already stuttered a rough thrust up into you—forcing you to jolt forward, hands pressing firmly against his chest for stability.

Back arching, walls fluttering—clenching around him, mouth agape, the mantra of his name flowing from your lips in urgent gasping, cries “o-oh! rem, fuck—ngh,”

Forcing his eyes open, chest heaving as he drank in greedy gulps of air, trying to focus on anything but the delicious squeeze of your core around him—his breath hitched the sight of you. Utterly divine, kiss-flushed lips, wet and parted, brows pushed together, pretty lashes fluttering and flittering, pupils blown.

The soft smell of jasmine, vanilla and sex filling the room.

A breathless whimper leaving your lips when you rocked against him once more, feeling him prod that spot that made the heat in your stomach coil impossibly tighter. Your rhythm—it made his throat so painfully dry, the way you grinded against him, adding just a bit of pressure. It had his brain so cloudy, drunk on you, on the way you looked at him with the bleary half-lidded eyes.

He never wants to let you go—not now, not ever.

His palms kneaded the flesh of your hips unforgivingly, coaxing you to rock against him harder, raising his hips to meet each trembling buck of your hips. He was already so close, huffed groans endlessly spillling from his lips, curses littered with your name, voice shaking with each rock—

”f-fuck, so perfect, a-ah—angel,”

Remus’ pace was getting more frenzied and off beat with each lewd squelch that sounded from where you were joined, jaw clenched in efforts to keep him from teetering over the edge, completely at your mercy.

Your hands trailed up from where they were planted on his chest, in exchange pressing into the pillows beside his head, leaning into him—lips brushing against the shell of his ears, voice airy, candied and oh so sweet.

“does it—mmfp, feel good, rem?”

God, he was going to lose it, rutting up, frantically, into each rotation of your hips, each roll of your waist—stuttering as your teeth grazed against the thin sensitive skin behind his ear. Eyes rolling back in his head slightly before squeezing them shut for a moment. Swallowing thickly, words punctuating with low gasps, “o- oh god, s’good, s’good—need you to cum, dove—f-fuck,”

Taking one bruising grip away from you hips, and forcing it between you—rough pad of his thumb finding the swollen bundle of nerves that rubbed against him, your breathing became more unsteady and irregular, incoherent babbles tumbling out of you. Walls clinging to him desperatly as you hips twitched and spasmed against him, arms almost giving out beneath you.

The harsh thrusts of his hips, had him buried deep deep deep, thighs squeezing at his sides as your high washed over you, cries of, “nnfgh, rem, rem, rem—” filling the room, mixing with the strained gravelly moans that tore through him, stuttering wildly before stilling beneath you. Your body shuddering against his, hands still stuck to each side of your hips, shocks running through him as his filled you up—hoarse groans echoing in the room.

Jolts of pleasure still wracked over you, laying boneless against his chest as the aftershocks pulsed through your limbs, your breaths mingling in the quiet, sweat-slick warmth of the room.

Remus hadn’t let go—not even for a second. His arms secure against your waist, holding you close. His lips found your temple, pressing a lingering kiss there before murmuring, “You alright, dove?” His voice was hushed, still laced with the remnants of desire, but softer—gentler now.

You nodded against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. “Mmhm perfect,” you sighed, lifting your head slightly, “Didn’t hurt you, did I?” You only felt the shake of his head, carding your fingers through his hair.

His hands traced slow, absentminded patterns along your back, fingertips ghosting over your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine—not from want, but from the sheer tenderness of it. You could feel the way his touch had changed, shifting from need to something even deeper, softer.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured, already moving to press another kiss to your forehead before slipping away, shifting beneath you, reluctant but determined, carefully easing himself away despite how much he clearly didn’t want to let you go just yet. He pressed one last kiss to your shoulder before slipping out of bed, disappearing into the bathroom. The absence of his warmth made you shiver slightly, but he was back in seconds, a warm cloth in one hand, a glass of water in the other.

"Here, drink." He handed you the glass first, watching as you took small sips, his knuckles brushing against your cheek in quiet affection. Then, with gentle precision, he cleaned you up, his touch careful, attentive.

"Thank you, Rem," you murmured, voice drowsy—full of warmth.

He only smiled, shaking his head as he discarded the cloth and slipped back into bed beside you, immediately pulling you against his chest. "Don’t thank me, love,"

You curled into him, sighing as his hands resumed their slow, absentminded caresses—fingers gliding over your back, up your arm, through your hair. His lips pressed soft, fleeting kisses wherever they could reach—your forehead, your temple, the tip of your nose.

"There," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and warmth. "Better?"

You hummed in response, tucking yourself even closer. His scent surrounded you, comforting and familiar, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek, steady and strong.

"Much," you whispered, lips curling into a small content smile, Remus’ arms curled more securely around you, his breath evening out, and with the soft rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, you let yourself drift off.

[mugglebornmarvelite]

Sunshine in His Shadows

Paring: Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Avenger! Fem! Reader (Grumpy x Sunshine)

Summary: When Bucky withdraws into himself one night, you’re determined to remind him that his past doesn't define him and he doesn’t have to carry his burdens alone.

Word Count: Roughly 1.8k

Warnings: Fluff, hurt/comfort, light angst, mentions of his trauma and anxiety

Author’s Note: You can never go wrong with fluff and a bit of angst. And, I already have an idea for a lighthearted part 2 

Part 2: Teddy Bear Bucky

Also, I added a taglist form!

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Divider by: @strangergraphics 

The compound was quiet at night, except for the occasional creak of floorboards as you wandered the halls. You found Bucky sitting alone in the kitchen. His was tense; you could tell by how his metal hand clenched into a fist as if he were holding something invisible but heavy. 

You hesitated at the doorway, unsure whether to intrude. But you didn’t want him to feel alone, not when you could at least offer warmth.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping closer. “You didn’t go out either, huh?”

Bucky glanced at you briefly, his blue eyes shadowed by something deeper than being tired. He didn’t respond; he just gave a quiet nod before turning his gaze back to the window. When he didn’t tell you to get lost, you took that as permission to sit beside him.

For a while, there was silence. Comfortable but heavy. 

You wanted to break it but didn’t want to push too hard before Bucky closed up again. Finally, after gathering your courage, you spoke, your voice as gentle as the night breeze.

“Bucky, um, you never talk about your past.”

Bucky tensed further, his jaw clenching tightly. You noticed how his breathing changed, becoming shallower as if the very mention of his past dragged him underwater.

“I just, I want to understand you better,” you added carefully, your voice barely a whisper. “Not what I hear from others. I want to know you.”

There was a sharp flicker of something in his eyes, maybe pain or even fear. He stood up with his back to you, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t,” he muttered, his voice low. “It’s not something someone like you should hear. You’re too good for that darkness.”

Your heart ached. 

He was trying to protect you from himself. 

You stood, stepping toward him, your hand reaching out. Your fingers brushed against his metal arm, and he stiffened, though he didn’t pull away.

“Bucky,” you whispered, barely above a breath. “But you’re not that person anymore. You’re our Bucky. You’re my Bucky.”

That was all it took. 

His head lowered, his eyes closing as if to shut out the flood of emotions threatening to spill over. He tried to say something but stopped, his throat tight.

“I don’t…” His voice broke, and he took a step back, needing space. He literally had to walk away before he started crying because you, his sunshine, had said it with such genuineness, with such unwavering faith in him, that it shattered the walls he’d spent years building.

You didn’t follow him. You knew Bucky well enough by now to understand that he needed time. But it didn’t stop you from calling after him, your voice like a balm to his wounds. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

An hour later, he found you in the living room, curled up on the couch with a blanket around your shoulders. You were lost in thought, and when you noticed him standing there, you offered a small, sweet smile.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you said softly. “I just care about you.”

Bucky sat down beside you. His expression was guarded, but the guilt in his eyes was unmistakable. He didn’t know how to explain what he felt. It didn’t make sense how someone like you, all warmth and light, could look at someone like him and see something worth loving.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I don’t want to lose this. You. I don’t deserve this.”

You reached out, your hand slipping into his, fingers threading through his calloused ones. “You’re not going to lose me, Bucky. You can’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll be a pest till the day I die.”

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. For the first time in what felt like forever, he believed it might be true, that maybe he wasn’t beyond saving. 

In that quiet moment, with your hand in his and the weight of his past still heavy but not so suffocating, Bucky felt something stir inside him.

Hope.

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at your hand in his as if trying to memorize the way your smaller fingers fit perfectly between his. You gave his hand a little squeeze, encouraging him, grounding him. 

Slowly, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and shifted closer to you until your shoulders brushed.

Then, without warning, he pulled you into a bear hug. His arms wrapped around you tightly, lifting you off the couch with ease. 

You let out a surprised squeal, then burst into laughter, your warm giggles filling the room like music. “Bucky!” you laughed, squirming in his grip, but not making any real effort to escape. “Put me down, you big grump!”

“Nope,” he muttered, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “You earned this, sunshine. Gotta make sure you don’t float away with all that sweetness.”

You laughed harder at his dorky joke, and Bucky felt something loosen inside him. Holding you like this, hearing your laughter, made him feel lighter in a way he didn’t fully understand yet.

Eventually, he sat back down with you still in his arms, refusing to let go. You shifted until you were comfortably nestled against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, a calming rhythm that made you smile.

“You know,” you murmured, “for someone who pretends to be all grumpy and scary, you’re actually a giant teddy bear.”

Bucky snorted. “Don’t spread that around. I’ve got a reputation to maintain, sunshine.”

You grinned up at him, mischief dancing in your eyes. “Oh, you mean the reputation where you glare at everyone and grunt like a caveman?”

“Exactly,” he grumbled, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “I’ve worked hard on that, kid.”

You poked him in the chest. “I’m not a kid! I’m 22! An adult, thank you very much.”

“Sure, kid,” he said, smirking now. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You pouted, which only made his smirk widen. He loved teasing you, loved the way you’d get all huffy and indignant, but never really mad. One of his favorite things about you was your ability to turn his grumpiness into something lighthearted.

“You’re a meanie,” you muttered, crossing your arms but leaning further into his warmth. He noticed and gently squeezed you, his metal fingers brushing against your side with surprising tenderness.

“Yeah, well,” he said quietly, his tone shifting to something softer, more sincere. “You’re not so bad yourself. Annoying, sure. But good.”

The words caught you off guard, and you turned to look at him. He wasn’t meeting your gaze, but the pink creeping up his neck told you everything. Bucky Barnes, the former Winter Soldier, your grumpy protector, was embarrassed.

A soft smile spread across your face. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“Don’t mention it,” he grumbled, still refusing to look at you. “Seriously. Don’t.”

There was a peaceful silence between you both before he asked about your day.

"Steve and Sam tried to teach me how to throw a shield today," you said, laughing at the memory. "I think I’m better off with a frisbee than that thing. I nearly took out a window when I threw it, and you should’ve seen their faces. I thought for sure they were going to cry." You chuckled again, shaking your head as you continued. "Then, Tony called me kiddo for the tenth time today. Like, does he even know my name anymore?"

Bucky couldn't help but smile at that, even if he didn't say anything. He was content to listen, his usual grumpy exterior slipping away with each little story you shared.

"Oh, and Clint swears he didn’t hide my favorite mug, but I know he did. I’ll bet anything he’s got it stashed somewhere just to mess with me." You sighed dramatically, leaning back against him, and Bucky could feel the warmth of your body settle into his.

He didn’t respond, not really needing to. There was something soothing about the sound of your voice, something soothing about you.

You made it so easy just to exist in the moment with no expectations or judgments. And for Bucky, that was everything.

Your voice continued, but the words blurred together as you rambled on. He wasn’t listening anymore; he was too focused on how your presence steadied him. A quiet, almost fond smirk tugged at his lips as he listened to your endless chatter. He didn’t mind it. If anything, he found himself savoring it. This was normal. This was simple. You were simple in the best way possible.

As you spoke, your words slowed, drifting into quieter murmurs, and your breath steadied as sleep took over. One moment, you were telling him about a joke you shared with Wanda earlier that day, and the next, you were asleep, your body sinking into him completely. Your head had slipped against the crook of his neck. You looked so peaceful, and he didn’t have the heart to wake you.

Bucky froze for a moment, unsure what to do. You were so relaxed, so completely at ease in his arms. He could feel your breath against his skin and hesitated for the first time in a long while. 

He muttered, his voice soft with a trace of disbelief. "Great. Now what, sunshine?" But there was no real annoyance there. Just a quiet acknowledgment that you’d stolen his peace in the best way possible.

Most nights, he would sleep on the floor, his back against something hard or leaning against the wall to keep his thoughts from overwhelming him. Touch was a foreign thing for him. But here you were, curled up against him like he was some sort of human teddy bear, and somehow, it didn’t feel uncomfortable. It felt okay—more than okay.

He carefully adjusted his position. He let out a quiet sigh, his head resting against the couch. Every instinct told him he should move, that he wouldn’t be able to sleep like this, but when he glanced down and saw the soft smile on your face even in sleep, something inside him softened.

He stayed perfectly still, letting the warmth of your body and the steady rhythm of your breathing lull him into something he rarely felt: calm. His eyes drifted shut, and for once, the memories didn’t come. There were no flashes of his past or haunting images of who he used to be. Just you, grounding him in a way nothing else ever had.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night, jolting up in a cold sweat or reaching for a weapon. 

He simply slept, wrapped in warmth, feeling something close to peace.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

If you'd like to be added to my taglist

Much love x

- Maeve

[moonlitstoriess]

could you do eris x fem!reader that was previously with az with lots of angst 🙏

Crafted by Flame- Initial Azriel, eventual Eris x fem!reader (1/2)

Summary: Y/N is a quiet but skilled healer in Velaris, known for tending wounds both physical and emotional. When Azriel shows up bloodied and silent after a mission, their connection begins in the soft hush of her clinic, built on shared pain, slow trust, and unspoken longing. But as she gives more of herself to him, his silence becomes a wall she can't break through, until love turns to ache and she’s forced to walk away before it destroys her.

Warnings: mentions of injuries, fluff in the beginning, angst, no happy ending in this part

A/N: here you go, anon! so sorry for the delay, I had been going through a mental block(i literally wrote a story for this but then completely deleted it cuz it looked boring and had to redo it all over again) so I took some time off for myself in order to come back with a more creative mindset! hope you enjoy it<3

See masterlist

Velaris breathed softly in the morning, golden light spilling over cobblestone streets, the chill of dawn in the air. The city was still waking, shops just opening their doors, and the river sang its endless song through the heart of the city. In a narrow corner off a quiet street, nestled between a florist and a tailor's shop, Y/N unlocked the door to her clinic.

It wasn't much, just a few shelves lined with vials and salves, herbs strung up to dry, a single worn chair by the front window. But, it was hers. Peaceful. Steady.

She lit a candle on the windowsill out of habit, the flame flickering against the glass as the first rays of sunlight warmed the floor. Velaris was a city of dreamers, but Y/N had never needed much to feel content. A place to help, to mend, to be useful. And for a while, that had been enough.

Until the night he came in, cloaked in blood, shadows curling behind him like smoke, and eyes so unreadable they felt like silence made flesh.

Y/N hadn't expected to meet the infamous Shadowsinger, not like that and certainly not in her doorway at midnight.

He looked more myth than male, tall and broad-shouldered, blood soaking through torn leathers, one wing slightly askew. The shadows that coiled around his feet shifted restlessly, reacting to her presence, her heartbeat, the moonlight spilling from her window. But he didn't flinch. He just stood there, silent and still, as if debating whether to cross the threshold.

Y/N said nothing at first. Years of tending to the broken had taught her when to speak, and when to simply wait.

"Heard you are the best healer in this part of Velaris. I didn't know where else to go," he said at last, voice low and rough, like it had been dragged across stone.

She stepped aside without a word, holding the door open.

Inside, the clinic was warm with the scent of dried rosemary, the remnants of soft music humming from an old record tucked behind the counter. He moved like someone unused to being tended to, gaze flickering around the room as if searching for exits, or maybe threats.

"Sit," she said gently, motioning to the long bench near the back, where she usually worked on the worse injuries.

To her surprise, he did.

She crossed the room quickly, gathering salves, clean cloth, and a bowl of hot water from the kettle she always kept simmering. When she returned, Azriel had shrugged off his jacket with some difficulty, blood already drying around a gash that ran from his collarbone to the top of his ribs. Her eyes flickered to the torn flesh, then up to meet his.

"Bad day?" she asked softly.

He gave her a ghost of a smile, humorless and tired. "Something like that."

She didn't pry. Instead, she knelt beside him, soaking the cloth in warm water before beginning to clean around the wound. He didn't make a sound as she worked, though she felt the tension in his body, the way his muscles locked under her touch.

Up close, he looked less like a legend and more like a man who hadn't slept in days. Shadows curled protectively over his shoulders, like they weren't sure whether to trust her. She ignored them and kept her touch steady.

"I've never treated the Spymaster before," she said after a long stretch of silence.

"You're not treating the spymaster," he murmured. "Just a male who got sloppy."

Y/N paused, the cloth in her hand hovering above his skin. Then she dipped it again into the bowl, gently pressing it back into his wound.

"Even legends bleed, I guess."

He huffed a laugh, quiet and surprised. The shadows stilled.

"Do they all come to you?" he asked suddenly, his voice barely louder than the crackling of a candle.

Y/N looked up at him. "Who?"

"The ones who don't want to be seen. Who want to hurt quietly."

"Usually it's normal customers but sometimes," she said softly. "They usually don't say much. Jus...sit, bleed and leave."

"And you let them?"

"I don't need to be needed," she murmured, scooping from some of her own handmade healing salves. "I just help where I can. That's my job."

Azriel's jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded once, like he understood.

Maybe he did.

She worked in silence again, stitching the wound with delicate practiced movements He didn’t so much as wince. When she brushed too close to the edge of his scarred skin, old burns and battle-worn memories mapped across his torso like a story no one had ever dared to read aloud, he didn’t flinch, but he watched her.

Watched her like he was waiting for her to turn away in disgust.

She didn't.

And that, he seemed to realize, might have been more dangerous than any blade.

She offered him tea before he left. He didn't take it but lingered by the door for a long moment after handing her the coins, eyes flicking over the small room again.

"You keep a candle by the window," he said.

"I do."

"Why?"

"So that people know they are not alone."

Azriel stared at the flame a little too long.

"That's dangerous," he said quietly.

Y/N tilted her head. "Hope usually is."

That earned the faintest twitch of his mouth. Not quiet a smile, but close enough to make her chest ache. He didn't say goodbye. He just stepped out into the night, shadows folding around him like second skin.

But a week later, he came back.

No blood this time. Just a shadowed look and a bottle of wine she never opened. He didn't speak much, sat in the same place, on the same bench and stared at the candle in the window while she restocked tinctures and pretended not to watch him.

That's how it all began.

Not with grand confessions or kisses.

But with silence.

With shadows.

And with a single, flickering flame that neither of them knew would eventually burn everything down.

He didn't come every week.

Sometimes it was a few days. Sometimes nearly a month. But he always came back.

Never injured after that first night, not physically at least. Sometimes he brought her strange things: rare herbs from far-off corners of the realm, wrapped in cloth and wordlessly left on her worktable. Once, he also sent her a cracked volume of ancient healing techniques in Old Fae.

Y/N never asked why.

Azriel wasn't the type you asked why.

He rarely spoke more than a few sentences with each visit. But he always lingered. Always sat in the same spot, that worn bench near the back, near the warmth of her fire but never too close. She'd go about her work, organizing herbs, grinding powders, and feel the weight of his gaze following her, like her presence calmed something inside him that he hadn't known was restless.

He never smiled. But she noticed his breathing slowed when he was here. His shoulders dropped. His shadows didn't twitch and pace like they used to, they curled around him like they were resting.

One night, late into winter, he came soaked in rain.

No blood. No bruises. Just dripping from head to toe in rain, his wings weighed down with water. Y/N had been about to close the place when the bell above the door jingled softly.

"You'll catch your death like that," she said, not looking up.

Azriel pulled off his soaked cloak and hung it by the fire without a word. She glanced at him--his hair damp, eyes darker than usual--and sighed.

She tossed him a towel. He caught it easily.

"You look like shit."

His voice was hoarse. "That's generous,"

She turned back to her shelf, smirking. "I'm a healer. I've seen worse."

She didn't ask where he'd been. Why he looked like he hadn't slept. She just made tea, quietly, without asking, and handed him a mug, their fingers brushing for the briefest second.

His shadows stilled entirely at the contact.

They sat in silence that night, side by side on the bench, both watching the candle flicker in the window.

Rain tapped against the glass, the city outside a blur of mist and starlight.

It wasn't comfortable.

It was something else. Raw. Charged. Like something unspoken was pressing against the air between them.

"I don't know why I come here," he said suddenly.

Y/N didn't look at him. "You don't need to."

"I think I do."

She finally turned. Met his eyes. "Then say it."

A long pause. He looked down at the mug in his hands like it might hold the answer.

Then, so quietly she almsot missed it, he said, "It's the only place I don't feel like a weapon."

After that night, everything shifted.

Subtly. Sharply.

She eventually gave him a second pair of keys to her workshop for cases where he wished to be alone.

He accepted it with a small smile.

Sometimes he stayed long enough to fall asleep in the chair by the fire. She'd find him there in the morning, shadows curled around him like a blanket, face peaceful in a way it never was in public.

Other times, he'd disappear for weeks, and when he returned, there was something colder in his eyes, like he'd buried himself again and didn't know how to crawl out.

She never asked for more. Never tried to fix him.

But she waited. Always.

Until, one night, he stood in her doorway longer than usual. His face unreadable. The candlelight made his eyes look golden.

"You make it hard," he said.

Y/N swallowed. "Hard to what?"

"To stay away."

She didn't expect to see him again the next night.

But he came anyway.

The door creaked open just after sunset. No warning. No knock.

She turned from her desk, halfway through labeling a new tincture, to find him there--hood lowered, jaw set like he was bracing for a fight.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately.

"For what?"

"For saying something I shouldn't have said. For making it harder."

She stepped forward slowly. "Why was it wrong?"

His throat bobbed, muscles tense under his leathers. "Because I'm not who you think I am. I don't know how to- " he gestured vaguely between them, frustration flickering in his eyes. "do this."

"I never asked you to."

Silence stretched.

"I know," he said. "And that makes it worse."

She moved closer. Not touching, not yet. But close enough that she could see the tiny scar beneath his jaw, the way his shadows whispered restlessly at his back, reacting to her nearness.

"I'm not asking you for anything," she said, her voice soft but steady. "But if you keep showing up in this shop, Azriel, you need to stop pretending you don't want to be here."

His eyes met hers then, and something in them finally gave.

Like a dam breaking.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out--not to pull her in, not to take--but to touch, barely brushing his fingers against her wrist. Testing. Waiting.

She didn't move away.

Instead, she stepped into him, one breath at a time, until they were chest to chest and there was nowhere else to look but into the eyes that had haunted her sleep for months.

"You're not a weapon," she whispered softly.

His hand came to her waist. Tentative. Reverent. "Then why do I only feel real when I'm with you?"

She didn't have time to answer.

Because he kissed her.

It wasn't violent, rough or possessive like she'd imagined it might be.

It was slow. Careful. Like he was terrified he might break her--or worse, that she might break him.

His shadows curled around her like warmth instead of cold, brushing over her arms, her spine, like a second set of hands. He held her like he didn't quite believe he was allowed to.

And she kissed him like he was something more than what the world had made of him.

When they pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, she felt the truth settle in her chest like gravity.

This wasn't casual. This wasn't safe.

This was the beginning of something she wouldn't walk away from unchanged.

And maybe, just maybe, neither would he.

He stayed after the kiss.

Not the way she had expected. Not tangled in bedsheets or curled beside her in the soft hush of dawn. But he didn't vanish like smoke either. He sat by her window while she brewed tea, watched her move around the room like he'd never seen domestic peace before. Like he didn't know what to do with it.

She offered him a mug. He took it without speaking, his gloved hands lingering around the warmth like it was foreign to him.

That's how things shifted. Quietly. Without definition. But undeniably.

He never said the word "relationship". Never reached for her hand in public. But he came to her.

Sometimes with wounds. Sometimes with silence. Sometimes with nothing but the aching need to just exist in her space, like being near her anchored him to something he didn't have a name for.

And Y/N didn't ask for more. Not yet.

A few weeks later, she took him to her home.

Not her clinic--her home. Tucked at the edge of a quiet district in Velaris, Ivy curling around the windows, books stacked in leaning piles, a fire always burning low in the hearth. He paused at her doorstep longer than necessary, like stepping inside something so soft might burn him.

It didn't.

He fit. Too well, maybe.

She made soup. He sat at her kitchen table and slowly peeled off his gloves.

He stayed the night again. On the couch this time, stretched out under a woven blanket she'd had since forever. In the morning, she found him flipping through a book of poetry on her shelf--not reading, just holding it like he was trying to remember how to touch something without destroying it.

Their most intimate moments weren't physical. Not yet.

It was her brushing her finger along the curve of the scar on his shoulder, and him not pulling away. It was him asking, "What was your childhood like?" and actually listening to her answer.

It was her pressing a cup of tea into his hand and saying softly, "You don't have to talk tonight." and him breathing out like she'd just handed him something sacred.

One night, they sat curled on the floor near the fire, her legs tucked beneath her, his wings draped over the rug in quiet surrender. She'd just told him a story from her training days--how she'd once mixed a muscle salve backward and accidentally gave a client the worst three-day cramp of their life.

He laughed. Actually laughed.

Not a hollow sound. Not a breath. But a real, teeth-baring laugh that startled both of them.

He sobered quickly, shadows curling back around his shoulders like a shawl. He leaned his head back against the wall and let out a long breath.

"You're too good for me," he said, like a confession.

Y/N looked at him carefully. "But you don't believe you're good for me."

"No," he said immediately with no hesitation. "I've done too much. Seen too much."

Her voice was soft. "That doesn't make you unworthy of being loved."

Azriel didn't answer right away. The fire crackled between them.

Then, as if trying to pivot away from the weight of it, he said, "You'd like them, I think. My family."

Y/N smiled faintly. "From all that I have heard, I know that I like Mor the most."

He smirked, but his voice gentled. "Mor is...light. Even when she pretends not to be. She laughs like it's armour, but it's real. She loves hard. Too hard, sometimes."

He paused, then added, "Cassian is loud, reckless, and loyal to the bone. He'd throw himself off a cliff for someone without asking why."

"And Rhysand?"

Azriel’s expression shifted. Something older there. “Strategic. Sharp. Smiles more than he should. He’s not perfect, but he tries. And that matters more than people think.”

She nodded. "Feyre?"

“Strong. But not in the way people expect. She was broken once, but she put herself back together. She reminds me of you.”

That startled her. "Me?"

He nodded. "You both build things with your hands. And you see people--even when they don't want to be seen."

She didn't speak for a long time. Then quietly, almost like a memory, Y/N opened her mouth.

"My mother always taught me something. She said, ‘If you make your heart out of glass, it will break a lot. If you make it out of iron, it will rust. That's why make it out of water, so that those who enter it will get lost, and only those who can swim will be saved—while those who can’t will drown.’”

Azriel's eyes were on her, dark and still.

"I think I have been drowning for a long time," he said.

Her voice didn't waver. "Then maybe it's time you learn how to swim."

The first time he stayed in her bed, he didn't touch her. Not yet.

Not at first.

They lay side by side, barely touching. His shadows curling along the edge of the sheets like they were afraid to cross the space between them. She heard his breathing, slow, careful, controlled. Too controlled.

Y/N reached out slowly, brushing the back of her fingers against his cheek.

Azriel flinched.

Not violently. Not like he feared her. But like he feared himself.

"I won't break," she whispered.

"I might," he replied.

But he didn't. Not that night.

He kissed her with his whole body--slow, reverent, like every part of him was learning how to hold something without leaving scars. When he touched her, it was with aching restraint. As if he'd never been allowed to be gentle before. As if gentleness was a language no one had ever spoken to him until now.

He didn't say he loved her.

But it didn't matter to her.

He stayed wrapped around her until dawn, shadows resting against her spine like a heartbeat.

For a while, it was enough.

Days passed in a kind of golden haze--stolen mornings where he made her tea without asking, whispered jokes under his breath that made her laugh too loud, rare smiles that crept up on his face like they surprised even him. He fixed her broken drawer. She mended a tear in his wings.

They didn't talk about what they were.

But they were.

And still...he never brought her to the House of Wind.

Only came to her after the sunset.

Never walked beside her.

Never spoke her name around others.

He talked about his family, sure. Told her about Feyre’s art studio, Cassian’s latest combat disaster, Elain’s garden that had become a small jungle overnight.

But when she asked, softly, if they knew about her...he looked away.

"They wouldn't understand," he said once.

And she nodded, trying to pretend that it didn't sting.

She told herself to be patient.

He was trying.

Trying to let her in, piece by piece. And she could see the effort. Every shadow he let her touch, every night he stayed instead of disappearing into the dark.

But still, sometimes-

Sometimes he'd disappear for days.

No note. No warning. Just gone.

And when he came back, there'd be a new wound. A colder look in his eyes. More silence than usual.

And she'd let him in. Again and again.

One night, she waited by the window until dawn. When he finally appeared in the alley below, limping slightly, eyes bruised and hollow, she didn't ask where he'd been. She knew he wouldn't answer anyway.

She just opened the door and stepped aside.

He paused on the threshold, shadows writhing restlessly, guilt clinging to him like smoke.

"You don't have to keep waiting," he said quietly but coldly.

"I know," she whispered.

But she still did.

The intimacy hadn’t gone. But something else had arrived--the ache of wanting more. Of feeling like she was waiting in a house half-lived in, filled with a love half-shared.

She told herself it was fine. Love came in different forms. But sometimes, in the moments when he held her at night and didn’t speak, she felt like a secret he was still deciding whether to keep.

She waited again.

Two weeks this time. No words. No signs. Just a silence loud enough to choke on.

When the door finally creaked open, she was sitting at the table, a book in her lap she hadn't read a word out of. The candle had long since burned low.

Azriel stepped inside like a ghost. Blood stained his shoulder. His jaw was bruised. His shadows were twitching violently, refusing to settle.

The same routine all over again.

"You didn't write," she said quietly.

"I didn't have time."

"You always say that."

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, still wrapped in whatever darkness he’d dragged home with him.

Y/N stood. "Azriel, I can't keep doing this."

That got his attention. His eyes snapped to hers, cold and guarded. “Doing what?”

“Waiting. Wondering if I’m something you regret every time you leave.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re not.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m the only one trying?”

He stepped forward, voice sharp. “Do you think it’s easy for me? Being with you?”

Her heart stuttered. “What?”

Azriel didn’t stop. His voice rising now, venom curling at the edges of each word. “You think I can just pretend I’m normal? That I can walk around in the sun with you, like I'm not made of shadow and blood and secrets? You don’t get it, Y/N.”

“I’m trying to!” she cried. “But you won’t let me in. You treat me like I’m this quiet little place you come to rest, but never stay. I love you, Azriel, but I’m not your safehouse.”

Silence.

And then he said it.

“I didn’t ask you to love me.”

She froze.

His eyes were dark, unreadable. His next words were colder than anything she'd ever heard from him.

“You’re not part of my world, Y/N. You never were. You’re just… soft. Fragile. You wouldn’t last a day in it.”

The air left her lungs.

He kept going. Couldn’t seem to stop himself now. “You think you understand me because I let you stitch my wounds? Because I sleep in your bed when I can’t stand my own thoughts? You don’t know me. Not really.”

Y/N stared at him, heart cracking open. “That’s not true.”

He laughed bitterly. “It is. You fell in love with the version of me who sits by your fire. Not the one who tortures spies. Not the one who’s left entire camps in ash.”

“Then why did you come here at all?” she whispered, voice trembling.

Azriel’s face twisted. “Because I was lonely. And you were quiet. And kind. And I thought maybe, maybe, I could forget what I was for a while.”

Tears blurred her vision. She couldn’t breathe. So he used her.

He watched her fall apart and didn’t move.

“I waited for you,” she said, voice breaking. “I gave you every soft part of me. I let myself drown in you, and you- ”

Her voice shook as she whispered, “You were never going to stay, were you?”

Azriel didn’t answer.

And that silence was worse than any insult.

She nodded slowly, her heart hollow. “You can go.”

“I didn’t- ”

“Go.”

And this time, he did.

No shadows lingered behind.

Just the echo of the door closing.

And a candle, still flickering in the window, for someone who would never come back.

So Azriel let himself drown, after all.

The silence was louder than his footsteps had ever been.

Azriel didn't return. No letter. No knock at her door. No shadow whispering through the window in the middle of the night.

Just nothing.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into over a month.

The bed stayed cold. The chair by the fire sat empty. The cracked teacup he'd once used sat untouched on the shelf, because she couldn't bring herself to throw it away.

At first, Y/N tried to rationalize it.

Maybe he was on a mission. Maybe something happened. Maybe he wanted to come back but couldn't.

But after the second week of silence, she stopped lying to herself.

He had left. And he was not coming back.

She didn’t cry loudly. Didn’t scream. Didn’t fall apart in the way people expect you to when your heart breaks.

She simply quieted.

The candle in her window still flickered at night, but only out of habit.

She kept working. Healing. Mixing herbs. Taking care of anyone who came to her door.

She smiled. She made tea. She went to the market on Thursdays and picked out fresh sage like she had before him.

But something inside her had changed.

Like someone had rearranged her soul and forgot to put it back right.

Two months later, she saw him again.

A quiet café near the Sidra. The kind she rarely visited, but had wandered into that day on a whim, needing to be anywhere but her own shop.

She was halfway through a book and a cup of tea when her eyes lifted and-

There he was.

Azriel.

Sitting by the window and smiling.

Not at her, at someone else.

A female with soft brown hair, tilting her head as she laughed. He leaned in when she spoke. His hand rested near hers on the table. No shadows. No armor. Just him--calm, composed, golden in the sunlight.

Public. Unhidden.

Y/N didn't move. Didn't breathe.

He hadn't even looked her way.

But the ache that ripped through her chest was sharp and unrelenting. Like something had been cut open all over again. She sat there, frozen, watching the male who once couldn’t even say her name in front of others now smile like it cost him nothing.

And it hit her: He was someone else's quiet now

She left the café without finishing her tea.

That night, she didn't light the candle.

Not out of bitterness. But because she realized she no longer needed it to signal anyone home.

There was no one to wait for.

Only herself.

The rebuilding wasn’t dramatic.

It was slow. Painfully slow.

But she did it.

She replanted the herbs that had wilted. She cleared the cluttered corner of her clinic where Azriel used to sit and turned it into a space for children’s visits.

She wore red lipstick one day, just because. She laughed too loud at a terrible joke the blacksmith made. She bought herself a necklace from a market stall just because she liked the way it shimmered in the sun.

She didn’t pretend she was fine.

She just kept moving.

Piece by broken piece, she became someone new.

Someone he wouldn’t recognize.

It was an ordinary morning.

The sun broke lazily over Velaris, golden and slow. The scent of fresh bread wafted in from the bakery two doors down, and Y/N was humming under her breath as she lined new vials along the front shelf--lavender oil, hawthorn extract, a new bruise salve she'd been perfecting.

Quiet. Steady. Safe.

And then-

The bell above the door chimed.

She didn't look up. "Give me one second- "

The hair on her arms rose.

Three males stood in her doorway. All dressed in deep, polished armour, their expressions unreadable--but what caught her attention wasn't their weapons or their silence.

It was the emblem.

Burning red. A flame curling into a twisted crown.

Autumn.

Y/N straightened, heart skittering.

"I- Can I help you?" she asked, voice caught between politeness and caution.

The lead male didn't answer. He stepped aside with military precision, nodding sharply to the others.

"Clear the room."

Without hesitation, the other two males began moving through the shop, checking the back door, lifting curtains, glancing at shelves like her jars of sage and willowbark were some kind of threat.

“Excuse me?” Y/N demanded, pulse spiking. “What is this? Who are you? Why are you- ”

“Quiet.”

It wasn’t shouted. But the word cut like a blade.

The lead guard stood tall, eyes forward, posture rigid as stone. Like he was awaiting something. Someone.

Y/N took a step back, fingers curling behind her against the edge of the table.

When the second and third males returned to the front and gave a clipped, “Clear,” the leader nodded once--and then stepped aside.

And he walked in.

Not the male she expected.

Not someone from Velaris. Not even someone she recognized from polite court gossip.

He entered like the shop belonged to him--like the sunlight from the window was his spotlight and he was simply hitting his mark.

Auburn hair. Amber eyes. Broad shoulders wrapped in rich, red velvet.

His presence was heat and arrogance and silk layered over steel.

“Apologies, miss,” the male said smoothly, voice like warm wine, “for the dramatic entrance. It seems my reputation insists on making a scene, even when I try to be discreet.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“I’m on a diplomatic visit,” he continued without waiting for her to recover. “Tiresome business, really. But I took a rather unfortunate fall while hunting yesterday.” He lifted his left arm--bare now at the wrist, a thin line of dried blood along the skin.

“I was told,” he said, eyes sweeping the shop--and then her--“that you make some of the best healing salves in Velaris.”

He smiled then. And stars, it wasn’t kind. It was charming, yes. Dangerous. Coiled with amusement. Like he already knew she didn’t trust him--and was utterly delighted by it.

“I thought I’d see for myself,” he added, stepping farther into the shop, brushing past her like silk against skin.

Y/N moved to speak, to stop him, to ask--who are you? why are you really here?--but the words caught in her throat.

And the male turned, that smile curling into a slow smirk as he met her wide eyes.

“Well?” he asked, with a glint in his gaze that could only be described as a challenge. “Got anything fitting for a prince?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Anyone wishing to be tagged for the second part, let me know!

[certaimromance]

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Beautiful Boy.

Father figure!Hotch x BAU!reader

1k party masterlist | main masterlist

Summary: Despite your complex relationship, when your boss is discouraged, you can't help but care and try to make him happy, especially on Father's Day.

Words: 3k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. mentions of crime, reader’s mom (literally only mentioned). hurt/comfort. hotch being a father figure. father and rebellious daughter type relationship. temporarily located in the first season. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I know that you always suffer with this relationship so today I wanted to do something nicer.

You noticed it before anyone else did.

It started in the briefing room, somewhere between the sheriff’s second pot of bitter coffee and the Kentucky summer pressing against the windows like a second skin. The heat clung to everything, thick and sour, like grief. The blinds were half-drawn, but the sunlight still poured in, harsh and gold, catching dust in the air like static.

And your boss was off.

Not in the obvious ways, not in the ways that anyone else would register and understand the way you did. He did not bark orders. He wasn't irritable or cold. He was just...quieter and more withdrawn than usual. More unreachable. Something in him was turned inward, like a lightbulb flickering out behind his eyes.

You could feel it immediately. Because you had learned to read him in all the ways no one else had to, even though you were all profilers. Through posture. Through the silence. From the way his fingers curled slightly when he was overwhelmed but tried not to show it. You'd spent enough nights next to him in empty police stations, exchanging glances over tired files, garbled words, and bad machine coffee, to know when something inside him had gone still.

He hadn’t touched his coffee.

He hadn’t opened his casebook.

He hadn’t spoken unless directly addressed, and even then, his voice was quiet, almost too careful, like he was trying not to crack something open.

It wasn’t fatigue. You’d seen him tired. This was something else. Something heavier.

When the team broke off into pairs, you volunteered to take the victim interviews. You needed the distraction; your own pulse had been too loud in your ears since you noticed the shift in him. You also knew that Derek usually had a better read on things when you couldn’t make sense of them yourself.

The two of you headed out in a black SUV, the air conditioning fighting the summer heat with a weak, wheezing breath. The windows were rolled up, and the sun glared through them, bleaching the world beyond into shades of white and yellow.

The silence inside the car stretched like an elastic band. You toyed with the hem of your sleeve, glanced out the window, then said it:

“Hotch is being weird.”

Morgan’s eyebrows went up slightly as he flicked his gaze toward you. “Define weird.”

You turned to face the windshield, watching the road smear past. “He didn’t say anything when I stayed up half the night drinking coffee and obsessing over case notes. Normally, he’d at least scold me for not sleeping or tell me I’m irresponsible.”

Morgan raised a brow.

You continued, your voice quieter now. “He left his badge at the precinct. And when I said I’d ride with you today, he didn’t even blink. No reassignment. No reminder that I was supposed to stick with Reid because we protect each other. He didn’t even look at me.”

He let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s three signs of the apocalypse right there.”

You gave him a weak smile, but your eyes didn’t follow it. “I thought maybe something happened with Haley.”

Morgan shook his head, shifting gears. “Nah. Nothing I heard. He was fine Friday. Better than fine, actually. Had Jack’s photo out on his desk. Made me look at it like five times. He had that same ‘proud dad’ glow he gets sometimes, you know?”

You did. You knew that look intimately. That strange softness that came over Hotch when he spoke about his child. Like for just a second, all the armor dropped, and he let himself be human again.

You’d seen that same look before. The first time had been in Quantico, in the break room. You were a probationary agent then: young, even more stubborn, hiding all your doubts behind sarcasm and caffeine. Hotch had barely known you, but he caught the panic in your eyes after a hard case and handed you his untouched tea. He didn’t say much. He never did. But he’d sat with you for ten quiet minutes, and that had meant more than anything.

Over time, it shifted. You weren’t just one of his agents anymore. He looked out for you in ways that went beyond tactical oversight. Called you out when you pushed yourself too hard. He brought you tea and cookies when he knew you hadn’t eaten. And when you screwed up? He held you accountable.

You were quiet for a moment. The hum of the tires against the sunbaked asphalt filled the space between you, and then—

The realization dropped in your chest like a stone.

You turned your head back toward the window, your fingers curling loosely in your lap, nails brushing over the soft fabric of your pants. “It’s Father’s Day.”

Morgan didn’t say anything at first. He just pressed his lips together, then slowly shook his head. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

You didn’t look at him. Your voice had gone quiet, like something inside you had curled in on itself. “It’s his first one since Jack was born.”

Morgan finally glanced over at you, his brows drawn. “You think he forgot?”

You gave him a humorless smile. “Hotch? He’s not the kind of man who forgets anything. He remembers how I take my coffee, even after I changed it once. He remembers my mom’s name and the city she lives in, even though I only mentioned her once in passing. He doesn’t forget. This isn’t that.”

Morgan nodded slowly, eyes returning to the road. “So…what is it?”

You stared out at the blur of green fields and gas stations passing by, your throat tight. “It’s avoidance,” you said finally. “It’s guilt, maybe. Or grief. Or…fear.” You hesitated, your voice softer now. “That he’s not doing enough. That he’s missing things.”

Your voice faltered. You blinked fast, hoping the burn behind your eyes would pass.

“But he’s burying it,” you finished, more quietly this time. “And I don’t think anyone else even noticed.”

The car was quiet again for a few beats. Then Morgan, his voice low but full of a kind of warmth only earned through shared history, said, “You noticed.”

You didn’t answer.

Because of course you did.

Of course it was you.

You’d always had that strange attunement to Hotch, that subtle understanding that ran beneath the surface of protocol and title. You knew when he needed space, when he needed backup, and when he was two seconds from exploding but wouldn’t let it show. He never said much, but you learned to listen to what he didn’t say, to read the silence like language.

And sometimes, like now, it was screaming.

Morgan looked over at you again, eyes narrowing slightly, like he was lining up something just right.

“You should do something,” he said.

You blinked, frowning at him. “Me? Why me?”

He gave you a look that was part amusement, part exasperation, and part something softer. “You’re like his other baby here.”

You let out a sharp, scandalized laugh. “Oh, shut up.”

Morgan grinned. “It’s true. You and Reid, you’re the babies.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So what, I’m in the BAU daycare now?”

He shrugged, clearly enjoying himself. “Reid’s Gideon’s. You’re Hotch’s. The dynamic duo of adopted genius children.”

You scoffed. “I forgot you were ancient. The wise caretaker of the kindergarten.”

You reached out and gave his shoulder a mock-pitying pat, and he laughed, really laughed. It was warm and open, and for a moment it cleared the heavy air in the car like a breeze.

“I’m serious,” he said between chuckles. “You’ve got Hotch wrapped around that little badge of yours. You smile at him, and suddenly he’s pretending you didn’t break five Bureau rules last month.”

Your voice was flat. “It was not five.”

“Oh, right. Six. My bad.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. Still, the warmth that had started to bloom quickly turned back to a quiet ache.

Because he wasn’t wrong. And both of you knew it.

The police station was unusually quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that came with calm, but the kind that felt suspended, like the breath before a scream. Outside, the Kentucky summer boiled against the windows, turning them into panes of soft light and distant sirens. Inside, the air was heavy with the mingled smells of old coffee, printer toner, and institutional fatigue.

Most of the team had gone out again, following separate leads. You should’ve been with them. Technically, you were supposed to be reviewing files with Reid and cross-referencing Garcia’s latest data set. But when you walked past one of the smaller briefing rooms and saw him, alone, silent, back turned to the door, something tugged at you and wouldn’t let go.

Hotch sat at a desk that looked too small for his presence, elbows tucked in, spine perfectly straight, the file in his hands open but untouched. His fingers curled around the pages like he was reading, but you knew better. You knew the signs. You’d learned him like some people learned weather, by pressure shifts and subtle silences.

His coffee was cold.

The pen beside him hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He wasn’t working. He was trying to work.

And trying harder not to feel.

You lingered in the doorway, your fingers tightening slightly around the object in your hand. It was a small package, almost weightless, and yet it anchored you to the spot.

You cleared your throat gently. “Hotch.”

He looked up. Not startled, exactly—Aaron Hotchner was not the kind of man who startled—but there was something in his expression, a flicker of recognition that softened the line between his brows.

You stepped in slowly, the sound of your boots muffled by the low hum of ceiling lights. “I, um…” You stopped, nerves prickling your skin. “I have something.”

His eyes searched your face. “News about the case?”

You shook your head. “No. Not that.”

You walked over, deliberately measured, and placed the package on the desk in front of him. Wrapped in simple brown paper, tied with thin twine. It looked like something from another decade, something unassuming, careful, and personal.

He raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Just…something from the team,” you said, quickly, like you didn’t want to dwell on it.

Hotch’s hands moved with practiced precision as he untied the string, folding the paper back in neat creases. You watched his expression subtly shift the moment the cover of the CD was revealed: the black-and-white photo of John Lennon and Yoko Ono pressed in an almost-kiss. Double Fantasy.

You forced yourself not to shift under his gaze. “There’s a track on there. ‘Beautiful Boy.’ Thought it might be…nice for Jack.”

You didn’t say for you. You didn’t say for tonight. You didn’t say because no one else noticed, and I couldn’t stand it.

Instead, you fiddled with the edge of the desk, your fingertips grazing a nick in the wood. “Just thought you might want to play it for him. At some point.”

His gaze stayed steady on you, unreadable. But you saw the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, the way his thumb brushed the edge of the CD case like it meant more than he could put into words. Which, with Hotch, it probably did.

He didn’t smile. Not really. But something eased in him, just for a moment.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. His voice was calm, even, but lacking the hard edges it usually carried. There was something in it, something softer, closer to vulnerable.

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes now that the moment had landed. “It’s from the team,” you repeated, too fast, too flat. “Not just me.”

And before he could say anything more, before the silence between you could turn into something warm and dangerous, you turned toward the door.

You reached it, one hand on the frame, and paused just long enough to say, almost too low to hear, “Happy Father’s Day.”

You didn’t look back.

But he did. He watched you until you disappeared from the hallway, his thumb still resting on the corner of the case.

When he finally tucked the CD into his bag, he did it with care, not as if it were fragile, but as if it mattered. Which, for him, was rarer still.

And though he turned back to the files, posture straightening, focus returning, something had shifted.

The sadness hadn’t gone.

But now…it wasn’t all his to carry alone.

After a few minutes of moving through the narrow corridors of the local precinct, past officers hunched over phones, and whiteboards cluttered with scrawled names and pinned evidence photos, Hotch finally found the rest of the team gathered in the squad room.

Morgan was leaning over a map on the central table, lips pressed together in focus as he traced routes and known locations. JJ stood a few feet away, phone to her ear, nodding along to a quiet voice on the other end, likely a local detective. Reid sat with one leg folded under him on the edge of a desk, flipping through a legal pad filled with dense notes, midway through explaining something to no one in particular. Something about proximity patterns and variable behavior probabilities.

Gideon, Elle, and you were still out, following up on witness interviews or canvassing the neighborhood around the latest crime scene. Hotch felt that absence in the room like a missing piece of a puzzle. Familiar chaos surrounded him, the kind that usually grounded him, but tonight, it all felt strangely distant. Dimmer. Or maybe it was just him. Maybe he was the one too far away.

He stepped further into the room, the CD still tucked under his arm. It felt oddly heavy now, like something he wasn’t sure how to carry.

Morgan looked up first, lifting his chin. “Hey. Any news from the sheriff?”

Hotch shook his head. “Not yet. He’s still coordinating with the dive team.”

He could’ve stopped there. Should have, maybe.

But instead, after a beat, he let his fingers slide along the edge of the jewel case and, almost offhandedly, too offhandedly, said, “Thanks…for the gift.”

There was a pause. A small, still beat that seemed to stretch a little too long.

JJ blinked, lowering her phone. “What gift?”

Spencer looked up from his notes, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “Did someone send something? I haven’t seen a delivery.”

Morgan narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Hotch looked between them, reading their faces instinctively, a skill honed over years in the field. But what he found wasn’t the guilt of a surprise ruined or the giddy discomfort of a shared secret. It was just confusion. Honest and complete.

He slowly lifted the CD just slightly, so the glossy cover caught the harsh fluorescent light.

“The Lennon album. Double Fantasy.” He tapped the front of the case with his thumb.

Silence fell again. Subtle, but complete.

Derek straightened slowly from the map, his expression shifting, something thoughtful settling behind his eyes.

“I didn’t even know you liked Lennon,” he said, carefully.

Reid blinked, head tilting. “He was murdered in 1980 outside The Dakota in New York. Double Fantasy was the last album he released during his lifetime. It was produced by—”

“Reid,” JJ cut in gently.

Hotch, still holding the CD lightly between his fingers, looked at each of them again, as if trying to catch a tell. But there was nothing. No flicker of recognition. No grin of acknowledgment.

“No one got me this?” he asked, his voice quieter now. Less curious, more precise.

They shook their heads one by one. Morgan’s lips parted as if to say something, then closed again.

JJ glanced toward the door, her eyes narrowing slightly in thought. Then her gaze returned to Hotch, and a slow smile began to curl at the corners of her mouth.

“No,” she said softly. “But I think I know who did.”

Hotch didn’t respond at first. He just stood there, silent and still, thumb brushing the edge of the jewel case like he might wear the plastic down if he did it long enough. He thought back to the way you’d handed it to him: direct, like you were giving him a report. No soft words, no sentimentality. Just…intent. Camouflaged as routine.

He should have known.

He did know.

Morgan exhaled a soft laugh, folding his arms. “She told you it was from all of us, huh?”

Hotch gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Jennifer smiled again, this time warmer. “That’s her. Can’t say what she means. But she makes sure you feel it anyway.”

Aaron’s fingers tightened on the CD.

He could picture it now, you lingering in a record shop, maybe, debating whether to do it at all. Or maybe digging it out from your own collection. You hadn’t lingered in the room long after giving it to him. You’d left him the gift like a file dropped on his desk, no fuss, no eye contact. But it wasn’t thoughtless.

Not even close.

Later, back in the temporary office the sheriff’s department had given him—the one with the flickering desk lamp and a broken file drawer—Hotch closed the door behind him. The lock clicked softly in the stillness. He set down his files, loosened his tie just slightly, and opened the side compartment of his bag.

He pulled out his old portable CD player, the same one he used to carry on long flights before digital libraries and Bluetooth speakers became the norm. Worn, dependable. It still worked.

He slipped the disc in, clicked the lid shut, and placed the headphones over his ears.

The opening chords of the song filled the room: soft, earnest, and full of something that felt like forgiveness.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

And let himself feel it.

Just for a minute.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

Beautiful girl.

[moonstruckme]

a thought:

reader is literally so grouchy and bratty and tired and is accidentally snapping at (whoever u want) and thennn they take initiative to casual dominance her to take a nap after some tea and it’s just so crazy fluffy!!!

Thanks for requesting!

cw: d/s dynamics

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 708 words

You’d claimed to want to read with Remus on the couch, but you keep huffing like your book is your least favorite thing in the world. Remus wraps a hand around your thigh, rubbing a slow back and forth with his thumb in an attempt to pacify you. He knows precisely what this mood is about. 

“Ugh, this construction noise is the worst!” You glare out the window as if hoping the men across the street will see. 

“Why don’t you use my headphones and try to have a nap, dove,” Remus suggests mildly. “You didn’t get much sleep last night, sounds like it’s catching up to you.” 

You bristle at the implication. “I’m not tired, I’m just sick of this. Nobody asked for the road to be redone. It was perfectly fine before.” 

Remus shoots you a sideways look. The road outside your house was riddled with potholes, and you both know it. If you were in a better mood, you’d be baking cookies for the construction workers to thank them. 

You ignore it, huffing again. “I’m gonna get some dinner,” you say, setting your book down roughly as you stand. 

“Last night’s leftovers are in the fridge.” 

“Don’t feel like those.” 

Remus gives your bum a light swat through your sweatpants as you go by. “Eat something real,” he warns. 

You make a vexed harrumphing sound. He chooses not to hear it. 

What he does hear, less than a minute later, is popcorn popping in the microwave. Remus sighs through his nose, tenting his book on the coffee table and pursuing you into the kitchen. You don’t turn around as his footsteps approach. 

“Dove.” Remus takes your hips, turning you manually. “That’s not a real dinner.” 

You shrug, obstinate. Your stare looks like you’re itching for a fight. “It’s what I feel like.” 

“You haven’t had anything with a vegetable in it all day. You need to pick something else.” 

You roll your eyes, turning back around. Ignoring him. Remus hits the button to shut off the microwave. 

You spin back around, eyes flashing. “You can’t—” 

“That’s enough.” He takes your jaw in his hand, your chin resting at the apex of his thumb and forefinger. “You’re being a brat,” he says in a low, steady voice, “because you’re sleepy and probably because you haven’t eaten a real meal since yesterday. That stops now. You’re going to eat the dinner you made yesterday, which you liked, and then go have a nap. Understand?” 

Remus isn’t really irritated with you. You’re being unruly, sure, but these moods always end once you get what you’re looking for from him. Now he’s given you it, you’ll calm down. 

It’s fucking precious, the way your temper melts away under his hard gaze. Your eyes round out and your head sits heavier in his hand, remorse finding its way into your expression. 

“Sorry,” you say, tone about ten degrees milder than it had just been. 

Remus rolls his eyes at you, squishing your cheeks between his fingers. “I know, darling. You can still make it up to me. Heat up those leftovers, okay?” 

You hum, and he lets you go, kissing the hill of your cheek. 

A minute later, you join him in the living room, curling up next to him on the couch while you eat and he reads. Your posture is already less rigid, the both of you enveloped in companionable silence and the smell of warm food. Your fork clinks as you set your plate down on the coffee table, and when you don’t get up to go to bed, Remus looks over at you. Your eyes are already on him, a question in them.

He fights to repress the smile that curves his lips. “What?” 

“Can I sleep here?” you ask hopefully. “Would it distract you if I put my head on your lap?” 

Remus coos. “No, sweetheart, of course you can.” 

“Are you sure?” you ask, though you’re already lying down, him uncrossing his legs to make his lap more comfortable for you. “You’re not still mad at me?” 

He tsks, petting your hair while you get comfortable. “I’m not. Wanna know a secret?” 

You hum, eyes already closing. 

“I’m never really mad at you, dove.”

[iraot]

Word Count: 5,247 Warnings: anxiety, overthinking, worrying, talks of infertility, self worth worries, zayne being literally the most perfect man to walk the planet AO3 Link

"If my wife is an overthinker, then I'll be an over-explainer; I have no problem putting her mind at ease."

The first time Zayne realized she was an overthinker, they were sitting in his car, parked outside her apartment building. The rain had come in early that evening, drumming against the windshield in a steady rhythm. It was the kind of rain that blurred street lights into soft halos and made the world feel smaller, quieter.

She had been staring out the window for the past three minutes, her fingers idly tracing patterns into the condensation forming on the glass.

“You’re thinking too hard about something,” Zayne said, his voice cutting through the hush of the car’s interior.

Her head snapped toward him, eyes widening slightly. “I—what?”

He turned in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him. “You get quiet when you’re overthinking. And you do this thing with your fingers.” He gestured vaguely to the absentminded movement of her hand against the window.

She glanced down, like she hadn’t even realized she was doing it. A small, embarrassed smile flitted across her lips before she sighed. “It’s nothing.”

He waited.

She sighed again. “Okay, fine. It’s just... I had a really nice time tonight.”

Zayne frowned slightly. “That’s what you’re overthinking?”

“Yes.”

He blinked. “You’re overthinking something good?”

She huffed, pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands, curling into herself. “Because what if this doesn’t work? What if I like you more than you like me? What if I say something stupid and ruin everything? Or what if I’m not what you actually want, and you just haven’t realized it yet?”

There it was. The spiraling. The way her thoughts tangled into each other like threads pulled too tight.

Zayne inhaled slowly. He could have told her not to worry. That she was being ridiculous. That none of those things would happen. But he already knew that wouldn’t help. She wasn’t the kind of person who needed vague reassurances. She needed facts. Proof. A detailed breakdown of exactly why her fears were unfounded.

He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel once before turning to her fully. “Alright. Let’s go over the variables, then.”

She blinked. “The variables?”

“Yes. First, you said you had a nice time tonight.”

“I did.”

“Well, so did I. That cancels out the first worry—this isn’t one-sided.” He tilted his head slightly. “And the second one, about saying something stupid? Statistically speaking, everyone says something dumb at some point in a relationship. I myself have said incredibly stupid things before.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Like what?”

He exhaled through his nose, a hint of amusement creeping into his expression. “When I was in med school, I was so sleep-deprived that I once called my professor ‘Dad’ in the middle of a lecture.”

Her lips parted, and then, despite herself, she snorted.

Zayne grinned. “Exactly. Embarrassment is inevitable. If you say something stupid, I guarantee it won’t be worse than that.”

She let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to a laugh. But then her shoulders tensed again, the deeper worry still sitting in the back of her mind. “And the last part?”

“That you’re not what I actually want?” He shifted slightly, his voice lowering just enough to make her really hear him. “I don’t go on dates for fun. My job is too demanding, my time too valuable, to waste it on something I don’t care about.” He held her gaze, steady and sure. “If I didn’t want this—didn’t want you—I wouldn’t be here.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft patter of rain against the windshield.

She inhaled, her fingers still wrapped in the sleeves of her sweater. “You really have no problem over-explaining things, do you?”

Zayne’s lips twitched, his hazel-green eyes warm despite the dim lighting. “Not if it helps.”

She exhaled a quiet laugh, and he could see it—the tension in her shoulders, the tightness in her expression, finally unwinding.

Later, when she climbed out of the car and lingered at the door for just a second longer than necessary, he rolled down the window and called out, “By the way.”

She turned.

“I’m going to kiss you next time,” he said. “Just so you don’t overthink it when it happens.”

Her breath hitched, but this time, it wasn’t worry in her eyes. It was something softer, something lighter.

And when she smiled before slipping inside, Zayne knew—this would not be the last time he had to explain things to her.

And he didn’t mind one bit.

It started with a text message.

She had sent it while he was finishing up rounds at the hospital—just a simple, Hey, are you free later?

Zayne had responded a few minutes later, something casual, something easy. Yeah, want me to pick you up after my shift?

But by the time he pulled up outside her place, she was already pacing the sidewalk, her arms crossed tight over her chest.

He could see it before she even got in the car—the slight crease between her brows, the way she kept worrying at the inside of her cheek with her teeth. He knew that expression now. Knew the way her body language shifted when she was spiraling, thoughts looping over themselves in an endless, tangled mess.

She climbed in, shutting the door a little too carefully, like she was afraid of making too much noise.

“Hey,” he said, glancing at her as he pulled away from the curb. “What’s wrong?”

She hesitated, fingers tightening in the fabric of her skirt. “It’s stupid.”

Zayne exhaled through his nose. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t mind stupid.”

She huffed, a tiny, almost-there laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. For a few moments, she just stared out the windshield, like she was trying to put her thoughts in order.

Finally, she murmured, “I think I annoyed you today.”

His brows lifted slightly, glancing at her again. “When?”

“This morning. When you were at work. I texted you first, and I don’t know, you just took longer to respond than usual, and your reply seemed kind of... short?” She bit her lip, looking away. “And I know you were busy, I know that, but my brain just kept thinking, what if I was being annoying? What if I’m one of those people who doesn’t realize they’re texting too much, and I—”

Zayne took one hand off the wheel and reached over, slipping his fingers beneath hers and prying them loose from where she was gripping the hem of her skirt. He laced their fingers together, squeezing just enough to make her pause.

“You weren’t annoying me,” he said, voice steady, certain. “I was in the middle of rounds when you texted. I answered as soon as I had a second.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know that, but—”

“But your brain still decided to worry about it anyway,” he finished for her.

She let out a breath, tilting her head against the seat. “Yeah.”

He turned onto a quieter street, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. “Okay, let’s analyze this. If I was annoyed, what do you think I would’ve done?”

She swallowed. “Maybe not respond at all.”

“Right. But I did respond. And even if I was annoyed, what would the logical next step be?”

She blinked. “Um... you’d probably talk to me about it?”

“Exactly.” He brought her hand up briefly, pressing a kiss to the back of it without taking his eyes off the road. “I don’t do passive-aggressive things. I don’t do silent treatments. If something’s wrong, I’ll tell you. You don’t have to guess.”

She exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening in his.

Zayne glanced at her again, taking in the way her shoulders had dropped, just a little. It was always like this—her worries curling tight around her like vines, and him untangling them one by one.

A beat of silence passed, then she muttered, “I really need to rewire my brain.”

Zayne’s lips quirked. “Or you could just keep me around. I don’t mind doing the rewiring for you.”

This time, she actually laughed, a quiet, breathy thing, but real.

And when he finally pulled into the parking lot of the little café they liked, he didn’t let go of her hand, even after he put the car in park.

He turned to her fully, thumb stroking slow circles over her knuckles. “I’m not going to disappear just because you send me a text,” he said. “Or because you overthink. That’s not how this works.”

Her gaze softened. “No?”

“No,” he said, firm, final. Then, because he knew her, because he knew the way her mind worked, he added, “And if you ever actually are annoying, I’ll let you know in excruciating detail.”

She let out a startled, half-exasperated laugh, shoving his arm lightly. “God, you really don’t shut up, do you?”

His lips twitched. “Not when it comes to you.”

And later, when they sat across from each other at the café, her foot nudging his beneath the table, he could see it—the way she breathed easier, the way the storm in her mind had finally stilled.

And that was enough.

Zayne found her sitting on the floor of her apartment, surrounded by half-filled moving boxes, staring at an empty suitcase like it had personally wronged her.

She didn’t even look up when he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her. He could see it—her mind running laps around itself, her fingers curled into the fabric of her sweatpants, the way she chewed on the inside of her cheek.

“You’re overthinking,” he said, because he had long since stopped bothering with preambles.

She sighed. “I know.”

Zayne pushed off the door frame, stepping over a pile of bubble wrap as he crouched beside her. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go through it.”

She groaned, tilting her head back against the couch. “God, I hate that you know me this well.”

His lips quirked. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

He nudged her knee with his own. “Talk to me.”

She exhaled sharply, eyes flicking to the half-packed boxes around them. “What if this is a mistake?”

His brows lifted. “You think moving in with me is a mistake?”

“No! I mean—yes? Ugh.” She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. “I want to live with you. I love being with you. But what if it changes things? What if I get on your nerves? What if I do something weird and you realize you actually hate the way I load the dishwasher or fold my clothes or—I don’t know, breathe too loud at night?”

Zayne blinked. “I already know you breathe too loud at night.”

Her hands dropped from her face. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve fallen asleep next to you plenty of times. Sometimes, you make this little noise when you exhale, like a tiny sigh.” He smirked. “It’s actually kind of cute.”

She gaped at him, horrified. “I do not.”

He shrugged. “You do. But see? I already know. And I still want you to move in.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, then huffed. “That’s not the point.”

Zayne tilted his head slightly. “Then what is the point?”

Her gaze dropped to her lap, fingers twisting in the hem of her sweatshirt. “I guess... I just keep thinking, what if I ruin it? We’re good right now. What if living together messes everything up?”

Zayne let the silence stretch between them for a moment, studying the way her breath had gone shallow, the way her knee bounced like she was trying to shake off the thoughts clinging to her.

Then he reached for her hand, unfolding her fingers from where they were gripping her clothes, lacing them with his. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s analyze this.”

She groaned again. “You and your analyzing—”

“Shh. I’m working.”

Despite herself, she let out a breath of laughter, small but real.

Zayne continued. “So, let’s start with facts. You love me.”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

“And I love you.”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

“And we already spend most of our time together anyway.”

She hesitated. “Well... yeah.”

“And I already know about all your little quirks.” His voice softened. “I know you keep the spoons separate from the forks in the dishwasher because it ‘just feels right.’ I know you have to have a blanket on you even when it’s hot. I know you like your coffee way too sweet, and I know that when you’re tired, you forget to drink it entirely and then complain when it gets cold.”

Her lips parted slightly, eyes searching his face.

“I know you,” he said, voice quieter now, steadier. “And you know me. This isn’t a risk, it’s a next step. And if something comes up, we’ll handle it. Together.”

She inhaled slowly, like she was trying to let the words sink in, like she was testing their weight in her mind.

Zayne squeezed her hand. “And for the record?”

She blinked at him.

“I want to live with you,” he said simply. “Not just because it’s convenient, not because it’s ‘the next step,’ but because when I come home after a 12-hour shift, I’d rather collapse into bed with you than spend the night wishing you were there.”

Her breath hitched, and for a second, he thought she might cry. But instead, she surged forward, pressing her forehead against his, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders.

“You really have an answer for everything, don’t you?” she murmured.

He smirked. “Of course. That’s my job.”

She exhaled a quiet laugh, tilting her head so her nose brushed his. “I love you.”

Zayne’s smirk softened into something smaller, something real. “I know.”

She groaned, shoving him lightly. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still want to live with me,” he said, smug.

She rolled her eyes, but when she sat back, the crease in her brow was gone, the tension in her shoulders finally unwound. She looked around at the boxes again, and this time, her expression wasn’t one of panic, but quiet determination.

Zayne stood, brushing dust off his knees before offering her a hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s finish packing.”

She stared at his outstretched hand for a second before slipping hers into it, letting him pull her up.

And later, when they were surrounded by the last of the packed boxes, when she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sipping her too-sweet coffee while he flicked through the TV channels, she leaned against him and whispered, “I can’t believe I almost let my brain talk me out of this.”

Zayne hummed, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Good thing I never shut up, huh?”

She smiled against his shoulder, and he could feel it—the moment she finally, finally let herself believe.

Her hands were shaking.

She hadn’t noticed it at first, too caught up in the chaos of the wedding preparations—her mother fussing over last-minute details, the makeup artist dusting powder over her cheekbones, the soft hum of music floating in from the reception hall. But now, standing in the bridal suite with her veil pooled over her lap, fingers clenched in the fabric, she realized—she was trembling.

Because Zayne wasn’t here.

And he was never late.

She kept staring at her phone, at the last message he had sent over an hour ago: On my way. Can’t wait to marry you.

No updates. No follow-ups. Just silence.

And her mind was already sprinting ahead, forming theories, catastrophizing, twisting his absence into something bigger than it was.

What if he had changed his mind?

What if he had gotten cold feet and didn’t know how to tell her?

What if she had missed the signs, what if he had only thought he wanted this but now, on the way to the altar, had realized—

Her phone buzzed.

She jolted so hard she nearly dropped it.

Zayne.

She fumbled to answer, pressing it against her ear so fast she barely registered her own breathless, “Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” came his voice—calm, steady, warm. Familiar. “I need you to do something for me.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Zayne, where are you?”

“First, I need you to breathe,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, grounding cadence that always managed to cut through the noise in her head. “Deep breath in for me, okay?”

She swallowed, gripping the phone tighter. “Zayne—”

“Baby,” he murmured. “Breathe.”

Her throat tightened. But she did it. Inhale, slow and shaking. Exhale, a little steadier.

“Good,” he said. She could hear the faint hum of his car’s engine through the receiver, the occasional honk in the distance. “Now, I’m going to explain what’s happening, and you will not assume the worst until I’m finished. Deal?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay.”

“There was a pile-up on the highway. No one’s hurt, but it backed up traffic for miles. I’ve been inching forward for the last forty-five minutes, and I’m about ten minutes from getting through the worst of it. I’m going to be late, but I am coming. I will be there. I am marrying you today.”

She blinked rapidly, staring at the floor. The knot in her chest loosened, but the panic hadn’t fully left. “But what if—”

“Nope,” he cut in, gentle but firm. “No what ifs. No spiraling. Tell me what you’re thinking, and I’ll tell you why you’re wrong.”

She let out a shaky breath, pressing her fingers to her temple. “What if—what if this is a sign? That something’s off?”

Zayne exhaled through the receiver. Not exasperated, not frustrated—just knowing. Like he had already predicted this exact worry before she even spoke. “Alright. Let’s break that down. What would this be a sign of? That the universe doesn’t want us to be together?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, soft and unwavering, “the universe has thrown a lot worse at us, and we’re still here.”

Her breath hitched.

“Think about it,” he continued. “We survived me being in med school while you worked full-time. We survived the long shifts, the exhaustion, the nights where I fell asleep mid-conversation and you just laughed and pulled a blanket over me. We survived you almost backing out of moving in together, and me annoying the hell out of you by explaining, in painful detail, why you were overthinking it.”

That startled a breathy, half-laugh out of her. “You did do that.”

“And I was right,” he reminded her smugly. “And I’m right now, too. This isn’t a sign of anything except that traffic is shit, and I need to leave earlier next time.”

She sniffled, pressing her palm to her eyes.

His voice softened. “You still with me?”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he said, relief threading through his tone. “Now, tell me the truth—are you standing there in your dress, looking stupidly beautiful, worrying about the one thing you don’t have to worry about?”

She glanced at her reflection in the full-length mirror across the room. Her dress fit perfectly, the veil draped like something out of a dream, the delicate lace covering her shoulders. And yet, none of it mattered. Not if he wasn’t here.

“I just—” Her throat went tight again. “I just want you here.”

“I know,” he murmured. “And I will be. But in the meantime, I need you to do something for me.”

She swallowed. “What?”

“Find my mom,” he said. “Tell her what’s happening, so she can keep everyone calm. Then, go to the mirror, look at yourself, and remind yourself that I am coming. Because this isn’t your worst fear coming true. It’s just a logistical nightmare.”

She exhaled, her heartbeat finally slowing from a frantic sprint to something steadier.

“And while you’re at it,” Zayne continued, a smirk creeping into his voice, “consider how dramatic of an entrance I’m about to make. Pretty sure me rushing in, still half in my suit, to marry you is going to be some next-level rom-com shit.”

She let out a choked laugh, rubbing her temple. “God, I hate that you’re making me laugh right now.”

“You love that I’m making you laugh right now.”

She sniffled again, but this time, she smiled. “Yeah. I do.”

“Good. Now go find my mom,” he said. “And keep breathing. Because the next time you hear from me, I’ll be at the altar, waiting for you.”

And for the first time since she had realized he was late, she believed him.

She sat on the edge of their bed, hands clenched into the fabric of her pajama pants, staring at the single pink line on the test.

Another negative.

She had known it before she even took it—had felt it in the hollow ache of her body, in the familiar weight of disappointment pressing against her ribs. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

The bathroom light was still on, its glow bleeding into the dim bedroom, casting long shadows along the walls. The clock on the nightstand read 2:13 AM, the kind of time that existed only for insomniacs and worriers.

She was both.

The floor creaked, and she barely registered the quiet rustle of blankets before Zayne’s voice, heavy with sleep, cut through the thick silence.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was low, rough-edged with exhaustion.

She didn’t answer.

The bed shifted as he sat up, and a moment later, she felt the warmth of him—his presence wrapping around her before he even touched her. A second passed, then another, and then his fingers brushed against her knee, tentative at first. Testing. Feeling out the weight of her silence.

Finally, he asked, “Another one?”

Her throat tightened. She nodded.

Zayne let out a slow breath, the kind that said I know. I know what this means to you. I know how much it hurts.

She clenched her jaw, her grip tightening on her pants. “Two years.” The words felt heavy, bitter in her mouth. “Two years of tracking cycles, vitamins, doctor visits, stupid fertility teas—two years of getting my hopes up just to end up right back here.” She let out a short, sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only exhaustion. Only anger. “I think it’s time to admit it, Zayne. I might not be able to get pregnant.”

She felt his hand shift, fingers trailing slowly up her thigh before settling over hers, prying them loose from the fabric she had been clutching like a lifeline. He held her hand in both of his, running his thumbs over her knuckles in slow, methodical strokes.

“Okay,” he said. Just that. A quiet, steady acknowledgment.

Her breath hitched. “That’s all you have to say?”

“No.” His grip on her hand tightened, gentle but firm. “But I need you to tell me exactly what you’re afraid of before I tell you why you’re wrong.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. “I’m afraid that I’ll never give you a child,” she whispered. “That I’ll never be able to give us the family we wanted.”

Zayne exhaled slowly, then shifted forward, his presence overwhelming in the best way—warm, solid, here. He reached for her, guiding her between his legs so that she was sitting against his chest, her back pressed into the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, one hand slipping beneath her shirt to press against the bare skin of her stomach.

“Alright,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Let’s break this down.”

She let out a half-sob, half-laugh. “God, you and your breaking things down—”

“Shh,” he hummed, kissing the side of her head. “I’m working.”

She sniffled, but she didn’t pull away.

His fingers traced slow, soothing circles over her stomach. “Fact number one: The ability to get pregnant does not determine your worth. It does not determine whether you are enough for me. You are enough. Always have been. Always will be.”

Her throat closed up.

“Fact number two,” he continued, pressing his lips to her shoulder. “This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. There are options—treatments, specialists, other ways to have the family we want. And I say we because this isn’t your burden to carry alone. It’s ours.”

Her breath stuttered.

His arms tightened around her, his voice softening, dropping into that low, reassuring timbre that always made her feel safe. “Fact number three,” he whispered. “I didn’t marry you because I wanted a baby. I married you because I wanted you.”

A sound broke from her throat, something fragile and small.

Zayne pressed his lips against the side of her neck, lingering. “A child would be a gift, but you—you’re the dream, sweetheart. You are my family.”

And that—that—was what shattered her.

The tears came fast, hot and silent, spilling over before she could stop them. She turned in his arms, pressing her face into his neck, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

Zayne just held her, one hand in her hair, the other still pressed to her stomach, as if anchoring her to the reality he was trying so desperately to make her see.

They stayed like that for a long time, tangled together in the quiet darkness of their bedroom, in the heavy stillness of a truth she hadn’t let herself believe until now.

And when she finally found her voice again, it was small, hoarse. “You always know what to say.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his lips still against her temple. “Of course. That’s my job.”

And for the first time in two years, she let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—they were going to be okay.

The car ride home was silent, but not the kind of silence that came with comfort.

It was the too still, too fragile, afraid-to-breathe kind of quiet.

She sat in the back seat, her body turned slightly toward the impossibly tiny person strapped into the car seat beside her. One hand hovered over their daughter’s chest, not quite touching, as if she was trying to convince herself that the gentle rise and fall of breath was real.

Zayne kept glancing in the rearview mirror, catching the way she barely blinked, the way her fingers twitched like she was fighting the urge to undo the buckle and pull their daughter into her arms.

“She’s okay,” he murmured, his voice breaking through the hush of the car.

Her gaze flicked to him, wide and uncertain. “What if she’s not?”

Zayne exhaled through his nose, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Then, statistically speaking, you will know before the car even stops.”

That earned him a glare, sharp but not real. He could see it—the way she wanted to be irritated, wanted to snap back that this is different, but she was too exhausted, too overwhelmed.

Still, she pressed her fingers gently to their daughter’s tiny chest, feeling the rhythmic little breaths beneath her palm.

The driveway appeared sooner than he expected.

It felt different, pulling up to the house with her in the car.

For years, it had been just them. Two people in a house that had once felt too big, too empty. And now, suddenly, it was as if the space had shrunk, like the walls had shifted to accommodate this new, impossibly small presence.

Zayne parked the car, then turned to look at her fully. “You ready?”

She swallowed. “No.”

His smile softened. “That’s okay. We’re doing it anyway.”

She let out a shaky breath, nodding.

He climbed out first, moving around to open her door while she unbuckled the car seat with careful, practiced motions that still felt foreign. Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate as she lifted their daughter into her arms.

And then she just... froze.

Zayne didn’t rush her.

He watched as she stared down at the tiny bundle against her chest, eyes tracing every delicate feature like she was memorizing her for the hundredth time. Her fingers hovered over the soft down of their daughter’s hair, brushing lightly, reverently, as if the moment she pressed too hard, she would disappear.

“She’s ours,” she whispered.

Zayne stepped closer, pressing a hand to the small of her back. “Yeah,” he murmured. “She is.”

For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

And then, finally, she tore her gaze away, looking up at him, eyes glassy with exhaustion and something deeper, something heavier.

“What if we’re not good at this?” she whispered.

Zayne didn’t answer right away. He reached out, his fingers settling over hers, pressing against their daughter’s impossibly small back. He let the silence stretch, let the weight of her words settle before he finally spoke.

“Well,” he said, voice low and warm, “if we’re bad at it, she’s got no frame of reference, so she’ll never know.”

She let out a half-sob, half-laugh, and he took the car seat from her hands before she could collapse completely.

Inside, the house felt... different.

The air was heavier, charged with something new. The walls that had once held only the quiet sounds of two people learning how to love each other now had to stretch, make room for the soft, uncertain presence of someone else.

She stood in the middle of the living room, their daughter still tucked against her chest, staring at nothing.

Zayne set down the car seat and moved toward her. “Sweetheart.”

She didn’t respond.

He touched her elbow, and she blinked, startled, like she had been somewhere else entirely.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “I don’t—she’s here, and I don’t know what to do.”

Zayne let out a slow breath, reaching out, slipping his arms around both of them. He pressed his forehead against hers, his voice soft and steady. “Okay. Let’s go over what we do know.”

She closed her eyes, her breath hitching. “Zayne—”

“Shh,” he murmured. “Fact number one: She’s here. She’s real. We did it.”

Her fingers curled into his shirt.

“Fact number two: She’s warm, she’s breathing, and despite all your worrying, she seems to be a very content baby.”

She let out a shaky laugh, barely more than an exhale.

“And fact number three?” He reached down, gently brushing his knuckles against their daughter’s tiny cheek. “We love her. And that’s the biggest thing, sweetheart. That’s the thing that matters most.”

She let out a small, broken sound, pressing her face into his neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her from unraveling.

Zayne held her tighter, cradling both of them, anchoring them in the moment.

And later, when their daughter was finally asleep in her crib, when the house was still and quiet again, she curled into him in bed, her fingers tracing absent shapes against his chest.

She let out a breath. “We’re really parents now.”

Zayne pressed a kiss into her hair. “Yeah.”

A long silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t uncertain.

It was warm. Steady. Full.

And then, quietly, she whispered, “What if she doesn’t love us?”

Zayne exhaled a quiet laugh, pulling her closer. “She will.”

“But what if—”

“She will,” he said again, pressing another kiss to her forehead, lingering there. “Because we love her. And because she’s got the most overthinking, stubborn, impossibly wonderful mother in the world.”

She smiled against his skin.

[ghsface]

Hot day - Matt Sturniolo

Sumary: You and Matt have the house alone on a very hot day and you decide to provoke him a little...

Warnings: smut +18, sexual tension, explicit content, use of fingers, unprotected sex (don't do it), soft!dom!matt, no use of y/n, I think that's all.

A/n: bro i literally love this, btw this is a story with two parts one hotter than the other, part two soon

⛧°。 ⋆༺ ✮ ༻⋆。 °⛧

The summer heat invaded every corner of the house. The windows were open, but not even the breeze was enough to alleviate the stifling temperature. Nick was in Korea with Madison Beer, and Chris was in Boston, which left the house for just you and Matt. The day promised to be quiet, but you had other plans.

You woke up early, with one clear idea in mind: play with the limits of Matt's patience. You knew what you did to him when you wore certain outfits, and today you weren't going to be discreet. You put on a tiny top, one that barely covered your breasts, leaving your abdomen completely exposed. You paired that with a thong in Matt's favorite color, knowing full well that it was his weakness.

You looked at yourself in the mirror before going downstairs. You smiled as you imagined his reaction; Matt wasn't the type to hide what he felt, and you loved that.

You went down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, letting the aroma of coffee and the crunch of bacon wake Matt up. You heard him move around the room, probably surprised that you were up before him. Shortly after, his footsteps echoed outside the room, and you felt him enter the kitchen before you even saw him.

“Why so early?” he mumbled, his voice hoarse from sleep, as he leaned against the counter.

“It’s too hot to stay in bed,” you said, turning to face him. His gaze automatically dropped to your body, stopping at your top before returning to your face.

Matt frowned slightly, as if he was trying to process what he was seeing. “Is that what you’re wearing today?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but the slight tone in his voice made it clear to you that he wasn’t as nonchalant as he appeared.

“It’s hot, don’t you think?” you replied with an innocent smile, turning back to the stove to continue cooking. You made sure to move in a way that your hips stood out, knowing that Matt couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

He didn’t answer right away, but you felt his gaze burning into your back. Eventually, he walked over and sat down on one of the chairs at the island, his attention divided between the food and your body.

Breakfast was a silent game of glances and small accidental brushes. Every time you passed by him, you made sure your fingers brushed his or your hips barely touched his arm. Matt tried to stay calm, but you could see how his hands tensed on the table and how his jaw clenched slightly.

Hours passed, and every small gesture you made seemed to increase the tension in the room. Finally, as you stood in the kitchen searching for something on the upper shelves, you decided it was time to take the next step.

“Matt, can you help me? I can’t reach this,” you called, looking over your shoulder with a playful smile.

Matt put down his phone and walked over to you. He positioned himself behind you, lifting his arm to reach the shelf. It was the perfect opportunity. You moved your hips back, making sure your ass was directly brushing his crotch.

The reaction was immediate. Matt tensed behind you, and for a moment, you thought he would try to ignore it. But then, his hands landed firmly on your hips, and he turned you slightly towards him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he murmured, his voice lower and huskier than ever.

“What do you mean? I just asked for help,” you said with an innocent smile, but your eyes betrayed your intentions.

Matt didn’t say anything else. Instead, his fingers tightened on your skin, his hands sliding down until they were almost at the base of your back. His breathing was heavy, and you could feel his body tense against yours.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he said, bringing his face closer to yours. His eyes were dark, filled with desire, and the commanding tone in his voice made you shiver.

He pushed you back against the table with measured force, leaning over your body as one firm hand ran down your back and the other slid the fabric of your underwear away, tearing it off carelessly. “You knew exactly what you were doing,” he growled against her ear, his voice husky, heavy with hunger held back for too long.

You arched ur back, gasping as she felt his fingers sink between her legs, exploring her with a brazenness that made you shiver. “Look at you, you’re already soaked,” he murmured, dragging his fingers against her core in deliberately slow strokes, as if he wanted to taste your desperation.

When he entered you with two fingers, he did so without warning, direct, deep, drawing a moan from you that echoed through the room. His movements were rhythmic, cruel, twisting his wrist with each thrust so you felt every inch of his touch. His thumb found your clit, pressing it in firm circles as his mouth moved down to nibble at the curve of your neck.

“Is this what you wanted? For me to take you like this, mercilessly?” he growled as his fingers worked faster, his body rigid against yours. You could only nod, his nails digging into the edge of the table as your legs shook.

Without waiting for your response, he turned you around, causing your breasts to crash against the cold of the table. He unbuttoned his pants with an urgency he could barely control, letting the weight of his erection press against your entrance, brushing just enough to draw a sigh from you.

“Ask for it,” he demanded, leaning down to speak directly into your ear, his fingers tangling in your hair and tugging just enough to make you lift your face.

“Please…” you whispered, barely audible.

Matt didn’t need more. He thrust into you suddenly, filling you completely in a movement that left you breathless. He didn’t stop, moving hard, setting a relentless pace as his hands gripped your waist, his nails digging into your skin.

The sound of your bodies colliding filled the air, mixing with your moans and ragged breaths. He gave no respite, leaning down to bite your shoulder as he thrust even harder, reaching every corner of your core as if he wanted to claim it for himself.

“You’re mine,” matt growled, his voice cracking with pleasure, just as you broke beneath him, trembling as your orgasm rocked you completely.

Your nails dragged across the table, searching for some anchor as Matt continued with relentless thrusts, each one deeper than the last. His pace was rough, almost desperate, but perfectly controlled, making sure that each thrust left you gasping for his name.

“This is how you like it, isn’t it? To be taken so hard that you can’t think of anything else,” he growled against your ear, biting your earlobe as his hands moved down your hips to grip his buttocks, pulling them apart tightly to sink further into you.

Each movement made him bolder. One hand moved up your back, tracing a path to your neck, where he closed his fingers firmly, still thrusting. “Tell me how it feels,” he demanded, squeezing just enough for your voice to come out breathy.

“It’s… too much… but don’t stop,” you gasped, your voice shaking as your body gave in completely to the pleasure.

He smiled, dark, satisfied, and eased his grip to lean over you, his lips brushing the edge of your ear as he moved his hips in a slower, deeper rhythm, deliberately torturing you. “I’m going to make you scream so hard that everyone knows what we’re doing here.”

The heat between them was overwhelming. Their bodies moved as if they were made to fit together, the sound of their skins slapping together amplifying the intensity of the moment. When he felt you begin to shake again, your body nearing another climax, he didn’t stop.

His movements became even more frantic, the force of his thrusts drawing gasps from you. His hand returned to your clit, rubbing it in quick, precise motions, bringing you to the edge as his own control began to crumble.

“Cum for me,” he murmured, his voice heavy with desire and authority. “I want to feel you break.”

And you did. With a heart-wrenching cry, your body arched, tightening around him as your orgasm ripped through you, leaving you shaking and breathless. The feeling of his body squeezing him pushed Matt over the edge, and with one last, hoarse moan, he let himself go, sinking into you once more as the pleasure consumed him completely.

As you both caught your breath, your bodies remained pressed together, hot, still shaking from the intensity of the moment. He didn’t pull away right away, letting you feel every rhythmic throb of his body still inside you. With slow movements, he slid his hands down to her hips, caressing her as if to calm the whirlwind you had just unleashed.

⛧°。 ⋆༺ ✮ ༻⋆。 °⛧

Tags... @sturniolofreakk @matthewsroses @purpledragon222 @sfoiasturn @sturniololover69 @angelic-sturniolos111 @slut4chris888 @mega-munchforchris @mattsbitchh @priscillaog @sweetshuga @sturniolo-fann @strnilolover @lolastrniolo

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly, and feel free to leave a request ✮

[sknyuz]

70√3? | j.w.w.

synopsis: you’re failing math and somehow got stuck being tutored after school with jeon wonwoo—the quiet, sharp, charming, but not overbearing, top student—as your tutor. you thought numbers were your enemy. turns out it’s something else entirely... like his sleeves. or that one smile. or maybe the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

pairing: jeon wonwoo x reader

genre: highschool au, fluff, academic rivals (but it's y/n vs math), a little open-ended and very soft !!

wc: ~750

a/n: i definitely don't miss wonwoo hence me writing this i swearrrrr hahahahhahahahaha (my husband is in the military) the title is also just me playing with a calculator in third grade. the writer's block is crazy.

“how are you hanging in there?” wonwoo asks, his voice low and even, like he wasn’t judging you at all for being on the same equation for the past seventeen minutes.

you groan, slumping your head against the library table. “i swear i paid attention in class. but the moment letters start mixing with numbers, my brain just... exits the room.”

he lets out a quiet chuckle, “your brain needs to chill.” poking the top of your head with the blunt tip of his pencil lightly.

you raise your head just enough to glare at him from under your lashes. “you need to chill. i’ve never seen anyone highlight so neatly.”

wonwoo shrugs, the corners of his lips twitching. “if you did the math, you'd figure out it comes with being class rank one.” he tuts, raising his index finger to form the number '1'.

“show-off.”

“i’m literally staying after classes to help you pass.” he drones.

you purse your lips, but the smile slips through anyway. truthfully, you didn’t mind the tutoring sessions. wonwoo was easy to be around. calm. quiet. had a weird habit of fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves when he explained things, and sometimes his voice would drop so low you’d have to lean closer to hear.

which maybe wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

“okay,” he says, tapping his pen gently against your notebook, “let’s try this again. pretend x is your crush—what would you do to isolate him?”

you blink at him, deadpan. “wonwoo.”

“what? make math personal.” he shrugs, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. of course.

“are you seriously making this a metaphor about my love life?”

he smirks, not looking up from the problem he’s scribbling out, adjusting his glasses on the tip of his nose bridge. “do you have one?” the reflection of his glasses glint.

you shove him lightly, but your face feels warm. you shrug off your flustered state, focusing back on your paper.

aaaaand maybe hisvoicethatguidesyouthroughit.

the library’s nearly empty now, just the two of you and the sound of pages turning and pens scratching paper. the sun’s already dipped low, casting golden shadows through the tall windows. you glance at your watch. 5:47PM. you should probably pack up.

“hey,” he says suddenly, voice softer now, “you got this one and this one right.” pointing to two different problems on the sheet of paper.

you blink. “really?” completely unaware of how you managed to finish off all the problems provided by your math professor within an hour. maybe three without wonwoo, but a win's a win.

wonwoo nods, then looks at you—really looks at you this time. “yeah. you just needed someone patient.”

you hold his gaze, surprised by how serious he sounds. and for a second, something shifts. just a little.

a silence stretches between you, but not an uncomfortable one. the kind that hums with something unspoken. maybe you’re imagining it. maybe not.

he clears his throat and starts gathering his things. “same time next week?”

you nod. “yeah. same time.”

as you walk out of the library together, your arms barely brushing, you wonder if x is still something you're looking for in your life—or if x wears glasses and a blue blazer.

a/n: hopefully the ending line is not too cringey, i hate math and im a cs major 😓☝️ the hot babes in stem that get it, get it !!

[daddyslittlecrow]

House Hunting with the LADS Boys 🏡💖

TYSM @beelsdessert for the request ❤️ first time making myself write in snippets cuz I needed a break from the heavy stuff 😮‍💨

First time writing about Rafayel & Xavier so sorry if it’s not up to par I’m just not as disgustingly obsessed with them x

Featuring: All of them ❤️

Pics from Pinterest!!

Rafayel

Non-negotiables: Near the sea (duh) and a room big enough for him to paint in, preferably with a window looking out at the crashing waves.

Rafayel hadn’t been impressed with the homes you viewed so far. There was always something that turned him off, voicing his concerns dramatically as soon as you were out of the realtor’s earshot.

“Did you see the size of that bath? Cutie don’t lie, even you’d find it uncomfortable sitting in it for more than 10 minutes.”

“Maybe it’s time you took shorter baths then?” You teased.

“Maybe you should start taking one.” He sulked.

He learned his lesson when you gave him the silent treatment for the rest of the journey back to your apartment.

You didn’t have much faith for this viewing as you stepped out of the car. The salty air of the sea filled your nose. The beach was just a 2 minute walk away.

During the tour, you tried your best not to fall in love with the house. Exposed wooden beams, weathered wood panelling the walls. So bright and airy with a rustic charm.

The sitting room had large glass doors that opened onto a stunning sandy beach. There was an even a loft, perfect for Rafayel to paint to his heart’s content.

You could sense he was anxious to see the master bathroom.

“The previous owners recently remodelled the bathroom. I think they went a bit over the top with the ocean theme…” The realtor looked at you both apologetically before ushering you inside.

Both your jaws dropped.

The walls were adorned with sea glass, strategically placed to replicate a school of various fish. It was gorgeous.

In place of sea glass on the far opposite wall was a floor to ceiling window, opening out to the glimmering sea. Almost kissing the bottom of the window was a faucet.

You both walked up together and almost squealed (more so him) as you saw the three steps leading down into the bath. It was huge, almost big enough to swim in.

You both spent the entire night in it the day you moved in.

Xavier

Non-negotiables: Doesn’t really care, as long as there’s a bed or sofa in the house for him to sleep, he’s happy.

Xavier never thought about having a “dream home” before. He’d literally live a shoe box so long as you were with him.

You have a really good feeling about this one as he turns the wheel and drives through the gates. You didn’t mind taking charge of organising the viewings - actually enjoying scrolling through listings, imagining your lives in every image you swiped through.

He’ll nod his head, lost in his own world as you both followed the realtor into the 4th house you were looking at. You were listening intensively, making sure the facts you’d written down matched what the realtor was saying.

Your eyes scanned each room, looking for signs of hidden problems. Bubbling wallpaper, discoloured ceilings. The last house had been perfect until you spotted a cockroach running from under the fridge, eager to welcome you into his home.

Everything about it was perfect. The rooms were big but it still felt cozy. 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms. Perfect amount of space. You’d probably use the 2nd bedroom as a shared office. The kitchen was your favourite though, already visualising the two of you covered in flour while you tried (and failed) to teach Xavier your best pie recipe.

The second you both walked into the final room of the house, the conservatory, Xavier knew this was your home.

He gasped as he looked up, huge windows exposing the sky. You couldn’t help but smile at his reaction. As soon as you saw the image on the listing, you knew he’d love it.

“This would be amazing at night. Gazing at the stars. The moon.” He imagined you both, sprawled out on the couch, pointing out the constellations as you snuggled into him. Every night could end like that.

He immediately started the conversation to buy, wanting to move in a quickly as possible.

Caleb

Non-negotiables: If you won’t let him rebuild your grandma’s house then he at least wants a garden big enough for your future kids to play in. And maybe a dog (but he’ll bring that up when you’re settled in).

You’re not as interested in this as him. Of course you were excited about finally sharing a home and there had been a really cool looking sitting room in….house #2 maybe? Or was it #6? You couldn’t keep track.

You just knew you were sick of both your apartments.

Gravel crunched as Caleb drove you down a winding driveway. The house came into view and you bit back your signature line. It was too big.

“Aw c’mon pipsqueak. Every house is gonna seem too big when you’ve been cramped up in that box you call an apartment.” You couldn’t say no when he pouted, a look that always made you resign. Dumb pheromones.

So you just let him take you by the hand as he practically raced into each home, hoping this would be the perfect one. But when the realtors finally showed you the garden, Caleb just couldn’t see the vision he held in his heart.

It made your heart clench to watch him shake his head in quiet disappointment. You knew he was trying to imagine your kids running around and messing about. Just like you both did all those years ago.

“Caleb honey, we’re not even at the baby stage yet. We’ve loads of time to decide. How about I look for something smaller? Don’t look at me like that! It would be temporary!”

You were surprised at how much you liked the house you were currently viewing. 3 beds, 3 baths AND a hidden toilet under the stairs. There was even an authentic fireplace nestled in the wall of the living room.

Caleb secretly watched as your smile grew, his heart filled with adoration for you. He was happy he had finally found somewhere you liked.

But just like every other time, he waited for the garden. You looked at him, studying his reaction as you stepped outside. He tried his best to hide the disappointment but you knew.

The sun was starting to set, casting a rosy glow onto the manicured lawn.

It was definitely big enough. At least a full acre, dotted with various trees. Towering oaks. A couple of birches. You spotted the familiar red spheres. Apple trees too.

One of the larger trees had a swing tied to a thick overhanging branch. It looked exactly like the one Caleb made for you when you were small. Before you knew it you were sprinting, halfway to the tree before you heard his footsteps behind you.

When you reached the swing you pushed on it, testing its strength. Once you were satisfied it wouldn’t snap and kill you, you hopped on. You looked at him expectantly.

Caleb let out a chuckle as he moved to stand behind you. “Hold on then.” He murmured before he pushed against the seat of the swing.

You couldn’t help but giggle in delight as you flew higher and higher, closing your eyes at the sensation of weightlessness. The sound instantly took him back. Back when it was just you and him and Grandma.

When his only worry was forgotten homework or you finding out he’d accidentally broken your doll when he stepped on it. It really fucking hurt and it was your fault for leaving it so carelessly in the hall. So when he saw your eyes swell with tears at the plastic casualty, he built you a swing to make it up to you. He would never stop finding ways to make you happy.

He grabbed the ropes of the swing until you stopped swaying. Eyes filled with endless warm and excitement as he gazed down at you. “I think we found our forever home Pips.” He kissed you tenderly.

You pushed him away and bolted back to the house, already breathless from a fit of laughter. “Last one back has to clean all those toilets for a year!”

He shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. Then he chased after you.

Zayne

Non-negotiables: Privacy. That’s all he needs.

You two had discussed the idea of buying a home together a few weeks ago. When you it crossed your mind, you made a mental note to sit down with him and start looking. So did he. The recent outbreak of Wanderer attacks made you both exhausted by the time you clocked out. Tomorrow came and went, catching only glimpses of each other.

When work finally started to quieten down, the two of you were so decided to take a day trip outside of the city. Away from all distractions. You brought a picnic to the secret lake you discovered on a hike last summer. It was the reprieve you both needed.

By the time you were driving home, your eyelids felt heavy. Zayne’s hand was clasped in yours as he drove. You were staring out the passenger window, hypnotised by the passing countryside. You gasped when you saw the house. Then the for sale sign.

“Turn around!” You almost shouted, now fully alert. Zayne reacted immediately, slamming the breaks as he steered off the road. Thank god this road was so quiet. He cursed under his breath. His knuckles where white from gripping the steering wheel so tight.

“You’ll be the death of me, Y/N.”

“I know. Sorry. I’ll buy you some ice cream when we get back to yours. But I saw something.”

“Make it that chocolate hazelnut one and I’ll consider your debt paid.” He turned the car around and drove slowly, stopping when you pointed to the sign you saw earlier.

You called the number on the sign. The seller answered. Just your luck, they were just about to leave after a viewing no-showed.

The entrance to the house was located down a short road. You almost tripped getting out of the car.

A path fenced on either side with wild flowers guided you to the most gorgeous cottage you’d ever seen. Ivy crawled up the stone, making it appear even more enchanting.

Zayne watched as the seller emerged from the house to greet you. He admired the pale pink blossoms that shrouded over the small porch as you were both beckoned inside. Bougainvillea perhaps? He liked it.

Inside the cottage was just as charming. The sweet scent of cinnamon wafted into his nose. He followed you into the kitchen, where the seller offered a plate of homemade cookies.

“I made them for the viewing. Thought I’d have to eat them all myself.” She laughed, the wrinkles around her kind eyes deepening. You both took one as she showed you around the home. It was her mother’s before she passed.

It was clearly well loved. Despite being occupied for almost 50 years, it was immaculate. 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms. The perfect size for the two of you.

You always wanted a home with character and this cottage was full of it. Exposed wooden beams on the ceiling. Wood burning stove in the kitchen. It even had leadlight windows. It was perfect.

Zayne was more interested in the noise he could hear. Pure silence actually. It was a relief not to be surrounded by the bustling city. When he’d get home from the noise of the hospital, it was like he never left. It was claustrophobic at times. He felt at peace in this home.

The garden bloomed from the touch of its previous owner. She was obviously into gardening. A quaint glasshouse stood next to the cottage. His heart quickened at idea of tending to things until they were ready to bring inside. To you.

When the tour was over, the seller continued packing up, allowing you both space to discuss your thoughts. You bit your lip as you looked at him.

“What do you think? Or if it’s too far from the hospital we can-“

“I love it.”

“Really? Are you sure?” You stroked his arm lovingly, trying to fight a smile before you were positive he was onboard. That didn’t stop your mind flooding with thoughts of you both settled in. Coming home to each other.

Zayne planted a soft kiss on the top of your head. It was the easiest decision he’d made in his life.

“If you can get her to throw in that cookie recipe, I’ll buy it for us today.”

Sylus

Non-negotiables: Whatever you want. He’s had enough of all his extravagant houses. They were too empty. He never truly felt at home unless he was with you.

That being said of course he had some standards.

“Sweetie, it's nice but it's too…plain. You deserve something better.” You pouted at his words, snatching your phone back. At first, you tried to tell him that his current house was more than good enough for you.

But Mephisto had caught you later that evening, looking at inspo pics on Pinterest.

Lots of light, tall ceilings, airy. A patio with a fire pit to enjoy summer evenings with him or your guests. The complete opposite of his current grand cave. He didn't realise his recluse nature had inspired most of his design choices.

Sylus used this knowledge to guide him as he booked viewing after viewing. He wanted you to fall head over heels as soon as the house came into view. He knew you'd have envisioned your dream home and he if he had to build it himself, he'd plop a hard hat on his head.

It was fun for a while. You’d be impressed with certain aspects of the homes you viewed. All or nothing though - that was Sylus’ reasoning. You mistook it for him being picky. Used to getting what he wants.

You got to the point you were almost ready to strangle him everytime he cut off the realtor. “We’ve seen enough, thank you.”

“What was it this time?” You huffed after him, barely keeping up with his long stride. “Door frames too rectangular?”

He stopped so suddenly your face collided with the hard muscles of his back. He tried his best to stifle his laughter as you rubbed your nose. “A warning would be nice.” He ignored your quip.

“My contacts did another sweep of the house. The seller was looking for quotes from exterminators. Termites. Wouldn't want my kitten squashed when the house collapsed, hm?”

He hadn't looked at his phone once, how did he- Forget it, it's not like you'd win that battle anyway.

You let him pull you away from another perfectly good house. You and the twins had a secret bet to see how many viewings it would take for Sylus to finally say yes. You said 30, thinking it was a ridiculously high number. The Twins went higher.

It was looking like you'd be down $10 soon.

It had been a long couple of months and wondered if you'd ever find your forever home.

You sighed when you saw him waiting outside the Hunter’s Association for you. It had been a long day and all you wanted was to relax.

The glint in his ruby eyes told you you'd have to wait a while longer before you could cuddle up on the sofa for the night.

20 minutes later he pulled the driveway. You had dozed off, your body jerking as his breath tickled your ear, announcing your arrival.

Your body felt heavily as you forced yourself out of the warm embrace of the car. It was getting dark, the sun almost fully hidden by the horizon.

Sylus had a really good feeling about this one. All checks came out clean. Nice private location. All the features you liked and more. He frowned when you didn't say anything as you crossed the threshold.

You were afraid to admit to yourself how much you loved it, expecting after a few rooms, he’d be bringing you home. It really was beautiful though.

For the first time, you got lost in the thought of your future with him. Imagining the both of you sitting in the living room, watching your favourite movies. Or teasing him for accidentally dripping someone else’s blood on the carpet when he came home from “work”.

In the bathroom, you could see the both of you brushing your teeth, you elbowing him as he took up most of the mirror.

In the kitchen, it was slowdances to the rhythm of his favourite records.

Pushing aside the impure thoughts when you first walked into the master bedroom, you could see him sitting on the edge of the bed, helping you choose what to wear for one of his auctions. Zipping up your dress as you caught his eyes in the mirror, murmuring how beautiful you looked.

The hum of Sylus’ phone tore you from your daydreams. He quickly glanced at his screen, then at you. They softened with a silent apology. “I’ll be as quick as I can.“ You smiled at him reassuringly. You knew he’d never answer unless it was urgent.

You followed the realtor by yourself. He showed you more bedrooms, bathrooms, a study.

The realtor turned to you before opening the the door to the last room upstairs. “This room is a bit all over the place compared the rest of the house. We still have to get rid of some furniture the sellers left. You’re partner said you both liked to read? Just imagine it with built-in book shelves. It already has a window seat!”

You followed her inside. Despite the some cloth covered chairs and a few boxes, you smiled as you walked to the window. It over looked the garden and if you squinted, you could just make out the black peaks of the mountains.

Sylus soon found you, snaking his arms around your waist, kissing your temple. “I should've waited to bring you here. You look exhausted. I couldn't tell if you were looking at the house or attempting to sleep with your eyes clothes.” You must've daydreamed pretty hard.

You let him guide you out of the room, a little disappointed that he hadn't asked what you thought or expressed his feelings about it. You were about to ask him about it when you tripped on one of the sheet coverings. Strong hands caught you before your face hit the floor.

The joke forming on your tongue immediately vanished when you saw what was under the sheet. Sylus froze as he watched you.

A wooden crib, paint chipped with age. Nothing was really special about it. But your mind suddenly flooded with the part of your future you had never really thought about before.

Tiny feet. Tufts of silver hair. Midnight feedings. Bedtime stories. Bathtub splashes.

A mini you or him? Both?

Sylus remained silent, observing the emotions that played on your face. Didn't have to ask what was going on in your mind. He knew. It was the same visions he had had the day you told him you loved him.

“I really like this one, Sy.” A whispered confession. You looked back at him, eyes blazing with the intensity of his love for you.

“Then it's ours, kitten.”

———

Now that this is finished I have no idea why I wrote it in bullet points. I think I thought it would make me spend less time on it…

Oh well!

- Elle🫡

[munsonify]

sunsets and silence

pairing . bob reynolds x reader

summary . you decide to join bob in admiring the sunset one night

content warnings . so much fluff, a quick mention of combat fighting and death (no detail, literally one sentence), like two sentences of dialogue, no established romantic relationship, mutual pining, hand holding

word count . 958

a/n . writing for bob again cause i need this idea out of my mind its consuming me. also not proofread my bad bro

requests are open!

———

an arrangement of pinks and oranges casted against pale blue, painting the new york skyline in a way bob still hasn’t quite gotten over. even past the greyish pollution, the colors of the sky were alluring. new york sunsets weren’t quite the same as the ones in florida - gorgeous and sharp as they reflect off of the rippled ocean shores - though the ones he’s admired since living here are strong competitors. he could stare at the colors for hours. orange is his favorite color.

the book bob had been reading merely 20 minutes ago was forgotten in his lap, bookmarked and closed the moment the natural light began to dim to daze out the large windows in front of him. he didn’t bother to turn the small lamp on beside him just yet. he still had a while until the sun fully set.

he was so content and immersed in such a simple activity he almost didn’t notice someone had joined him. still, bobs heart nearly jolted out of his chest when he realized the persons presence, peering over his shoulder quickly to see who it was. there was a downside to living with people who fight and kill and defend for a living. they were quiet, even if they didn’t mean to.

that especially applies to you. trained in stealth and combat, walking undetected was like second nature to you. unless you were intentionally sneaking around, you never quite realized just how silent you roamed around. no matter how many times you’ve accidentally scared the living daylights out of bob, it still sometimes startled the man.

the soft smile you give him makes up for the way his heartbeat was racing. you were always so kind to bob. sometimes it was simple gestures like including him in conversations with the team, other times it was giving him advice he accepted with open arms. you never pry anything out of the man, either. you always listened patiently when he had something to say, and you never made a big deal out of any of it. that’s why he liked opening up to you, there was no pressure on him.

“it’s pretty tonight,” you spoke softly, eyes drifting from the man to the slowly fading sunset in front of you. he let his gaze follow yours out to it, the sides of his lips quirking up into a small smile.

“isn’t it?” bob agreed, eyes shimmering as he scans the tops of the buildings. the sky was a slightly darker blue now, stars perching upon the pastels that were slowly inching their way down the horizon.

you slipped your way around the loveseat he was sat on, gently settling down in the empty space beside him. bob let himself do the same, his once stiff shoulders slouching as he leaned up against the comfortable cushions. he was quick to offer up the other end of his blanket, a small act that made the tips of your ears burn hotly. the heat of your skin only grew when you accepted the blanket, sliding over just enough for your arms to graze each other, thighs placed side by side. his touch always set your skin ablaze, no matter how little.

bob smelled nice. a soft woodsy vanilla scent always seemed to radiate off of him, mixing with something that was uniquely him. it was comforting to you, welcoming you in with open arms. so was his presence. during nights like these, calm and peaceful and quiet, you loved spending time with him. there was no expectation to speak. you could just sit and enjoy his company.

you hadn’t quite realized you’d zoned out until you felt bobs knuckles gently grazing against the back of your hand. it didn’t startle you, only stealing your attention away from your thoughts for a moment. his hand’s a little shaky, whether from nervousness or the brisk air in the tower you weren’t sure. either way, it shook a little as his fingers found their way to yours, entangling together in a gentle hold. this was new.

your skin tingled, goosebumps sprouting on your arm at the feeling of his hand in yours. heat spread through the rest of your ears and down your neck, breath hitching in a way bob might’ve been able to hear. you recoiled to yourself, expecting him to pull away, only to relax back down again when he stayed right where he was.

bob was just as flustered, you were just too caught up in your own little world to catch it. his heart was hammering inside of his chest again, his cheeks a rosy pink you usually loved to admire. it took the man a week to work himself up to such a small act of affection. he wrestled with himself in his mind for a while. now, even with how nervous he was, bob realized it was a little silly to contemplate as much as he had. you never pulled away from him or his touch.

content, bob let himself relax next to you completely, a shaky breath exhaling from his mouth, steadying to a normal pattern for the first time since you had joined him. he let himself enjoy your company the same way you were enjoying his.

one of these days, he’d finally get the confidence to tell you just how much more beautiful you were than the sunsets he loved to watch.

[evansbuckle]

Mechanic!Singledad!Bucky Barnes AU

part three is here because someone (me) couldn't stop themselves. Enjoy! Likes & reblogs are always appreciated!!! Also if a taglist is something anyone would be interested in, PLEASE let me know.

Word count: 2000

Warnings: Use of y/n, reader has she/her pronouns. Swearing, suggestive content. Bucky again being flirty.

masterlist part one part two part four part five part six

Grease, part three.

To say I was nervous about this date was understatement. The thought of spending the evening one-on-one with Bucky made me giddy. And a little nauseous. I’d spent the whole day at work, bouncing off the walls and now when it came to it, i stood in front of my mirror for the last ten minutes not moving. Three outfit changes in, i’d settled for a simple dress that fell mid-shin, some sweet mary-janes, and frilly socks to match. I was in the middle of messing with my hair when my phone went off.

Outside. - Bucky

I took one last look, grabbed my purse and left. I took my time walking down the stairs, taking deep breaths and re-applying lipgloss before I got outside. I paused a little before leaving the building, looking at Bucky through the glass doors. He was leaning against the passenger side door, waiting. He'd let some stubble grow, not too long, just enough to look more appetising than he usually did. He hadn’t forgone his boots, but his jeans were a nicer pair, and his shirt was ironed. And hugging his biceps just right while not cutting off his circulation. The corners of his mouth lift up into a smile when I push the doors open, making my way over to him. 

“Y’look beautiful y/n.” He takes my hand and twirls me around once, eyes moving up my figure as I spin. I chuckle, thanking him. 

“Not too bad yourself, Buck. Didn’t know you had shirts that weren’t covered in grease.” He smiles at that, opening the car door and helping me in.

The drive wasn’t too long, and it was spent mostly in a comfortable silence. We pull up to a restaurant, the outside of it catching my breath for a minute. White brick, with three sets of glass windows casting arch-shaped golden glows on the street from the lamps inside. The door was frosted glass, and the roof had wisteria growing on it, slowly creeping along the white walls.

“Bucky, this-” I turn to him, to find him already looking at me, “it’s beautiful.” He takes my hand in his, not giving me a chance to warn him they’re clammy, and leads me in. We sit in a quiet corner, the place massive yet feeling oddly intimate. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, each minding their own business, respectful. 

“You know I would’ve been okay with pizza and a movie?”

“Yeah sugar I know, but I wanted to put some effort in, at least for our first date. Next time we can do lazy.” His foot softly knocks against mine and he smiles at me. I look into his eyes, eyes that were still ocean waves on a wintery morning, and try to fight off the blush creeping up my neck at the possibility of a second date.

He doesn’t let me see a single price tag, orders for me, and waits for my food to arrive before he starts eating his. He doesn’t bat an eyelid at any of his actions, clearly normal date etiquette for him. 

“I know we haven’t been here long, but I can’t remember the last date I had that went this well. So, thanks for this.”

“We literally just finished eating, what are you talking about?”

“Made it further than my last three dates.” I shrug.

“Damn, sugar, how bad have you had it?”

“The last guy got a call from his ex ten minutes in and left.” Bucky lets out a low whistle, shaking his head, his eyebrows furrowed as he leans back in his chair.

“Boys, sweetheart,” he smirks at my reaction. “You were messin’ with boys. Time for a man don’t ya think?”

“Maybe. You the man for me, Barnes?”

He leans forward, elbows on the table.  “Are you gonna let me be, hm?” his eyes don’t leave mine, except to briefly gaze at my lips before he adds, “Are you gonna let me show you what you’ve been missin’, sugar?” 

All my body can do is nod, and feel stupid as I do it, head empty as the waiter brings us our bill. I reach for my bag.

“You better just be gettin’ lipgloss out, plum.” Bucky grumbles, not looking up at me.

I lift up my purse in return, unzipping it. He kicks me under the table.

“Put it away.”

“At least fifty-fifty.” He looked at me like i’d grown another head, and then gone on to murder his family.

“What the hell are you talking about? This is a date.”

“It’s normal, Bucky. Modern.”

“Stupidest concept i’ve ever fuckin’ heard of. Put that away,” he nods at my purse. “Halves on a date. What have those stupid boys put you through?” He mutters under his breath before helping me out of my chair. He takes my hand back into his, and my heart can’t help but pound against my chest so loud I’m certain he can hear it.

“Wanna get ice-cream?” he offers, nodding to an ice-cream parlour up the street. I don’t give him time to respond before I drag him over, entranced by the flashing neon sign. He laughs behind me, but doesn't slow me down.

We take our time standing in front of the counter, going back and forth about flavours. “All I’m saying Buck, is rum and raisin is an old-man ice-cream and that’s fine if that’s what you’re into.”

“I am an old man, plum. Besides, it’s not like mint choc chip screams young and youthful is it?”

“More youthful than an ice cream that has raisins in it.” I scrunch my face, making him laugh. 

We sit in one of the worn-out booths, knees knocking under the table. I lose track of my thoughts as i stare down at the paper-cup on the table in front. A gentle nudge to my leg takes me out of it.

“Where’d you go?”

“Just thinking.” He raises his eyebrows, urging me to go on. “Did you go on many dates after Becky’s mum?”

He puts his orange spoon down. “No. Maybe two, or three. I would just sit there and know I couldn’t introduce Becky to them, so I gave up.” He starts picking at his ice-cream again.

“It’s different with you. None of that worry, she likes you already. She keeps asking if you and Cheryl can stay forever.”

“She does?”

He nods, crinkles by his eyes forming when he smiles. “When I told her I’m takin’ you on a date she got real serious.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. Made me promise to make you laugh.”

I laugh at the thought of Becky standing there, all four foot of her, hands on hips, giving Bucky dating tips. “Well, you can tell her you kept your promise. You’ve been great, Bucky. Funny, sweet, shameless flirt, all of it.” Redness creeps up on his cheeks as he stacks our now empty cups, pushing them to one side. 

“Can’t help myself. Pretty girl sat opposite me makes me say stupid things.”

“I’m not complaining. Pretty girl opposite you loves to hear stupid things.”

His hand reaches over to mine, rough thumb stroking gently over my knuckles. “Soft.” He whispers. I look at his face, while he looks down at our hands. He was somewhat wrinkled, the lines across his skin showing age, but it was endearing. One look and you knew he’d lived a full life; full of love, pain, growth. I let my mind wander off for a moment. I wondered how he looks when he’s just waking up, with sun streaming through curtains, hair tousled and voice raspy. How he looks when he’s angry, when his eyes hold storms and his fists clenched so hard his knuckles threaten to pop. How he looks when he’s fuelled by desire, when he’s on his knees, and when he’s gasping for more.

“Ya didn’t hear a thing I just said did you, plum?”

“Sorry, I uhm, no.”

“I said, I should take you home, we both have early shifts tomorrow.”

I can’t help the pout that takes over my face.

“Your engine gets here tomorrow evening. So in a couple days you can come by. How’s that sound?”

“Like I have to wait too long.”

He chuckles, standing up out of the booth, holding his hands out to me. “I’ll stop by on my lunch tomorrow, sugar. You can pour me coffee and I can shamelessly check you out while you work, how’s that?”

“Better.”

We walk back to his car and he drives me home. He pulls up outside my building and we both look toward the door. 

“Can I walk you in? I’d feel better knowing I've walked you to your door. Can hear it lock.”

“You’re so old-fashioned.” I giggle, but I let him do it anyway. We walk up hand-in-hand, arms bumping as we walk and talk, eyes either on the floor or looking ahead. We stop at my door, and I unlock it.

“I’ve had a real good time Bucky, I don’t know if i could thank you enough.”

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get sweeter.” His hand reaches up to my jaw, tilting my head up at him. His eyes drop to my lips, tongue darting out to wet his own.

“Are you gonna kiss me now?” I whisper, making him look at me again.

“Depends sugar, you gonna let me?” He leans in closer, the gap between us almost non-existent. I can feel the heat radiating off him, can feel every inhale, and i swear i can almost hear his brain working as I nod at him.

He wastes no time in ridding us of the space. His lips softly slot onto mine, and I can’t help the soft gasp that escapes me at the contact. My hands clutch onto his shirt, balling it up in my fists as I kiss him back. It’s soft, and sweet, and I can’t help myself from swiping my tongue over his bottom lip. He groans then, his other hand coming to rest on my back as he pulls my hips closer to his. It’s almost obscene then, when he lets my tongue into his mouth, letting me explore like i’m a damn cave diver. His tongue tangles with mine, fighting back for control. I don't put up much of a fight, letting him lick into my mouth. My hands reach up, raking my nails through the hair at the nape of his neck. He groans, deep and low, into the kiss, the hand that was on my back reaching down to lift and wrap my thigh around his waist, making me feel his entire body. I lean back, letting him trap me against the door.

“You keep going sugar, and i’m not gonna be able to leave.”

“I think that’s the point.”

He shakes his head, placing a soft kiss along my jaw, “Believe me, it’s killin’ me to walk away, but not on the first date.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothin’. Just not my style, sugar. Besides, the anticipation’s fun isn’t it?” Another kiss, lower on my neck, followed by a soft nip, “Think how much more satisfying it’ll feel if you wait. Just a little longer.”

“How long?”

He smirks at me, his hand coming back to cup my jaw, placing a kiss on the corner of my mouth. “Just a little, promise.” He kisses me again, ending it way too abruptly.

“Goodnight, y/n.”

“Night, Buck.” I walk into the apartment, shutting the door and leaning against it.

“Lock the door, plum.”

I twist the lock, and do the latch, listening out for his retreating footsteps, trying to catch my breath. This man may very well be my undoing.

[awesumsaus]

pretty when I cry

wc: 6k

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: what was meant to be a slow relaxing morning after a night out with joel turns into something much more.

a/n: so I’ve been trying to work out the rest of my tlou series but couldn’t get this idea out of my head. it’s entirely self-indulgent, absolute filth, literally inspired by porn (but with feelings). pls skip if you’re not comfortable with anything outlined in the warnings/tags, otherwise hope y’all enjoy :] (and if anyone has any interest in a part two lmk bc I may or may not have some ideas lolol)

warnings/tags: explicit 18+ (minors dni), no outbreak au, softdom!joel, smut with a hint of plot, established relationship, age gap, reader is described as small/little but also curvy, hints of possessive!joel, daddy kink, almost dd/lg dynamics, subspace, oral (f receiving), slight somnophilia (very consensual), size kink, dirty talk, so many petnames (baby, honey, pretty girl, little girl), painful sex but Joel is a consent king, aftercare, fingering, *cough* butt stuff *cough*, unprotected pinv, squirting, barely proofread sorry

It wasn’t uncommon, for you to wake up like this, Joel’s head of salt and pepper curls dipped below the covers, his mouth eagerly pulling an orgasm from your pliant body. So it comes as no surprise when you’re roused awake by the sound of your own whines and whimpers, slipping through your lips like soft little pleas. Your tired eyes shift to the top of his head, the sheets bunched at his wide shoulders, leaving you bare and exposed to the cool morning breeze blowing through the open bedroom window. 

He works in slow languid movements, yet he has you gushing around his tongue nonetheless, his mouth warm and wet against your dripping sex, still soft and swollen from the previous night’s activities. You’d fallen asleep, damp and sticky, only after he’d pounded you into his mattress until the early hours of the morning. 

Upon waking, the feeling of his cum still dripping out of you, legs wrapped around one of his dense thighs, it drove him positively insane. It didn’t matter how peacefully asleep you were, how steadily you drew breaths between your plush lips, he had to have you the moment his eyes set on you.  

He senses you’re awake when your fingers delicately twist through the curls at the crown of his head. He hums contentedly against you, the vibrations making your eyes fall closed once more as wanting sounds slip past your lips. You’d never been one for religion, but seeing Joel for the past several months has you questioning everything. The way his mouth moves against your pulsing core leaves you with no choice but to believe in some higher power, some celestial being that deemed you lucky enough to allow a man like Joel into your life.

He pulls away from your messy cunt and you whine at the loss. Your glossed over eyes meeting his with pupils blown wide. “Mornin’ pretty girl,” he says, his voice gruff and his lips shining with your slick. The sight sends another wave of warmth straight to your core. 

“Hi,” you say, tone gentle and weary with sleep. A timid smile spreads across your lips as you run a hand through his scruff. No matter how many times you wake up next to him, how many times he fucks you senseless, you always manage to grow shy under his salacious stare. 

He plants a fleeting kiss to your clit and you shudder, you can feel him smirk even as your gaze shifts to the ceiling above you. Your hand unknowingly grips his hair tighter and urges him towards where you need him most, not even noticing your own action until you hear Joel let out an amused chuckle. 

“So needy for me, huh baby?” He runs a hand from your thigh over the curve of your hip, his touch featherlight over the certain spot by your hipbone that he knows drives you wild. His fingers end splayed across your lower belly, his thumb rubbing small circles into your skin. 

“Always need you, daddy,” you say, only slightly above a whisper, a small buck of your hips to get your point across. The petname has his already half hard cock twitching against the sheets, his other hand instinctively squeezes the flesh of your hip. 

With no warning, his lips are on you again, his pace now fast and increasingly sloppy. He eats at you like a man starved, his curved nose rubbing against your clit with each of his movements. The intensity of it all makes your head spin and your cunt clench around nothing. A ghosting pain lingers in your lower half, another reminder of the evening prior. 

The two of you had gone out, like you often did on Friday nights, deciding on a new spot downtown. Joel was hesitant at first, having heard it was more popular with the younger crowd, more catered to people your age. But he’d learned early in your relationship that saying no to you was nearly impossible, with your big doe eyes and sweet pleading smiles, he rarely had it in him to deny anything your little heart desired. 

But God, the little black dress you wore nearly had him throwing you over his shoulder and locking you away in his bedroom for only his eyes to ever behold. Joel would never admit to being the possessive type. He knew what other men saw in you, wide eyed and sweet, kind beyond reason, with a gorgeous smile and beautiful curves. He saw the way they’d look at you, saw the way their eyes followed your perfect form, like predators stalking their prey.

He would never admit to being the possessive type, but his incessant grip around your waist in every public space and the death glares he’d send any man that looked your way proved otherwise. And despite your attempts to dissuade his arrogance, there was a part of you that craved to be claimed, to be marked as his. 

The week had been long and draining. Your overbearing boss forced you to work overtime into the late hours of the evening nearly every night, and with Joel’s days often starting as early as 5am, he was usually sound asleep by the time you’d managed to feed yourself and drag your exhausted corpse to bed. 

To no fault of his own, Joel hadn’t paid much attention to you this week, leaving you feeling neglected and irritated despite his generally relentless attentiveness towards you. And so you decided to toy with him, always testing his limits and seeing how far you can go before he snaps. You wouldn’t admit it, but you kinda liked him a little angry. 

And boy was it easy to get a rise out of him, especially dressed the way you were, your ass only just covered and your tits spilling over the tight corset-like top of your dress. You had his blood boiling before the two of you even left his house. When you finally walked through the bar entrance, Joel was like a guard dog, his arm wrapped tightly around your lower waist, a permanent scowl imprinted on his face towards the many male bar goers that ogled you. He had you tucked so close to his body you were nearly tripping over his feet with each of your steps. 

After your first drink you were feeling antsy, and a bit too bold for you own good, and so you flirted with them, boys you had not a single shred of interest in, laughed at their jokes and accepted their offers to buy you drinks, all the while glancing back at Joel, biting your lip, trying not to giggle at his grimace and the way redness began spreading up his neck. You’d retreat back to your table, to Joel, prizes in hand, and feign innocence when he’d question what you were up to. 

“What do y’ think you’re doin’,” he questioned after you had slipped away to the bar a second time under the guise of needing to use the restroom. You padded up to him, slotting yourself between his thighs, twirling the straw in your drink between your fingers. Even sitting on the barstool he towered over you. 

“Nothin’, daddy.” You looked up at him through your lashes, knowing fully well what your words did to him. You brought the hand that wasn’t holding your drink to his upper thigh, you could feel the muscle tense as you slid your way up, up, up. 

“Watch it, little girl.“ He grabbed your wrist, hard. You instinctively tried to pull away, but his grip was firm. He jerked you towards him, your chests nearly touching before bringing your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly, a stark contrast to the death grip he still had on your wrist. 

His voice was low, a sign of warning. “F’ you want somethin’ from me, all you gotta do is ask, darlin’.” 

You huffed and pouted slightly when he released you, ignoring the fact that your actions resembled those of a petulant child. Despite knowing that he would give you anything you asked of him, having proved it to you countless times over the course of your relationship, the neglected feeling in your chest grew. You didn’t want to ask, sick of making decisions and telling others what to do after the week you’d had. You wanted him to take. 

It was after your third disappearance, this time to actually use the restroom, that Joel snapped. Passing by the bar, one of the young men that bought you a drink attempted to stop you in your tracks. You didn’t pay him much attention, just smiled and nodded at his words, quietly trying to slip by. But then his hands were on you, grabbing your waist in a way that made your stomach turn. You hadn’t even had time to register a response, to push him away and run back to Joel, before his hands were leaving your body and being replaced by much larger ones, rough and calloused. Joel’s hands. 

“We’re leaving, now,” he grunted, pulling you by the back of your arm towards the exit. It was only after he’d practically thrown you into the passenger’s seat of his truck that you knew you were in for it. 

You’d barely made it to the front door before he was ripping the fabric of your little black dress from your body, letting the torn pieces fall to the floor. Immediately you’d attempted to scold him, it was one of your favorites, but couldn’t get a word in before he was throwing your bare body over his shoulder and carrying you to his bedroom, promising he’d buy you as many dresses as you wanted if you’d shut up and let him have his way with you, let him fuck you stupid, until the only thoughts going through your head were Joel, Joel, Joel.

He spent the following hours relentlessly pulling orgasm after orgasm from your pliable body, impaling you on his thick cock until hot tears streamed down your cheeks. 

“I know, baby,” he said from his place behind you, your limp whimpering form draped across the edge of the bed. “Just needed to be reminded who you belong to, huh?” His voice was mocking, but with a certain sincerity that made your cunt clench even harder around him. 

“Yours, daddy,” was all you could manage before you came around his cock for what felt like the hundredth time that night. 

Needless to say you were feeling extra sensitive this morning, Joel was hyper aware of this fact, yet the feeling of his tongue repeatedly diving into your abused hole had you begging for more. “Need you inside,” you say despite the hurt. Joel holds back a groan at your pleas, needy little thing. He pulls away just slightly to meet your gaze, his breath still hot against your core. 

“Not gonna put my cock in you, honey.” The finality in his voice makes your heart drop and tears prick in the corners of your eyes. You were always like this in the mornings, he had come to notice, sensitive, soft, often emotionally even more so than physically. Joel had always been an assured man, never impulsive or reckless in his actions, always thoughtful and never selfish. But with you he’d learned patience. He’d learned to hold your emotions in the palm of his hand with a certain gentleness he never knew himself capable of. He’d learned you often needed more time than most to become placid, to settle, and so it became almost a sense of his, knowing when to take and when to give, even when you weren’t sure yourself.  

“Please-“ you whine, tears in your voice. His big brown eyes soften when they meet yours, his resolve slipping only momentarily while he moves to kiss the inside of each of your thighs. 

“Not gonna convince me, baby.” he tuts. “Can’t take me yet.” He moves higher, nuzzles into the soft skin above your clit. You let out a small gasp when he starts sucking harshly, surely leaving a bruise, a mark that only he will ever see. 

“I can. I promise.” You wriggle in his hold, feel your wetness drip onto the sheets. He nips the spot and pulls away. 

“Quit.” He pins your hips harder, his eyes meeting yours once more. “Maybe if you hadn’t been such a goddamn tease last night I wouldn’t’ve had to wreck this perfect little pussy.” He runs a finger through your folds as he says it and you tense slightly. He raises an eyebrow at you, an I told you so look, you huff in frustration, yet you relax in his hold. 

“You ready to be good f’ me, baby?” His voice seeps through your ears like honey, your mind beginning to wander to that all too familiar headspace you often turned to in these moments. You nod your head, eyes hooded. Joel senses the shift. “You’re gonna take whatever daddy gives you yeah?”

“Yes,” you gasp as you feel just the tip of his index finger probe your dripping hole, Joel gauging your response. 

“N’ then what d’ you say?” He twists his finger inside you and pushes in just to his first knuckle, the stretch already intense given your increased sensitivity. 

“Thank you, daddy,” you sigh, not a single shred of fight left in you. A devilish smirk spreads across his face. 

“Good girl.”

His hands are on the backs of both your thighs, hiking your legs up so that they’re pressed firmly against your chest, your glistening folds on full display. You shiver as the cool morning air hits where you’re most vulnerable. He then pushes your knees apart, situating himself so that his mouth is only inches from your core while still holding you in place, your legs spread obscenely wide to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders. 

He spits directly on your clit and watches as it drips down your cunt, combining with the mess of wet already there. It’s entirely unnecessary, but it’s how Joel likes you, filthy with his cum and spit and your own slick. You tremble as he smooths his hand over your mound, his undivided attention on the mess he’s creating. When he’s satisfied, the pad of his thumb finds your clit, rubbing small circles into the bundle of nerves, making your hips buck once more.

He pauses his movements, his eyes dark and entirely void of any sense of leniency. “Not gonna tell you again.” A tear pools in your lower lashes at the loss of his touch, your breathing goes shaky. 

“So pretty when you cry f’ me, honey,” his tone mocking. “Almost as pretty as when you come for me.”

His mouth is back on you, even more ravening and unrelenting than before. You have to bite down on your pillow to prevent yourself from screaming when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking the sensitive bud into his warm mouth. Every cell in your body is screaming for his touch, needing more, more, more. You want to be enveloped by him by not just his mouth, but every part of him. You have the sudden desire to crawl under his skin, make a home for yourself there, where all you can ever feel is him, him, him. 

The peaceful sound of birds chirping outside the window is drowned out by your cries and the pornographic squelches of your wet sex. Your vision blurs as his tongue plunges in and out of you. 

“Taste so fucking good, baby,” he pulls away for only a second, his eyes not leaving your center as he anchors his thick arms under your ass and thighs, bringing your cunt impossibly closer to his eager mouth.  

Joel knows your body, knows what every twitch and minor shift means, how your breathing quickens when he’s brought you right to the edge, the sounds you make when you’ve completely given in, forfeited all control. And he senses it, when his thumb presses against the cleft of your ass, and a moan slips from deep within your throat, that he’s uncovered something, something that makes his cock twitch and drip onto the sheets below him. 

He pulls away quick, too quick, and your face burns, the fleeting sensation prompting a new surge of desire in the pit of your stomach. The feeling was foreign, a bit startling, but in a way that left you longing for more. If you were to trust anyone to delve into this part of yourself, this uncharted territory, it would be Joel. It would always be Joel. He knew how to take care of you better than any man you’d ever known. With him you were safe, you were heard, cherished and adored. With him there was no emotion too big or too small, no desire left unsated. 

“Joel-“ you breath. “Joel, baby. I want-“

He pulls away from you, a knowing look in his glassed over eyes. “What is it, honey? What d’ you want?”

He can’t help himself and licks a long strip from your asshole to your clit, moaning at the taste. “Fuck- Joel,” you cry out, a drop of sweat falling to your forehead. “Want- want your fingers.”

“Where d’ you want my fingers, baby.” He says it more like a command than a question, but you can’t respond, your head falling back as he starts lapping at your clit. “You want them in this sweet little cunt?” He prods one of his thick fingers at your opening, but quickly pulls away, leaving you clenching around nothing. 

You bite your lip, eyes hooded. “Mm,” you shake your head. His eyes are nearly black now, something unhinged, sinful behind his gaze. He knows what you want, the seed already planted in his insatiable brain, but he wasn’t going to give in to your pleads that easily. 

“Dirty girl.” His voice has dropped an octave. “Tell me what you want.”

“Please, daddy” you squirm, tears pooling at your waterline, threatening to fall at any second. His hardened grip on your hips softens for a moment before he’s turning his head and biting the inside of your thigh, hard. You gasp, a tear rolls down your cheek. “Use your words.”

“I wan- I-I don’t-,” you babble, the tears now flowing freely, leaving wet trails down your cheeks. He lets you choke on your words for a moment, not once tearing his eyes away from yours. 

“Oh honey, I know s’ hard,” he soothes, sliding his hand along the curve of your ass. Your tears slow. “S’okay. Daddy’s gonna give you what you need. No more cryin’.”

You sniffle, a small smile spreading across your face at his words. You always had a way of making him cave.

His expression goes serious for a moment. “What’s your safe word?” Red. “And you’ll use it if you want me to stop?” Mhm. “Repeat it.” His commanding tone sends a chill down your spine. “If I want you to stop, I’ll say red,” you say softly and run a hand through his curls, wet with a mixture of your sweat and his own. 

“Fuck, baby. Gonna make you feel so good,” he says more to himself than you. Your brain turns to absolute mush when his mouth meets your skin once again. 

Even with his head between your legs, even when he’s on his knees for you, he’s the one in charge, the one that dictates your every move. How your body twists and bends to his will. He decides when you get to cum, decides when you’ve earned it. And there’s a certain feeling that comes with it, this loss of autonomy, a sense of ease and security created by a total loss of control. No other man you’ve been with has understood, most of them only seeking to fulfill their own selfish wants. But Joel knows, having understood this unfamiliar part of you almost as soon as the two of you met, knowing exactly how to satiate that little corner of your brain that craves submission. 

You suck in a sharp breath when you feel his calloused thumb return to your tight hole, tensing a bit when he adds more pressure. 

“Relax, baby.” And you do, your muscles go lax almost immediately and the furrow in your brow softens. You exhale a moan as he begins kissing your cunt, avoiding your most sensitive areas so that he can keep you focused on the feeling of his thumb pushing into you. 

“Fu- fuck, Joel!” You basically shriek when the tip of his thumb breeches the ring of muscle, it’s already all consuming, already so full.

He retracts his thumb and you let out a choked sound before he brings his thick finger to your wetness, gathering slick on the pad of his thumb before resuming his unrushed stretching of your virgin hole. 

“More ngh- please.” He prods you painfully slow, assessing your every reaction as his knuckle plunges into you. 

“Uh-uh. Don’t care how nice n’ polite you ask, baby. Not gonna ruin this little hole.” He plants wet kisses along your seam. “Not yet,” he says almost inaudibly against your mound before devouring you once more. The promise of more makes something in your brain snap, all the shyness and trepidations from before gone in one fleeting moment. 

He stretches you slowly, the speed of his mouth quickening and his thumb beginning to slide more easily in and out of you. You’re entirely lost in the feeling, completely overwhelmed by the pressure and the speed of his tongue on your clit. You cry out when he removes his thumb, replacing it with his middle finger, and dipping his freed digit into your cunt, completely overcome, overstimulated in the best way. 

It’s too much, but not enough. But no, it’s too much. He’s everywhere, in your cunt, your ass, your head. All you can think is how anything in life could ever feel this good. How anyone can be this good, this knowing of your every want, every need. The thought makes tears pinch at the corner of your eyes. 

His gaze is fixed on you, every twitch, every shift. He nearly comes at the sight of you grinding down on his fingers. That’s it baby, fuck yourself on my fingers. His movements slow, your orgasm begins to fade and you whine. You’re not even thinking when you bring your delicate fingers to your clit and trace small circles against the bundle of nerves. Joel immediately grabs your hand and pins it to your lower stomach, nearly growling against your skin. Any other time he’d have you bent over his knee for not asking permission, but he’s so drunk on you, so dead-set on making you come apart, he lets this one slide. 

“Need t’ come so bad, huh baby?” You nod your head furiously, a few more tears slipping down your cheeks. “Go ‘head n’ ask for it then, baby. Nice n’ polite like I know you can.”

“Please daddy, please let me come.” You barely register the words falling from your mouth, but the proud look on Joel’s face tells you all you need to know.

It doesn’t take much to send you over the edge. He sucks harshly on your clit, pulling it into his mouth, while his thick fingers work each of your holes. His hand holding yours presses harder, harder, harder until the tension snaps and you’re screaming, sobbing out as you gush around him, soaking his scruff to the point that your slick drips from his chin and onto the already drenched sheets. He works you through it, curling his fingers into your cunt so that another warm stream of slick hits his tongue. And he takes, not letting a single drop go to waste as he laps at you. 

Your head is still buzzing when he finally ceases his movements, the shockwaves of your orgasm still flowing through you making your whole body shake. Your muscles convulse as he slowly pulls his fingers from your core. 

With blurred vision you watch him stand at the end of the bed, his cock painfully hard, red and leaking. You hadn’t even considered what all this was doing to him, so lost in your own pleasure from the moment your eyes opened. You have the sudden urge to fall to your knees and take him into your mouth until he comes deep down your throat, but your body is limp, sunk into the mattress below you. You merely watch with hooded eyes as he fists himself, his gaze fixed on your slicked core, the sight makes another pool of your arousal drip onto the sheets.

“Fuck-“ he sucks in a sharp breath, his hips stuttering against his own hold. “Need t’ be inside this tight cunt, baby.”

Your eyes go slightly wide at his confession, yet your lower half shakes with anticipation. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him like this, this wrecked, desperate, this needy. He looks almost pained when your eyes meet his, and you feel as though you may just implode if he’s not inside you a moment longer. 

“Will you let me, pretty girl?”

You nod. 

“Yes or no, baby?” He squeezes the base of his shaft, staving off his impending release. You can’t help but smile a little, knowing he could come just like this, just from looking at you in your current state. But the need to feel him inside of you pulls you from the thought. 

Yes, please, yes.

He grabs your hips and swiftly flips you, shoving a pillow under your lower belly and pushing down on you until you’re laid almost flat on your stomach. He grabs roughly at your hips, pulling you up so that his cock brushes up against your slick folds. 

You bite down on your forearm when his wide tip notches at your entrance, basically drooling onto your own skin as you attempt to hold back your cries. He eases into you, still overly conscious of your sensitivity, ignoring the small part of his brain telling him to ram into you, make you feel every inch of him in one swift motion. He knows that you would take it, thank him for it, always such a good girl for him especially once he’s finally inside you, yet he knows the kind of control he has over you in these moments, knows it’s up to him to determine what you can and can’t take. 

When he bottoms out you feel as though you may just split in two, something animalistic sounds from deep within Joel’s throat. Tears fall to your arm when your head lolls to the side, your breathing ragged and your whole body on fire from both pain and pleasure.

“Fuck- not gonna last, baby.” He starts moving in and out of you slowly, and god, it hurts, yet your tight cunt sucks him back in with each of his thrusts, a delicious burning sensation spreading along your slick walls. You open your mouth to respond, to tell him not to worry himself, to beg him to come inside your aching cunt. But all that escapes your lips is a choked sob in the sound of Joel’s name. 

“Shh I know,” he coos. “You’re just so little, huh sweet thing? Little fucking cunt squeezing me so good honey.”

You keen at his praise, gushing around his massive girth. You’d never get used to it, the thickness of his cock, the weight of him deep inside your cunt. No matter how much he prepares you, it’s always a stretch, always just short of too much to bare. 

His thumb presses into the cleft of your ass as his pace increases. “Gonna let me fuck you here, baby?”

“Yes daddy,” you say and he freezes for a moment, your words nearly sending him over the edge. 

“Not today, little girl,” he growls and rocks back into you. A feeling of combined relief and disappointment washes over you. You’re not sure you could take it, not now, but part of you craves to be reduced to nothing but Joel’s fuck toy, fucked deep and full until you can’t even think, nothing but a few holes to be filled. 

“You’d let me though, wouldn’t ya?” He pulls you from your thought. “Dirty fuckin’ thing.”

“Mhm, yes daddy.” Your vision goes black at the feeling of his cock pulsing against your cervix. He was close, you could feel it in the way his thrusts went erratic, sloppy and slightly hurried. 

“Let me do whatever I want to ya, huh?”

“Yes daddy,” you say the only two words left in your brain. 

“Fuck, so fucking perfect, baby-“ The feeling of his warm release shooting inside of you makes you twitch around him and your brain go fuzzy. You can barely hear Joel’s grunts and moans nor his incessant praises over the ringing in your ears. This is what you craved, beyond the physical gratification brought on by these moments, but the way the world around you disappeared and you were filled with nothing but the content of being his, being Joel’s. The safety you felt beneath his large form, it leaves no room for worry, no thoughts of the stress of everyday life, no decisions to be made. Just him, just Joel. 

You’re not sure how long the two of you stay like this, long enough to feel your combined release dripping from Joel’s cock onto your trembling thighs, long enough that you feel yourself dipping in and out of sleep, in and out of consciousness. 

When he finally pulls out of you, he lets your hips softly fall onto the bed, your body sprawled across the damp sheets. You feel the mattress shift behind you as he stands, immediately heading for the en suite bathroom. At the loss of his presence, you’re reminded of the open window, the now midmorning breeze dancing across your damp skin. You can’t help but wonder if the echoes of your morning endeavors made their way to the street below, if a neighbor passing by could make out the sounds of your shrieks and screams, if perhaps it’d been a cause for concern until it became apparent that your cries were derived from a place of pleasure and not pain nor fear. 

Joel returns and takes quick notice of your shivering, immediately making his way to the window and shutting it. You smile to yourself at the sight of his bare backside, so strong and sturdy, the muscles in his shoulders sculpted from years of working on various job sites, tapering down to his waist, the dimples right above his ass. It’s truly a view you would never tire of. 

“‘S impolite to stare, y’ know?” He catches your eye, a playful smirk spread across his face. You giggle at him, still laying on your belly, your head tucked into the crook of your elbow. He chuckles when you make grabby hands at him with your free hand, to which he quickly concedes, bending over at your side and planting a kiss on your lips. You sigh against him, carding your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer. 

“Hey baby.” He breaks the kiss, his breath hot against your nose. He tucks fallen pieces of hair behind your ear. “You okay?” 

You nod your head tiredly, unable to muster any more of a response, and he doesn’t attempt to pull one out of you, kissing your nose and rising back to his feet. 

He disappears once again, this time returning dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a damp washcloth in hand. He sits next to you on the bed, moving to clean between your legs, but your thighs clamp shut. It’s a purely physical reaction, your body on high alert due to the sensitivity. 

“Hey hey-“ he runs a soothing hand up and down your spine then leans over to press a kiss to your shoulder. “Just want t’ clean you up sweet girl. I’ll be so gentle, promise.” His soothing makes your legs instinctively relax and he brings the washcloth to the apex of your thighs. He’s gentle just like he promised, yet you still hiss slightly when the warm material meets your sensitive skin. 

When he’s finished, he grabs one of his t-shirts and a pair of shorts from the dresser, quickly returning to your side and urging you to turn onto your back. He dresses you, your body like putty in his hands, his touch gentle and warm. You can’t deny the aching feeling in your lower half when he slides your shorts on, but it’s a good kind of ache, an ache you’ll crave as soon as it dissipates. 

You grab at him again when he moves to pull away, but he makes it easy for you, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours, careful not to bare any of his weight on you. The little whimpers that slip past your lips as your warm mouth moves across his make his spent cock twitch.

It scared him sometimes, the intensity with which he felt for you, the depth of his affections. It scared him, the thoughts he had, of what he would do to those who meant to hurt you, to those who have hurt you. It scared him, the thought of losing you, the lengths he would go to keep you safe, keep you here, here with him. But it was in these moments, when you’re laid beneath him, so soft and so lovely, that all those fears melted away. 

Before things move any further, he hooks his arms under you and lifts you from the bed with ease. You don’t protest, not sure you could even if you wanted to, instead you latch onto him, curl your face into his neck and wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you downstairs to the living room. 

He attempts to set you on the couch, but you cling to him like a koala, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “Let go,” he says firmly, a smile behind his words. “Don’t wanna,��� you mumble against his skin, whining as he unfurls you from his torso and plops you on the couch. He places the TV remote in your hand, telling you to put somethin’ on, whatever you want.

He disappears into the kitchen and you attempt to sit up on the couch, your body going slack against the cushions. Your brain is still buzzing, it’s almost like you’re floating, not yet fully aware of your surroundings, but you can slowly feel yourself coming back to reality. You turn the TV on and set it to your latest recording. 

Joel returns a few minutes later, your favorite water bottle and a plate of peanut butter toast in hand, a bottle of Advil in the other. He sits on the couch, immediately urging you onto his lap, and you don’t object. 

“The Bachelor?” He says, a hint of judgement in his voice as he unscrews the cap of the Advil. 

“You love it,” you respond, beginning to lose focus on the show as you squirm and slither against his body, making yourself comfortable as if he were part of the couch. Joel softly chuckles, wrapping an arm loosely around you.

He holds a few of the pills in front of you. “Joel I’m fine. I don’t-“

“Not asking, sweetheart.” You roll your eyes, but take the Advil from him nonetheless, swallowing them down when Joel holds the straw of your water bottle to your mouth, knowing your body would thank you for it later. 

“Good girl,” he plants a quick kiss to your temple, before grabbing the toast from the coffee table, heat rises to your cheeks at his words.

He feeds you the toast, taking bites for himself while you chew. You hadn’t realized how depleted your body was, now feeling the haze lift with some food and water in your system. Every time it’s like coming back to earth, but fortunately you know that Joel will always be there to catch you. 

y'all I’m not good at endings pls forgive me

but hope we enjoyed the rest :p

part two