#then to be clumsy and fall and fail

[bumblebeeappletree]

Your friendly reminder that ai art needs a lot of energy to run and it needs a lot more freshwater than it should to keep it cooled down. This also includes ChatGPT. So! Instead of using Ai to make your art, draw or write for yourself. And if you really really don’t want to draw or write for yourself, commission an artist or writer.

[femmesday-addams]

oh no! by marina became a trinity and mel song for me at approximately 9:23a.m. in case anyone else would like worms in their brains and also ears

[thorntopieces]

I'm waiting for a new phone case in the mail that I would have been happy to pick up at the local shop if they had it in stock. Today the lovely (/sarc) dpd tried and failed to deliver it and will try again tomorrow. It's impressive that they fail to deliver a 10*15*2cm box. Really

[wingfleur]

# — helping mark grayson lose his v-card.

ever since i finished invincible back in MARCH, mark grayson has been living in the back of my mind rent free. then, @sobbingscripter fucked around and gave me this stubborn childhood best-friends to lovers brainworm i cannot shake with her series "our turn." everybody go read it! this is all your fault, girl!!! 💔 | wc: 2.3k words.

cw: nsfw mdni (18+), afab!reader, childhood-friends-to-friends-who-fuck?, porn with a crumb of plot, vaginal fingering, explicit sex (p in v), missionary, loss of virginity (both reader and mark), creampie, reader trying (and failing) to not feel good, mark being inexplicably good at sex despite this being his first time?, this is... vaguely angsty considering the circumstances

thinking about mark grayson asking you to do him a favor and take his virginity.

i mean, shit— mark seriously thinks he has a chance with amber, and he doesn’t want to risk a single thing about him turning her off. like— what if, when they eventually get, y’know, "hot and heavy," he kisses her with too much teeth, or can’t find the clit, or, god forbid, he tries to put his dick in the wrong hole! in that case, he’d be single and lonely forever, doomed to die unfucked, and it’s not like you’re seeing anyone either, so you’re the only one he can ask for help!

now, in your defense, the first few proposals mark offers get shot down by you in no time at all. you like mark, yeah, and losing your v-card would be nice, sure, but you’re not that desperate. being so thirsty to fuck him that you’re willing to be his test dummy so he can properly fuck the girl he actually likes is a level of depravity you’d never, ever sink to, but the way mark gets down on his knees one night and begs with his those big, brown puppy eyes of his makes you kiss your teeth and begrudgingly say yes. 

and as nervous as mark’s been acting, he’s eager. 

when mark kisses you for the first time, the action not nearly as full of teeth as he initially worried about, you come to find that it’s actually... quite nice. it’s hesitant, sure, but as far as you're concerned, this is not only your first kiss, but his. it's clumsy, but full of good intentions, and you enjoy the sensation of soft lips pressed against yours until he gets comfortable enough to lick at your bottom lip.

he only gets bolder from there. strong, calloused hands caress your sides, slipping under the fabric of your tattered t-shirt that you cut the neckline off of. firm, muscled legs walk you back towards your bed and cause you to bend at the knee, falling back onto the mattress, and him along with it. soon, those soft, pink lips are trailing their way down your neck, and those shy, but secure, hands are making their way to your bare chest, thumbs cautiously flicking over your pebbled nipples. 

you’re quite surprised by the effort it takes you to try to act like you’re not enjoying this. 

“‘s that okay?” mark asks softly against your lips, pulling back enough to look at your face. your expression is pinched, brows slightly knitted in the middle. mark’s concentration deepens, and he moves back a little further to truly study you, lips parting as he cautiously moves to pinch your nipples between his pointer and index fingers. 

“...you look like it hurts.” mark’s eyes flicker across every tremor and flicker of the expression on your face. you let your eyes shut slowly and try to steel yourself, breathing deep. 

“no, it doesn’t. you’re just— notthatgoodatthis.”

mark’s fingers slow to a near stop as he takes a moment to truly scrutinize you, eyes locking onto the way your eyebrow twitches as he slowly rolls the buds between his fingertips. then, he smiles, leaning back down to brush his lips against yours.

“you’re lying.”

you are lying. to be more accurate, you’re lying like fuck, but to maintain a shred of your dignity, you can’t act like being mark grayson’s test fuck-dummy feels nearly as good as it does. you'd simply be handing him the green light to go fuck amber. 

“i have no reason to lie.”

“sure,” he chirps back, “we’ll see about that.”

you find two reasons to lie once mark sinks his fingers into you.

firstly, you’re wet— unbearably so— and you know mark can feel it from the way his lips drop open with a groan. mark inhales deeply in an attempt to stifle any other sounds that escape him in the process, focusing solely on the slow press of his middle and ring fingers into your hole. the whole process is audible and clicky, which makes his head buzz with static every time the squelch reverberates against his eardrums. secondly, you’re tight; sure, mark already knew you were a virgin, but it’s another thing for the proof to be sitting right in front of him (or, better yet, squeezing around him). the way you’re squirming beneath him tells mark everything: that, to date, his fingers are the biggest thing you’ve ever had inside of you. 

christ, mark feels like he’s gonna lose his mind. 

the first thing he notices, aside from the way you’re clenching around him like you wanna break his fingers off, is the way the cords of muscle in your thighs are pulled taut. you’re tense— that much is evident from your pinched expression— but mark decides he wants to watch that pained face melt off into molten pleasure, so he starts to rock his fingers into you gently. 

“how’s that?” he asks, voice low and a little frayed around the edges. his adam’s apple bobs hard as he swallows, focusing himself on your face instead of the pretty sight of your pussy swallowing him up. 

“hardly feel it,” you lie unconvincingly, teeth gritted and jaw tight. you know you’re not going to win an oscar for your performance anytime soon, if the way mark laughs is anything to go by, and you frown in reply because, as much as you want to be mad, it’s truly a glorious noise. that said, you do have a reputation for being a buzzkill to uphold, so you try and fix your lips to snark out a reply, but you quickly press them into a flat line the moment you feel a moan bubbling up rather than words.

“sure,” is all mark says, his voice and tone void of any dejection. there’s little to no emotion in it at all, actually, and it makes you open your eyes right as he curls his fingers and drags them across your upper walls. 

a soft gasp leaves you, and your brows shoot up in surprise, tummy spasming for a moment as your hips kick up into his hand. mark’s rhythm falters for a moment, surprised by the sudden movement, but he has no problem adapting to the situation and getting back into it with a grin across his face. 

“bet you feel it now,” he coos, tone patronizing as he concentrates his fingers on that tender spot inside you. you shake your head quickly, brain threateningly to drip out your ears as you squeeze your eyes shut so hard you see spots. 

“all i— fuck— feel is you fumbling around inside of me like this is some bastardized prostate exam.”

mark snorts, but ultimately doesn’t reply, and in the back of your mind, you think you notice that as a sign of trouble. in actuality, you aren’t really sure: you could’ve picked up on it as a result of your last-minute preservation skills, but at the same time, it very well could have been a lie you made up in an attempt to make this feel less real.

whatever it is, it doesn’t matter anymore. you’re hardly aware enough of your surroundings as is. not after mark busies himself with slowly sliding his cock inside of you. 

“oh fuck, you feel good,” mark moans, voice sounding utterly destroyed as he presses himself in to the hilt. your thighs quiver, and you take a hand to press it against his abdomen, right above where it tapers into a v-shape and disappears inside of you. 

“i— fuck you, mark—“

mark, despite how much his eyes wanna roll back, leans over you and smugly grins.

“you are right now, aren’t you?” 

you don’t know where the fuck mark learned this.

the first few thrusts of his are measured, more so savoring the feeling of the way your walls sticking to his cock every time he draws back and press his hips forward. then, his thrusts become confident. he falls into a good pace, most of his weight on his hands as he leans over you and focuses on your face. 

your expression starts to crumble. 

the rhythm slowly makes a tingle form in your gut, jaw dropping open as you try to fix your mouth to half-heartedly tell him to stop. then, he angles his hips and hits a spot that makes your mind go blank of any protests, effectively making your steeled expression finally crumble. 

“oh, fuck,“ you finally whine, back arching slowly into a deep bow. you blink open your teary eyes to catch mark looking at you with the most lovesick expression, something you’re nearly dumb enough to think is for you before it’s covered up by pride for finally getting you to crack. 

“tell me how good it feels,” he says, dropping suddenly onto his elbows. you’re about to tell him that you’d only ever do such a thing in hell, but then he presses his face into your neck and slowly grinds into you, causing a shudder to completely wrack your body. 

“mark,“ you whimper softly, arms and legs coming up to cling onto mark desperately. he continues to sensually rock into you, movements long and drawn out so you can really feel it. as you begin to squirm, mark uses his muscled arms and firm hands to clutch you so you can’t run. 

“tell me,” he pants again. “tell me how good it fuckin’ feels.”

“fuck, it feels so fucking good, mark.” the way you whisper it sounds utterly broken, tears pricking at the corners of your lashes as a part of you gets damn near angry from how good you feel. mark keeps rolling his hips into you as he leans back to take in your expression, head coming forward to press a kiss to one of your eyelids. 

“cum for me.”

the words quickly make your eyes flutter open, looking up at him with furrowed eyebrows as he keeps fucking you slow and measured. your mouth opens and closes for a few moments as you try to string together something akin to a disbelieving “what?”, but mark beats you to it and shushes you, pressing your foreheads together. 

“stop thinking so hard and let go. lemme feel it, baby.”

mark holds your gaze for a moment, actively watching the way your gears still manage to turn despite how stupid you currently feel. something suddenly gives in your expression, and mark smiles in realization, watching as you slowly relax and focus on nothing but the incredible warmth building inside you. 

your orgasm takes a little while, but when it does finally come, it’s glorious. 

mark would describe it as you melting. he watches as you seize up for just a brief moment, clutching him for dear life with slight panic in your eyes. then, he watches as you turn to jelly, the panic subsiding into something that can only be described as pure bliss, becoming one with the sheets and mattress itself. 

you feel so good around him that his hips stutter, but as much as mark wants to cum too, he wants to see you through your orgasm first. 

you can’t do anything but take it. 

it feels amazing— like a tingly, warm sensation spreading from the very top of your head to the very tips of your toes. you do your best to hold mark’s eye contact as your climax ravages you, but they eventually roll back into your head. the sight makes him groan and duck his head into your neck. 

“fuck,” mark hisses, voice low and gruff enough to be similar to a growl. it makes goosebumps rise on your skin— a few more than the ones that have already sprouted up on your arms and neck, at least— and when the numbing feeling of your orgasm begins to fade, you reach up to handle your fingers in his hair and lightly scratch your nails against his back. “where do you want it?”

you pause for a moment— one of genuine, critical thought— and lean up to speak in his ear. 

“inside.” 

mark briefly pulls up to look at you, the urge to ask you if you’re sure on the tip of his tongue, but the look you give him, combined with the knot tightening in his gut, tells him to shut up and listen, causing him to duck back down to your neck. 

mark’s pace falters, falling from measured and steady to frantic and fast as he chases after his high. he trembles with the force of his orgasm, hugging you tight as he humps into you like he’s trying to carve a place out inside of you. 

you shiver with him as he does, and you soothe him through it, murmuring praise in his ear until he’s panting heavily and slumps against you.

“…thank you,” he mumbles, face still buried in his neck. 

you’re panting heavily too, but that doesn’t stop you from weakly smiling, fingers tracing shapes in his skin. “don’t thank me, this was charity work.” 

mark snorts lightly and turns his head to lightly nibble you, making you giggle in reply. 

“maybe,” he says, sighing and turning his head to rest his cheek on your shoulder. “but still. thank you.” 

you hum quietly in response, a smile tugging at your lips until a nagging voice in the back of your mind reminds you of why he did this. it's quick, how suddenly something deep inside of you sours—something deep enough that it isn’t able to deter you from enjoying this peace you find in mark grayson’s arms, but accessible to the point of letting you feel that sting in the very tips of your fingers. 

you fall silent, listening to the rhythm of mark’s breathing, tracing patterns and shapes until his heavy, exhausted breathing becomes soft and measured. 

it’s only then do you allow yourself to speak, making the conscious effort to tuck the bitterness you finally feel in yourself away. 

“mm. i guess you’re welcome.”

# — navigation

[squipa]

“i guess i’m stuck forever by the glue, oh, and you”

aka— how jason loves you (acts of service) ⭒

———

jason todd doesn’t know how to love you. he’s been constantly cast aside, beaten down, grown up seeing how the only real parental figures in his life stare at romantic interests with lust and not purest love. he never learned where to press tender kisses or when to whisper sweet nothings, so the unfettered affection that overwhelms him presses so hard against his chest he can feel an aching heart bulging painfully against his skin.

yet, in the center of his being, nestled right under his left ventricle and between the most delicate of his ribs, there is a little boy terrified of losing the only woman he’s ever been capable of loving, the only person capable of loving him.

so he works— day and night, doing all that he can to ensure that this overwhelming fear, a horror that shakes him body and soul, can never come to fruition. before you could even realize you liked him, he never left your apartment, fixing things you hadn’t even realized were broken. your sink, your fridge, your heater— you threw out the little magnets with the numbers of plumbers and electricians, because jason took care of your crumbling home like it was his.

there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you. not a line he would fail to cross if you looked up at him with those tired doe eyes that pierce his once unbreachable walls and bewitch him entirely.

he can’t quite say he loves you. it’s the most difficult thing he’s ever done and he doesn’t know why. he’s said it twice under normal circumstances, six times if you count intoxication and near death experiences— which he does not. he does love you, without question or doubt, he’s so in love with you it hurts him. he just fails at every attempt to articulate it. he wishes he could tell you every day when you wake up, every night before you fall asleep, and every moment in between— but he just can’t. he’s scared that real ‘i love you’s’ will sour into fake ones and tender goodnight kisses will rot into resentment, so he avoids them entirely.

but he shows you. maybe he doesn’t know that he’s supposed to open every door or cover bare shoulders with his jacket, but he knows how to make himself indispensable. he knows you hate coming home to an empty fridge so he makes sure you won’t. he takes care of your car before you were even aware of an issue— oil changes, flat tires, and anything beyond the norm and he makes sure you never have to pay a penny of it.

and the dates you go on— they’re perfectly planned, itineraries crafted with doting hands and warm intentions. he doesn’t go all out very often, he’s more inclined to spend his evenings at home with you in his arms, but on anniversaries, or your birthday? it’s elaborate and enchanting— fantastic really is the only word proper enough in grandeur to describe it. candlelit homemade dinners and gifts that, while never expensive or over the top, are so thoughtful you tear up every time.

yes, while he is an undeniably clumsy lover, a man who was never given the tools to show just how much he is capable of, jason todd loves you too much to ever let go. it is in no way malicious the way he traps you in a rose colored box, making sure you feel loved and cared for and safer in his arms than anywhere else.

———

1. trying out new things with formatting!! i’d love feedback on it if you like this style more than my previous one!!

2. soooo sorry i haven’t posted in awhile. this week has been HELL. ap testing. graduation around the corner. hours at the vet. flat tire. fanfic writer curse is REAL. i meant to post this like a year ago & i just could not finish it. sorry it’s so short too i’m just exhausted :( hope y’all enjoyed!!!!!!

[daxisyzz]

Falling first, Falling hard

pairings:avenger!bucky barnes × avenger!reader

Summary: The reader is a newbie to the team and is a nervous mess. On top of that she is falling hard for her metal armed teammate. Maybe just maybe, he may have fallen harder.

Word count: 1k+

Warnings and tags: reader insert, insecure reader, clumsy reader?, sweet bucky, he's down bad, cute fluff.

A/n: Two drabbles in one day?! I'm hustling.

You had always thought unrequited love would feel like a knife to the chest, but in reality, it was more of a dull ache—persistent, lingering, and impossible to ignore.

Being the newest member of the Avengers was already overwhelming enough. You were constantly surrounded by people who had saved the world multiple times, and despite all your training, you couldn't shake the feeling that you didn't belong. That feeling only worsened when it came to Bucky Barnes.

Because how could someone like him ever look at you the way you looked at him? You weren’t Natasha, who moved like a shadow in the night. You weren’t Wanda, who could alter reality with a flick of her wrist. You were just… you. And Bucky? Bucky was Bucky. And that meant he was completely out of your league.

The first time you met Bucky, you had been so nervous that you'd nearly tripped over your own feet while shaking his hand. He had smirked, and you had wanted the ground to swallow you whole. Since then, things had only gotten worse.

Like the time you had walked into the gym, not realizing he was shirtless and dripping with sweat, and let out an embarrassing squeak before running away like a coward. Or the time you had been sparring with Sam and Bucky had walked in just as you got distracted, resulting in Sam flipping you onto your back with an obnoxious laugh.

Or, worst of all, the time you had tried to make conversation with him over breakfast and accidentally knocked your entire plate onto his lap. That one had been the worst. You had stammered out an apology, turning redder than a tomato, while he had simply chuckled and told you it was fine. Steve had given him a weird look after that, but you had been too busy internally screaming to notice.

It wasn’t that Bucky was mean. No, he was the opposite—patient, kind, always willing to offer you advice on the field. But that kindness only made it harder, because you were convinced that’s all it was. Kindness. If only you knew the truth.

Bucky Barnes was a patient man. He had spent decades waiting for freedom, for redemption, for peace. But waiting for you to see what was right in front of you? That was torture.

Because Bucky had fallen first. And Bucky had fallen hard.

He had noticed you the moment you walked into the compound, wide-eyed and nervous, clutching your duffel bag like a lifeline. He had noticed the way you hesitated before speaking in meetings, always second-guessing yourself. The way you muttered under your breath when training didn’t go as planned. He had noticed the way you looked at him, too.

At first, he had thought he was imagining it. But then there were the stolen glances, the way your breath hitched when he got too close, the way you’d go completely red when he so much as smiled at you.

It was adorable. Painfully adorable.

But somewhere along the way, your crush had stopped being one-sided. Somewhere along the way, Bucky had found himself watching you just as much.

Noticing the way your nose scrunched up when you concentrated. The way your laughter was always the loudest in the common room. The way you always waited for him to return from missions, even if you pretended it was just a coincidence.

The way you never seemed to realize just how incredible you were. You thought you weren’t good enough. That much was obvious. But to Bucky, you were already more than enough. And now, he just had to make you see it.

You had been training in the gym, trying (and failing) to land a proper kick when you heard the door open.

"That was… somethin’," Bucky teased as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

You groaned. "Please don’t say anything."

Bucky smirked, walking over to you. "You’re overthinking it," he said, stepping behind you.

"Here, let me help." Your brain short-circuited when his hands gently settled on your waist, positioning you properly.

"Keep your balance," he murmured, his voice close to your ear.

You barely heard him over the sound of your own heart hammering in your chest. When you finally managed to execute the move properly, you turned to him, beaming.

"I did it!" Bucky smiled.

"Told ya." Your excitement faded slightly as you looked down.

"Still… I have a long way to go." Bucky frowned.

"You know, for someone as smart as you, you say a lot of dumb things." Your head snapped up.

"What?"

"You’re always puttin’ yourself down," he said, shaking his head.

"But you don’t see yourself the way I do." Your heart stuttered.

"The way you do?"

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Doll, have you really not noticed?"

"Noticed what?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky sighed. "I like you," he admitted, eyes locked onto yours. "A lot."

Your brain froze. "You—what?"

Bucky chuckled. "I like you," he repeated. "And not just in a ‘teammate’ kinda way."

"But… but you’re you," you blurted out. "And I’m just—"

"You," he interrupted firmly.

"And that’s exactly why I like you." You stared at him, completely speechless.

"You think I didn’t notice?" he continued, stepping closer.

"The way you look at me? The way you get all flustered when I’m around?" Your face was on fire.

"Oh my god, stop this is so embarrassing." Bucky chuckled, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face.

"It’s not embarrassing, sweetheart. It’s cute."

You swallowed. "You… really mean it?"

Bucky nodded. "I'm falling hard for you," he admitted softly. Your breath caught in your throat.

"And if you let me," he added, "I’d like to prove it to you."

For the first time in forever, the insecurity in your chest didn’t feel so heavy. Because Bucky Barnes had fallen for you. And maybe, just maybe, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[bangchangbinnie]

Forget we’re friends | K.TH

picking up your drunk best friend from a late night out turned out to be the worst best decision you think you’ve ever made

cw: drunk taehyun, dirty talk, touchy taehyun. (If I missed any, let me know!

———

You got the call just past midnight. It wasn’t Taehyun—he’d never call you drunk. No, it was one of his friends. Voice hurried. A little annoyed.

“Hey, sorry—it’s about Taehyun. He’s really out of it and keeps asking for you. Can you come get him?”

Your stomach twisted. You weren’t his girlfriend. Hell, you weren’t even sure he liked you that way. But you were his closest friend. The one he called when he needed something. So, you grabbed your keys and went.

—

You spotted him right away, slouched on the curb just outside the house, legs sprawled across the pavement like they forgot how to bend properly. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, clinging to one side of his chest like he’d gotten tired mid-undressing. His hair was a mess, pushed back and falling forward in soft waves, like someone had run their fingers through it one too many times. A half-empty red cup dangled from his fingertips, but he wasn’t drinking anymore. Just staring.

The second his eyes landed on you, they lit up like headlights.

“Thereee s-she is,” he slurred, voice low and syrupy, a lazy grin stretching across his face. “Took y’long enough, kitty.”

You raised a brow, swallowing the way your stomach twisted at the nickname. “Didn’t know I was on a timer.”

“‘S not a timer,” he mumbled, trying to push himself up but failing miserably. “It’s just… been forever. Missed you.” With a sigh, you stepped closer and grabbed his arm. “C’mon, Tae. Let’s get you in the car.”

He leaned on you immediately, heavier than you expected. One arm slung around your shoulders like dead weight, his body warm and clumsy against yours. His fingers gripped your side too tight, like he didn’t want to let go.

“You smell s’good,” he mumbled into your hair, breath hot against your ear. “Like… like really really good. Makes me wanna take you right here”

You froze.

“Taehyun.”

“M’sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Can’t help it when you look so fuckin’ soft. You’re soft, right? Let me touch—”

“Nope,” you cut him off, adjusting your grip as you dragged him toward the car. “Absolutely not.” But his hand still lingered at your waist, thumb brushing under the hem of your shirt, and his mouth was dangerously close to your ear again.

As you half-guided, half-dragged him toward the car, Taehyun stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk. His full weight slammed against your side, and instead of pulling away, he melted into you, chest pressed to your arm, breath fanning over your neck.

Then he leaned in, slow and deliberate. Then his lips brushed the shell of your ear. His voice came out thick and slurred, words tumbling lazily like he barely had control over his mouth.

“Y’know wha’ I was thinkin’ ’bout… while I was sittin’ out here…?” You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your heart was thundering in your chest.

His arm tightened around your waist as he whispered, “Your thighs, baby… your fuckin’ thighs. ‘Magined ’em wrapped ’round m’face… suffocatin’ me in that sweet fuckin’ pussy.”

You stopped mid-step. Breath caught. Blood rushing to your ears.

Taehyun’s lips ghosted against your cheek now, hot and uncoordinated. “Bet you taste… so good… like fuckin’ honey… like—like heaven if it dripped down my fuckin’ chin…”

His hips pressed against your side, just enough to make you realize how hard he already was beneath his jeans. It wasn’t subtle.

You tried to shove him forward. “Taehyun—get in the damn car.”

He only groaned in your ear, chuckling low. “Y’always so bossy. ‘S hot. You gonna bend me over the hood too?”

“Taehyun.”

“I’d let you,” he slurred, smirking. “Swear t’god I would. Jus’ lemme taste you first.”

You finally got him into the car with a grunt of effort—his body slumped into the passenger seat, head lolling back against the headrest, lips parted like he was still trying to remember how to form full sentences. Your face was burning. Your fingers trembled around the steering wheel. And your heart? Pounding so hard it echoed in your ears.

But before you could even turn the keys in the ignition, Taehyun shifted.

Slow at first.

Then all at once.

He leaned across the console with surprising grace for someone so wasted, his hand trailing up your thigh like he owned it. Fingertips warm and clumsy beneath the hem of your shorts.

You flinched. “Tae—what are you—”

“Shhh,” he breathed, voice thick, slurred, dripping with heat. “Lemme look at you…”

His eyes found your chest, slow and heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide. He bit his lip, then laughed under his breath, all low and wrecked.

“Fuck,” he whispered, hand squeezing the plush of your thigh. “Bet those tits—fuckin’ perfect, baby… bet they’d look so fuckin’ pretty… all messy ‘n drippin’ with my cum…”

You choked on air.

“Jus’ wanna paint you,” he slurred, leaning in close again. His nose brushing your cheek, lips brushing your ear, voice barely a rasp. “Wanna see m’self all over you. All over those tits. Your stomach. Your thighs. Every-fuckin-where…”

“Taehyun.”

His head dropped to your shoulder for a second, but then he nuzzled closer, mouth grazing your skin again as he murmured, “Bet you’d moan so fuckin’ sweet if I fucked you raw. S’what I want, y’know? Jus’ wanna slide in real slow and stay in… feel you squeezin’ me, beggin’ f’more…”

Your thighs clenched, body frozen, trapped between shouldn’t and don’t stop. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dazed and lips parted.

“Lemme do it,” he whispered, voice full of sleepy sin. “Lemme make you mine—jus’ once. You’ll like it. You’ll love it, kitty…”

“Taehyun, stop. We’re friends.”

“But I don’ wanna be friends t’night…” he slurred, voice thick and breathy, every word rolling out like it was dipped in honey and sin. His eyes glazed, half-lidded, but still sharp with hunger. “Wanna fuck you… so bad. Wanna ruin you f’r anyone else.”

You swallowed hard, knuckles white on the steering wheel. His words slammed into you like a wave, hot and heavy and reckless. The heat pooled in your stomach instantly. Still, you said nothing.

He didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t care.

“Please…” he whined, reaching out again, palm finding your thigh like it belonged there. His fingers squeezed, slow and deliberate. “Just one time, kitty. Let me taste you. Let me wreck you. Bet you’d be so fuckin’ sweet…”

Your thighs squeezed together involuntarily.

“Let me eat you out in the backseat,” he mumbled, voice turning breathier as he leaned closer again. His lips brushed your jaw this time. “Just once. Jus’ wanna feel you grind on my fuckin’ face… s’that too much to ask?”

“Tae…”

“I’ll be good,” he breathed, a hint of a whimper in his tone. “Swear. I’ll be so good for you, kitty—lemme eat that pretty pussy ‘til y’screamin’ my name, until y’can’t remember we were ever ‘jus’ friends’…”

You were dizzy. Every filthy word dripping from his mouth went straight to your core.

And when he looked up at you again, messy hair falling into his eyes, lips parted, face flushed with heat and whiskey. He looked desperate. Destroyed.

“Lemme have you,” he whispered. “Just tonight. Please. Jus’ wanna feel you. Wanna know what it’s like to make you fall apart.”

You pulled into your lot in complete silence.

And he turned to you, lips barely brushing your cheek as he whispered-

“Unless you’re scared you’ll want it too.”

[kxsagi]

hii, i hope you're doing well ^^ I really enjoy your style of writing :) i was wondering if you can make my request with tooth rotting fluff the reader's love is so gentle and she takes time trying to understand her S/O and she will always ask for permission to touch them even if they given her permission already, the reader cares for her S/O so gently and delicate like something so dear to her life? Feel free to do this with any blue lock characters ^^ and you can also ignore this if it's way too much work haha, another thing is that i love your works and please take some rest whenever you need it.

“𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞”

a/n: hi! i'm doing well and i hope you are too beautiful :) and thank you so much!!! take rest whenever you need it as well

this was some good needed fluff

ft. itoshi rin, isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, ness alexis, niko ikki, hiori yo

itoshi rin

at first, he doesn't understand why you're so soft with him. you’re careful when touching his hand, always asking “can i hold you?” like he’ll shatter if you don't ask. 

it overwhelms him. the kind of love that doesn't demand, doesn’t press, but patiently waits for him to be ready. 

you’d brush hair from his face with trembling fingers and say, “is this okay?” even after years of dating, and he’d nod, ears pink, mumbling, “you don’t have to ask.” 

“i want to,” you’d smile. “you’re important to me.” 

that sentence alone makes his chest hurt (in a good way). 

sometimes he stares at you while you're fussing over his bruises, and all he can think is how the hell did i get this lucky? 

isagi yoichi

he melts like butter in the sun. absolutely smitten with how gently you love him. 

the first time you tucked a blanket around him after a long match, whispering, “can i kiss your forehead?” he blinked at you like you'd just proposed. 

he’s not used to being treated like he’s fragile, but you do it so sincerely that it never feels emasculating. just loving. 

you’ll brush your fingers over his knuckles and ask, “can i?” even though you’ve kissed him a million times, and he’ll smile like it’s the first time every time. 

he tries to match your softness. fails most of the time because he’s clumsy with words, but the love shows in how tightly he holds your pinky when you're walking together. 

bachira meguru

thinks your gentleness is the best thing to ever happen to him. 

he’s so used to loud, chaotic love that your careful affection hits different. it makes him slow down. breathe. 

when you cup his face and softly say, “can i kiss you right here?” pointing to his cheek, his grin goes all lopsided and shy. 

“why do you always ask?” he teases, nose bumping yours. 

“because you’re someone i never want to take for granted.” 

he’ll blink, then full-body tackle hug you like a golden retriever in love. “you’re my favorite human.” 

you take care of him in the little things: asking if he wants to be held, if he’s overstimulated, if he needs quiet or chaos, and he falls a little more in love every time. 

nagi seishiro

was confused at first. “you can just touch me, y’know. i’m fine with it.” 

but when you still ask every single time – "can i sit closer?" "can i touch your hair?" – he realizes something. 

you don’t do it because you think he’ll say no. you do it because you respect him. you love him with your whole heart, but never assume. 

“you’re so… careful,” he murmurs once as you gently rub lotion on his sore hands. 

“you’re important to me. and i want you to feel safe with me.” 

he didn’t even know he needed to feel safe until you made it so easy. 

now he’ll pout if you don’t ask first. “you forgot to ask,” he says, even though he’s already curled up in your lap like a sleepy cat. 

mikage reo

falls so stupidly hard for your gentle love. 

he’s used to grand gestures and flash, but your love is quiet and reverent, and it wrecks him. 

when you brush your thumb over his temple and whisper, “can i hold you for a little while?” he just nods and pulls you in like he’ll never let go. 

he’s amazed at how someone can be so kind, so considerate, and yet still make him feel absolutely cherished. 

you remember all the little things – asking before touching his hair, checking if he wants space after a stressful day – and it makes him fall in love a little harder every day. 

sometimes he’ll just stare at you and go, “you’re seriously the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

chigiri hyoma

you love him like he’s made of porcelain, and it gets him every single time. 

he acts cool about it – rolls his eyes when you ask for permission to touch his hair – but the tips of his ears go pink and he can’t stop smiling. 

after injuries and fear of fragility, your tenderness heals something deeper in him. 

“you can touch me,” he’ll whisper. “you don’t have to ask.” 

“i know,” you smile, “but i like knowing you still want me to.” 

that? that makes him blush so hard he covers his face with a pillow. 

he feels like a beloved treasure when he’s with you, and it makes his heart ache in the best way. 

kaiser michael

used to flirty, shallow affection, most times none, so your pure, patient love absolutely unravels him. 

you treat him like he’s so much more than his ego or his game. 

“can i touch your hair?” you ask, even after months together. and he just stares, like you’re something otherworldly. 

“you already know the answer,” he says, softer than he means to. 

“i want to hear it anyway.” 

you care for him like he’s someone worth loving for who he is, not what he shows, and for the first time, he believes it. 

when you hold his hand with both of yours and treat it like something precious, he suddenly forgets how to flirt. he’s just… quiet, overwhelmed, grateful. 

shidou ryusei

surprisingly receptive to your gentle love, even if he plays it off with grins and jokes. 

“asking permission? what is this, kindergarten?” he smirks. 

but the way he goes quiet when you softly say, “can i hold your hand?” gives him away. 

you’re the only person who touches him like he’s not a weapon, just a boy who wants to be held. 

sometimes, in rare moments of vulnerability, he’ll whisper, “you’re the only one who makes me feel... human.” 

and when you cradle his face like he’s something beautiful instead of dangerous, he leans into your palms like they’re the safest place on earth. 

itoshi sae

at first? he's confused. suspicious, even. 

he’s used to people either putting him on a pedestal or wanting something from him, so when you gently tuck his hair behind his ear and whisper, “can i touch you?”, he just blinks. like, actually short-circuits. 

“you’re already doing it,” he mumbles. but his voice comes out softer than he intends. 

and you just smile and say, “i still want to ask. you matter to me.” 

and that? that undoes him. 

you treat him like he’s not a prodigy, not a golden boy, but someone worth loving gently. and that’s something he didn’t know he needed. 

when you ask, “can i kiss you?” even after you've kissed him dozens of times, he’ll whisper, “yeah… but don’t stop asking.” 

he doesn’t say it outright, but he lives for the way you love him like something fragile. because sometimes, deep down, he feels like he is. 

he’ll rest his head in your lap during quiet nights, pretending to scroll on his phone. but the second you whisper, “can i play with your hair?”, his screen’s forgotten and he’s quietly nodding, eyes closing, letting himself exist in your love. 

it takes time, but eventually, he starts asking too. awkwardly. stiffly. like: “can i hold your hand?” “can i lean on you?” “can i stay over tonight?” 

all while pretending to be nonchalant, but his ears are burning, and he gets so soft when you say yes like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

ness alexis

he’s so touch-starved and desperate for validation that when you treat him with gentle respect, he thinks he’s dreaming. 

you’ll brush your fingers along his arm and softly ask, “is this okay?” and he just blinks, stunned, because no one’s ever cared enough to ask. 

he says “yes” every time – quick, eager, needy – but the way you keep asking anyway? it makes his heart ache in the best way. 

“you’re so careful with me…” he murmurs one night as you tuck a blanket around his shoulders. “like i’m someone who matters.” 

“you are,” you say it simply, like it’s fact. 

and ness hides his face in your shoulder because he’s never felt so loved before.

he starts to mirror your habits – asking “can i hug you?” or “can i play with your hair?” – because you’ve made him believe love can be soft and mutual. 

niko ikki

gets really flustered at first. like, blushing to the tips of his ears when you ask, “can i hold your hand?” 

“y-you don’t need to ask,” he stammers, already squeezing your fingers. 

but when you keep doing it, every time, even for the smallest touches, he gets it. 

you don’t ask because you doubt, you ask because you respect him. and that’s what makes him fall so hard for you. 

niko’s love language becomes sitting in comfortable silence, your pinkies linked, as you glance over and softly whisper, “can i lean on you?” 

he nods every time, too stunned to speak. 

“you treat me like i’m precious,” he says one day, voice quiet. 

“you are,” you reply, just as gently, and niko short-circuits on the spot. 

hiori yo

oh, you destroy him (in the softest way possible). 

he’s always been scared of getting too close, of being a burden. but then you come along – so patient, so kind – and ask, “is this okay?” before every hug, every kiss, every forehead touch. 

and hiori just… melts. fully, completely, beautifully. 

you cup his face with both hands and ask, “can i hold you like this?” and he’s already nodding, eyes glossy with emotion. 

you ask him if he’s okay when he zones out. you check if he wants to be alone or held. you don’t assume, you care. 

“you make me feel safe,” he confesses one night, voice barely a whisper. “like… no one’s ever done that before.” 

you brush your thumb under his eye, smiling softly. “you deserve to be loved that way.” 

and hiori hugs you tighter than he ever has before, like he never wants to let go. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[isagispuzzle]

sae isn't good with words. he knows, because you once told him that he sucked at comforting you when you were down. you weren't blaming him, though. if anything, his clumsy attempt at asking you what was wrong only made your heart feel lighter. how could you complain, when you could see so clearly how hard he was trying to sound sensitive and warm?

instead, sae brings you comfort in other ways. he holds your hand in silence while you cry and supplies you with tissues and hugs until your breathing evens out and you fall asleep in his arms. he wakes up even earlier than his stupid athlete schedule dictates to make you a bento on days he knows you're sure to forget about lunch, because your schedule is equally as packed as his, if not more. he keeps a hand on the small of your back when you're in an overly crowded place and uses his coldest stare to ward off unwanted attention. he 'forgets' his shirt at home when he leaves for a match overseas, and never fails to bring back a souvenir for you when he returns.

so even if sae is terrible at telling you things are going to be okay, he never makes you feel it would be anything but.

[domoriu]

perv bsf!bonedo

req - could you imagine bonedo as your bestfriend and theyre lowk freaky and a perv for you

warnings: the boys are kinda (really) icky, 18+ mdni !! panty stealing/sniffing, non consented recording, manipulation? idk… also ty @tsandoll for helping me w some of these 🫶🏽 the rest of the members under the cut !! <3

sungho

super subtle about it

youd never guess he was so pervy

everyone else around you guys would definitely know sungho had some sort of crush on you, but you’re oblivious to it and think its just him being a gentleman and good friend

buys you whatever you want, will even buy you clothes if you talk about needing some new outfits. ends up dressing you up the way he likes and gets turned on seeing you in the outfits he bought for you

“do you think this looks good?” and he’s nodding and trying his best to not pop a boner in front of you

you’re at a party? sungho is gonna be your plus one. he doesn’t even care about your complaints about him “scaring the hoes” cuz you get touchy when you get under the influence and he’s going to be there for you and enjoy the next few hours of you clinging to him

he even lowkey sabotages any relationship you could possibly have, tells people you two are dating/fucking and leaves you to wonder why none of the people you’ve been interested in ever pay you any mind.

when he comes to your house he has to fight the urge to sniff all of your clothes and your sheets. you just smell so good to him, and he knows if he gets a hard enough whiff he might get hard.

when he jerks off, he’s imagining its your hand, he’s imagining what your mouth would feel like wrapped around him, and he imagines how you’d look taking his cock.

goes through your messages together with his phone in hand while the other one is wrapped around his cock, playing back the voice messages you’ve sent him before to help him get off. then once he’s cum to the thought of you he’s calling you and talking to you like nothing happened.

riwoo

shy boy. its a little more obvious that he’s a little pervert, and you’re using that to your advantage.

he’s acting really innocent but he knows exactly what he’s doing. he just might be a little clumsy with it, which is ultimately how you figured out his perv agenda.

gets hard so fast, and you constantly touching him doesn’t help his case at all

you invite him over, he’s running to your bathroom to quickly jerk off. he tries to be quiet, but he fails miserably.

“riwoo? are you okay in there?” you’re smirking behind the door and he doesn’t even realize how obvious it is that he’s in there getting himself off, and by the way he stutters a weak “y-yeah im fine!” you know exactly what he’s doing.

he’s a bed/pillow humper. when you two have sleepovers, and you fall asleep before him, he’s putting a pillow over his dick and softly thrusting into it, even sometimes he’ll do that when you’re awake, just really slowly and subtly so you dont notice. but when you’re asleep, he’s more shameless. eagerly humping the pillow or even humping the mattress while he stares at your sleeping body.

sometimes he’ll just jerk off as fast as he can, staring at your figure while you sleep. he’s edging himself, each time your body twitches or you turn in your sleep he stops touching himself, so close to cumming but he doesn’t want to get caught. he cums quick the nights you wear something loose or something more revealing, because he can move the fabric to see exactly what he needs to get to his climax.

whatever he does while you’re asleep you’re not aware of, but you know that you catch him staring a little too hard at your cleavage sometimes or catch him looking at your ass

touchy with you and he tries to say its just friendly touching, but no friend keeps their hand right at the bottom of their friends back before the curve of their ass, or rests their hands or head on their friends tits when they watch movies.

jaehyun

a little shameless about it, but he’s always scared out of his mind that you’ll find him gross

the flirting he does with you is a bit more flirty than his usual, sometimes leaving you flustered but you mask it well.

“a little kissing never hurt a friendship” while he looks at you with his big puppy eyes. all you can do is stare at him and laugh because no way he’s serious.

“jaehyun… you’re staring at my tits again” “sorry! sorry… they’re just… so nice…” and he’s absolutely not sorry

dirty little panty sniffer. super scared of getting caught though, but he ends up snitching on himself

“definitely wasnt going through your stuff while you were in the bathroom” no one accused you of doing that but if you say so…

touchy as fuck. like youve never met someone as touchy as jaehyun. and you know he means no harm, so you let him cop a feel from time to time

back to the panty sniffing, also a pillow humper. will steal a different pair of your panties each week, ruin them completely and then return them like nothing happened (he’ll wash them first of course, he doesn’t want to get caught)

he even knows about the box you keep in your bedside drawer, the one with your toys in it. jerks off to the thought of you fucking yourself open with your dildo, wishes that he could be the one fucking you instead. wishes he could press your vibrator on your clit while he stretches you out on his cock.

taesan

also a shy perv

but he’s a lot bolder than youd think

thinks with his dick… once his dick twitches his mind goes blank

since he’s tall, he’s definitely using this to his advantage. its a lot easier for him to stare down your shirt with this angle

he might get a little bold sometimes and take a pic under your skirt

has a whole folder of “off guard” photos of you, every time he takes one you’re trying to grab his phone to see the pic but he refuses, telling you that its for his eyes only and that youll try to delete them - whole time he had taken various panty shots and other body pics

steals your panties, goes through your clothes bin and sniffs them until he feels dizzy and his cock is straining in his pants.

he tries to be subtle about everything and he’s mostly successful, never catching him doing anything out of the ordinary and anything he asks you to do for him doesn’t seem too off putting

if you’re complaining to him about a guy you’ve been talking to, he’s asking you what they do that gives you the ick and what they do that makes you like them a little more

he makes sure you’re comfortable with him always, there’s never been tmi between the both of you so you feel comfortable telling him about your sex stories - he listens super intensely, and at night he’s humping his mattress at the thought of fucking you just the way you like, because he knows he’d be better than any of the guys youve been fucking

he’s also cumming loudly with your name leaving his lips repeatedly. he wishes he could send you a pic of his stomach covered in his cum and tell you that you’re the reason he came so much

having trouble deciding what type of revealing pics to send to a guy? taesan is telling you that you should send it to him first, so he can tell you from a guys perspective if its good, and will definitely ask you for multiple pictures for “options”

he couldn’t care less what you sent to someone else, as long as he always got access to the pics first and he was definitely going to be jerking off to them later.

leehan

another shameless perv… but he’s really shameless - he’s touchy, he compliments you, he even purposely tries to get you flustered

once he gets the reaction he wants out of you he’s just laughing, and he’ll go back to doing the same thing over and over

lets you believe he’s just joking around with you, even though he’s so serious

“can i eat you out as a friend?” “leehan stop, you play around too much” and there was absolutely no hint of joking around in his voice

whenever you stay over at his place he tells you that you can leave your old clothes with him, that he’ll wash them for you so you have clothes when you come over

before he washes them he’s definitely jerking off with your panties, he might even put them in his mouth cuz he’s a sick freak like that….

and whenever you two are on the phone he’s most likely going to jerk off to the sound of your voice

“leehan, are you okay?” “m’fine, just keep telling me about your day” and he has to mute his mic when he cums - might be a little bold and let you hear it

with him being touchy, anyone would think you were a couple with how comfortable he was touching you however he pleased - seriously, why was he gripping your ass in the middle of the store?

pet names!! darling, princess, he’ll even call you a good girl sometimes just to gauge your reaction. might ask you to grab something for him and he’s like “such good girl for me” and you’re left feeling hot all over and confused about your feelings (even if leehan was insanely straightforward)

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

— i’m in love with a dying man

rating: mature. or explicit? i’m not sure. angsty study on grief in unconventional forms. (mild) smut purely for poetic reasons

word count: 4,1k

pairing: viktor x gn!reader

cw: terminal illness. several mentions of death. everyone is horny in a heartbroken way, so grab a napkin—but not for the reasons you think. and yes, you may dox me for making you even sadder after whatever happened in ep 6.

—

He licks a tear off your cheek, and it seeps in between the bumps on his tongue, all prickly salt running down your face in two glossy trails of sorrow. Stinging, when his calloused thumb swipes over a puffy eyelid, only to inevitably fall to your lip and tug, nudging your mouth agape. His desperate grip softens when you oblige and arch, letting him grunt over the slope of your throat; wheezier than you remember, raw, rhotic and ravenous. The hard shift of his lungs is palpable under your hand, ruckling heavily in his sternum. It almost breaks down to a cough when he cants his hips into you, slanting one last slow, weak slam. Spilling all his pent-up frustration deep inside you through that bitter orgasm, leaving a clumsy mess of stickiness to dry on your inner thigh. Stilling for you to hold him through that collapse, grateful for the shaky hand that you firmly fist into his hair. Not receding until at least a few kisses are strewn upon your shoulder. 

It’s always like this now. Viktor clings to you, and you cling to him, nails digging into handfuls of him hard enough to draw blood, each embrace so tight your ribs might just break if he doesn’t retreat in time. And god does he wish to let it linger, to drag it out until eternity tumbles in—even if his eternity is reduced to a question of mere months at best, even if he must crawl out of a casket to have your touch back. 

The night you almost lost him still has you in shambles. You remember it all too well—hell, it’s almost like that acute smell of hospitals and doom still coats his skin, more slimline than it ever was, its once ivory shade fading to chalk-like disaster. The utter horror of crushing verdicts, endless heaps of bloodied handkerchiefs and palms so cold that even the heat of your breath fails to make the feeling of him any less chilling. 

The dark humor of sneaky death: she’s right around the corner, the cruelest of all mistresses. Ready to snatch him away whenever your fingers ghost over his spine, stroking a languid count over each prominent vertebrae. And no matter how tight you curl up beside him, she will supplant you, and her proximity can’t be measured in miles, feet, or inches. Because death is a termite—she gnaws at his very heart. And blooms metastases everywhere you still have him. She’s inside him. She’s merged with him into one.

At first, you denied it. Knuckles drummed against the wall in a frustrated fistfight, painting that scabrous canvas bright with your frustration. White and crimson—the speckled pattern of your hysteria. You recall how bad it stung, and how shame creeped up your spine—frightening and so, so sticky. Throttling, when he tended to that self-inflicted disaster, bandaging your smashed hand in motions sick to the core with gentleness. 

And it felt so ugly. Like you’ve grown to loathe everything around you: the doctors, for their disgusting prognosis; life itself, for being hardly fair. And even Viktor. Especially him—for slowly slipping out of your pale-knuckled grip. Well, red-knuckled, more like. That angry stunt did cost you a decent injury. White and crimson, remember? 

Naturally, grief doesn’t always progress by the book. However, denial always comes first. It’s an axiom, an invariable component, and you’re sitting on Viktor’s hospital cot, hand in trembling hand, eyes snapped wide and ferocious. Wrapped up in fear while the silence rings in your ears. 

His doctor addresses the quandary. It doesn’t feel vicious—at least, not yet. Flimsy, more like. Deceptive, too. Like if you just blink it away hard enough everything will snap right in place, and you’ll find yourself at home again—where that aseptic smell of medication can’t reach either of you. 

Well, of course, there’s always a possibility of postponing the inevitable. Winning over a year or, even, two—if Viktor’s lucky enough, that is. But you both know that he’s lacking in that department.

And yet, you grab your little hope by the throat: to look into later, when your comprehension is intact again. Surely, it’s just not plausible: so what if Viktor’s cough pulls you out of sleep every night, so what if every shirt he owns has tiny blood stains on it? Yes, he spends more time in bed than he does at the lab. He’s simply tired. He needs the rest. Not in peace. 

The retraction doesn’t linger, though. It survives a few more blood tests and a lengthy, dreadful discussion of his calamity—most strikingly frightening when the doctor talks him through each option. And not a single one manages to appease you. To stop your fury from retching out and causing an ugly scene. 

So you fling the door to his room ajar and leap inside with a bitter scowl, teeth gritting hard enough to crumble into powder. Arms a tight crisscross over your chest, step wide and listless—punctuated with a muffled clack of heels. Viktor’s eyes follow your tremulous circles—a lazy, sheenless flick of pupils, each widened into a bleak void from the rancid dose of painkillers. He lays supine, with his hair ineptly slicked back, umber waves awry, loose and sweat-damp. He’s almost mellow, tongue barely a glide over his chapped bottom lip—a martyr-like stiffness, the carrion of a man. 

But you don’t look at him. You pace, and pace, and pace—in that same tiring route, all around his creaky cot. Viktor rasps something indistinct—a muffled plea that tickles the back of his throat, rupturing yet another coughing fit. You silently hand him the speckled handkerchief. 

He looks up, eyes the saddest shade of buckwheat honey—dark with remorse; seeking comfort. But you don’t have any to give. You stare past him, gnawing at your tongue hard enough to draw fleshy copper. Dodging the kiss he tries to press to your wrist—pulling yourself back and out of his loving grip, igniting a staring competition full of glassy eye-daggering. Blink slow and borderline drowsy. 

“Milackú,” he pleads. Pulls at the corner of his mouth to wipe the bloody evidence of his withering. 

Your tear catches in your bottom lashes. 

“Milackú,” he rasps again, kicking the blanket aside. Stepping one bare foot on the cool tiles and reaching for you: arms, legs, and heart—all yours for the taking. If only you consider crawling under his minty sheets again. 

You don’t. 

“Why?” It’s so meek you barely recognize it as your own. Taut throat tightens even more, and, suddenly, you’re choking on a gasp. “Why did you turn down the treatment?” 

“Please, if you could just—“ He husks, but you can’t hear him through the ringing in your ears; the room already smudged into wattery, astigmatic lumps, Viktor’s face but a bunch of fuzzy dots you’re struggling to make out. All missing jigsaws, blurry little fractions. 

“What did I ever do to you?” You yell, shielding your eyes. Turning away from the arm he extends, his weak fist clenching to grab thin air, then tumbling as he stares at his palm in sheer dubiety, upper lip trembling. 

He winces. Ceases you by the hand and tugs as hard as it gets—frail enough for you to easily nudge him away—but you don’t bother this time. Your knees ungainly bend into shaky arcs, drifting apart when he clasps around you and pulls until you finally land on the sheets next to him, your tears mingling with his cold sweat—a salty fusion of mutual suffering.

Then comes a sequence of guttural, squealing whines and you stay twined with him for a while. Lithe fingers run through your hair, spreading to untangle an occasional knotted strand—up, and down, and over your shoulder in a caress. His lips purse on your temple, sucking an indistinct kiss. His heartbeat trails off under your fingertips the second you rake them over his thin hospital gown, growing frenetic again when you tug at the fabric, demanding closure.

“Please. Please don’t do this to me.” You exhale your choked up entreaty into his neck and it pours over his skin in a rigid breath, aftertasting of stinging desperation. His hand seeks your face, taking a forcefully gentle hold of one puffy cheek, drinking in your unsightly, woebegone rebuke. Looking at you like a repentant devotee, his timid eyes meeting your fierce ones.

“This is not about you,” he wheezes, too stern for your liking. Presses his forehead against yours and holds you through yet another shudder—and there’s no avoiding his pleading stare. “I’m not trying to get away from you. I merely want to escape my conundrum.” 

“These aren’t mutually exclusive, Viktor,” you hiss, voice simmering with betrayal. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“Unfortunately?! Is that all you have for me right now?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

He sighs like he means it. His words keep slipping away from him, drowned in coughs and ambiguous humms. You get it, though. Your semantics became sparse the minute Viktor almost died in your arms. 

You melt into one-another in a teary, sniffling twine—simply breathing, trading tense silences. His stately stance collapses into a lifeless hunch, straightening a bit only when your fingers billow over his shoulder-blades—chiseled like ones of a famished dog. There are plenty of dog-like things about him now—the pleas lodged in his glances, the newfound hunger for your touch. Especially for the way you’re holding him; every embrace like a loving headlock—and the pressure soothes him. 

“I’m tired of taking risks,” he finally whispers against your temple. “All these… labored efforts for mere fractions of peace. Decaying steadily. Constantly hurting. I’m spent.” 

“Exactly. Which is why you need the treatment.” 

His lashes shudder against your cheek in a prickly tickle. They keep fluttering when he recedes, shaking his head with a bitter frown.

“But its success is… highly improbable.” 

“Yes, but there’s still hope—“

“It’s running thin as we speak. I shouldn’t squander it on… the imminent.” 

Viktor’s irksome choice of words had you springing backwards in glossy-eyed delirium. Staring in disbelief as if he’d requested something inexorable: which he did, inherently so. 

He curses when tears slice your face again—tends to them with the softness of a man most contrite of his omission, shaky hands already catching holds of your waist, using your temporary pliancy to swiftly nudge you into his cot. Curling up close enough to have your weeps reverberate in his sternum. 

“I’m sorry,” he repents with a deep rasp. “Please, don’t cry.” 

He held you in reticence again: this time horizontally. Offered you every solace his body could provide: your fingers in his hair, fumbling mindlessly (he put them there himself). Tangled legs. Apologetic neck-kisses. His head heavy on your shoulder, its weight a welcome tranquility. And only when your last tear soaks his pillow does he commence with his explanation. 

“I don’t want to spend what little time I have left miserable,” he tells you, drawing a breath. “Yes, the treatment might win me a year—a year I would spend bedridden, nauseous, and weary. A travesty of life. An illusive salvation. I’ve had enough of those.” 

Your hand stills in his hair, nestled within unkempt strands. You’ve run out of tears, so this bitter truth is met with nothing but a piteous sigh—the only thing you can still master after crying your heart out into his skin. Now you can only stare at the ceiling, chewing on your cheek in cruel denial. 

He’s right. He always is. 

Viktor sees the shift in your face—knits his eyebrows together in tender pity, tucking himself firmly against your face. Wincing, when he feels the aching tension in your temple. 

“I know I’m asking a lot of you. Too much, even.” He’s sincere when he says that, and you can sense the gratitude in his voice—for even allowing him to utter this excruciating of a thing, for attempting to understand. 

You simply nod. Yes. It is a lot. But you want to hear everything he has to say. 

So Viktor continues.

“I would hate for your last memories of me to be tainted with despair and hospitals only for all the struggle to go to waste when I inevitably pass away. I have no desire to postpone this torture at the expense of growing indifferent towards everything that makes me feel alive.” 

“But what if we manage to cure you?!”

“That’s too much of a ‘what if’ to risk dying a grim death for. I want to die…content. I want to enjoy myself before I do. Please. Don’t take that choice away from me.”

His eyes brim at you with every ounce of guilt he possesses, big tears wallowing in his eyes like an earnest plea—tacit, weary, earnest. Yes, it’s not like you have a word in his terrific decision, but Viktor wants your blessing. It’s only right that he includes you. Even if he’s intending to refuse the treatment regardless. As absurd  a bid as that is. 

You clasp his face like it’s about to vanish. Like you won’t be able to make it out when he’s gone if you fail to remember it right this instant, your gaze frantically jumping from one feature to another, seeking to embroider the image into your very eyeballs. Roaming over the artifically-white hospital light hallowing every streak of his hair. Indulging in a bittersweet smile when you note how prettily it spills over the pillow. Lingering on the patterns in his ochre irises—almost fully swallowed by his void-like pupils. Observing how they match the insomniac, mauve shades under his bottom lashes. Tracing every convex little thing—two lovely moles, thick eyebrows, the pointy mouth. Everything you’ve grown to love so dearly. Everything his illness keeps taking away from you. 

You wince, cradling his cheeks, your thumbs dipping into the hollows of them gently. Urging him to scoot closer—eye to eye, lips on lips. Breath over shuddering breath. 

“Are you sure?” You mouth the question on his skin, barely even uttering it. Hot pressure meanders into your head like a prickly impulse. It’s timid like motion sickness—borderline nauseating, too—all murky splashes of trippy lights under your closed eyelids. And the unease is diluted only when he finally kisses you—an approbatory, guilt-ridden thing. 

He’s certain. And for that, he’s so, so sorry. 

You try not to think of it, focusing on the feeling. No tongue, no teeth: just sheer tremor and so much rawness. A soft, soothing exhalation straight into your mouth like the gentlest of placebos—and yet, it works for you, slaps your pulse out of its frantic antics, and the stiffness slowly leaves your limbs under his touch. 

When it’s over, he winces at you in that sleepy, adoring way of his. Attempts a wry, sad smile. The cold light besieges his head into an even clearer halo—a foreshadowing of what is to come, an inconspicuous little thing. But everything about him is conspicuous to you. Loving Viktor has made you wary, and you wanted to hold onto that attention to the detail before it eventually slips away alongside him. 

 “Are you sure?” You repeat, tightening the inadvertent chokehold around his neck. The grip weakens only when he pulls away to clumsily clear his throat. 

“Yes.” And you know he means it when his face turns just as solemn as when he confesses his love to you. 

“I’ve had a nice life with you,” he adds, hoarsely. “I want it to feel nice when my time comes, too—whenever that might be. Sooner than later, I presume.” 

The figurative knife in your stomach twists anticlockwise. 

“Will you stay with me?” He dares to inquire. Meek, shaky hope tingling in his throat. “For however many months I have left?” 

And when you look up at him with a hurt frown, he’s reminded not to ask you rhetorical questions. 

— 

A few days later, Viktor is discharged from the hospital and insists that you both go back to normal. Well, to the new, tainted definition of it—where one spoiled napkin less is considered an ephemeral improvement and grief is a fixed variable by your side. 

Your slow-paced, quiet life that keeps turning even more timid in a frail attempt to savor what’s left of it. Faux preservation, but he allows it—savors it just as earnestly as you do, and your weeks weave into a darling, familiar routine. With some minor, necessary changes, no less: rest comes before the lab now, all deadlines fashionably late to accommodate this newfound tempo. Mandatory hourly breaks. Weekly check-ups. Four days off for every three he spends bent over the parchment. But this time, he doesn’t protest. His body demands it, inconveniently so.

You don’t tell anyone about your horrific arrangement—not yet, at the very least. It’s all you can think about, and the words threaten to slide out every time you speak—but you’re forced to swallow them with a smile so lopsided that everyone around you can only suspect the worst. A mantra of countless ‘What’s wrong’s irritating your ears with pure sincerity. 

What is wrong with you, indeed? You’re a spectator to death—not just any death, but the one you dreaded most. And not only are you witnessing it in the making, but this decision was never forced—you handed Viktor the choice and accepted whatever he went with so obediently that it felt absurd, and it had your skin crawling every time someone vaguely mentioned anything even remotely related to his condition.

But they—whoever that refers to—could never get it. They wouldn’t know what it’s like: to be stripped of your selfishness for the sake of Viktor’s peace. Defying your needs. Forcing yourself to find relief in demise. You might’ve failed to intimidate her into allowing you to keep him, but you could still accompany him into her arms and make it glorious. Here it is. Your new, appalling reason. It’s all that you want now.

Or is it? 

There’s enough nobility in being his chaperone—welcoming him into bed every night, painfully aware that it can become his death one. Treating every new invention of his like a soon-to-be postmortem legacy. Mourning the living. Anticipating the inexplicable. Marking every shared kiss the last, just in case. 

But then it came—unabashed and sudden. That blurry line where mourning merges into something dubious, a confusing paradox that leaves you full of filthy carry-over somewhere within your gut. The scorch his lips engrave into the column of your neck. The way it ignites a swell you can almost convince yourself is actually tangible, running your fingers over it recursively like a tactile little prayer. The gaze he throws at you across the lab ever so sneakily—a figurative punch that feels surprisingly close to a kiss. And you never resist turning it into one. Escalating. Claiming. Indulging those ambiguous, yet-to-be-defined things and having them wash over the remnants of your decorum. 

You try to fight it when it first happens, but it doesn’t last. There’s no place for restraint in grief—not when it turns into a beautiful desire to be all over him, to take everything life has to offer before he runs out of it. And Viktor doesn’t judge you. He encourages it. He craves it, just as bad—if not more—than you do. How many more undoings can he claim before the final one absorbs him? You’ve already lost that count. So much for having your love bleed on every inch of his skin.

Tonight you let it bleed mouth to mouth—a sweaty, heartfelt thing that commemorates your hunger for him in a kiss so dizzying that he has to lean back with a silent, breathless plea for brief interlude—foggy eyes staring up at you so devotedly. Shuddering, when your arms wander over his chest to feel the rasp, pointed lips bruised full of spit-slick swell. He’s a beauty—exquisite, albeit worn-down, his lines and angles blurring together into one eager, contourless essence, and you cage him in a firm straddle—your bare thighs over his clothed ones—grinding in a whiny attempt to reach him through his pants. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, leaning back to let him breathe. He’s sprawled out beneath you, tortuous hands already busy with tugging his tie off—impatient, clumsily nervous. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” you say at last, averting your gaze almost shyly. His fingers lurch to your hip, locking it in a gentle cradle, stilling above your backside in hesitation—asking for a laze caress, pushing your flimsy limits. As if forgetting that you never set those for him. Or, perhaps, he simply likes hearing your excited ‘yes’ every time. You can’t quite figure out which it is. 

He grabs a handful of you with reverence, and yet there’s something resilient about that grip—like he dreads that you might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on possessively enough, staring up at you with his head thrown back in a curious, admiring droop. Aiming to dispose of your shirt in a nimble pull. Plotting a sequence of kisses from neck to collarbone. 

You expect it when he rises on his elbows, then grips the bedframe to shift beneath you in a silly leap. Inelegant, but he couldn’t care less, releasing his hips from the hedge of your legs to make you slide up his crotch instead—a most welcome, brusque change that you adapt to in a squealing instant. Your moaning mouth agape under his grin. His hips thrusting through restraining fabric. Shaky. Erotic. With your arms tumbling astride his shoulders. 

“Don’t apologize,” Viktor insists in a lulling whisper, switching to a cautionary nip on your ear. “I’ve missed you, too,” he confesses somewhere into your hair, brushing through it with a tip of his nose—breathing you in through a tender whiff.  

Your words get lost in a deep fluster, rolling back into your throat and lingering there in a suffocating lump. They have you stiffening, heavy eyelids squeezing shut—a voluntarily blindfold to help you explore him through touch only. An invitation to feel you where he pleases. And, well—it just so happens that your whims align with his—a cohesive, welcome collateral. 

Viktor starts at the slope of your shoulder. Pulls the shirt down and traces that lovely curve—fingers first. Throws a brief, askance glance at your face to make sure that your eyes are closed, and, when met with the flutter of your lashes, gets back to his lovely tease. Tender, warm lips taste your skin with delicious, savoring sounds. Getting wetter when his tongue makes a fickle appearance—leaves a slick, capricious lick in the dip of your collarbone, fluffy hair tickling your face when he bends to tend to your chest, too—and you shiver as he sucks a plum love-stain that you’ll proudly wear under your shirts. 

“See,” he cooes. “Whatever gets into you must be contagious.” 

You give in to a half-lidded peek and find him begging for your assistance—a sweet request that you understand in half-nod. Arms up in the air and over your clouded head when he unleashes your skin from the thin garment—throws it on the floor for you to find later in the morning. 

“But it feels wrong.” You sigh. “Ever since we found out…”

“I’d rather you quit talking about that in bed, please,” Viktor reproaches, eyes heady with want. His fingers slide into your underwear, contemplating its fate—should he make it join your shirt or pull it to the side in hasty fashion? Either approach had him shivering at the thought. 

But the sudden sorrow stops the rush, rendering your urge for consolation. It wraps you around him all over again, legs locking in a tangle around his waist, drooping hands combing through his hair in a brusque, fervent tug. Seeking succor. Heart to heart and thumping an anxious march. 

“I’m afraid,” you admit, but it’s not a revelation. All shuddering shoulders under his idolatrous caress, and you pang with guilt at that, too—it’s you who should be fondling him this delicately, warm reassurance seeping into his ears—not yours. But Viktor wants to be your comfort. If anything, it’s the only thing on his mind.

“What are you afraid of, beloved?” A little shiver at the unforeign endearment—a rare occasion. His thick brows still drawn together in a concerned arc. They relax only when you rake your fingers down his body—counting ribs, toying anxiously. The hurry is gone, there’s only caution now: his enamored eyes, waiting for you to find your slippery words. 

“Of losing you before I get to show you how much I love you.” You whisper, suddenly tasting teary salt in your mouth. His thumb comes to the rescue, swiftly flicking the wet trails. So you chuckle at the affection in a silly stagger to bump sweaty foreheads together.

“Nonsense,” he insists. “You’re showing me right now.”

“Indeed.” You shrug. “But… Is this the right way?” 

And when he puts your palm over his eager heartbeat, you’re reminded not to ask him rhetorical questions. 

—

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @nausicaaandhermouth @thehistoriangirl @vyshnevska

[remiratboi]

Filled

Masterlist

Arranged Marriage Trope ~ 2.8K Words

Wolf-Hybrid!HusbandXHuman!GNFatReader

CW: Arranged marriage, distant relationship, mild bdsm, mild dom/sub vibes, dominant personality more than anything else, masturbation, knotting, size kink, breeding. Honestly it’s pretty tame compared to a lot of my stuff.

It was an arranged marriage. Two powerful families, a long time feud, and a wedding to forge the peace. It wasn’t unique, but it was uniquely awful for you.

Your new husband was a large, stoic wolf hybrid. He was gorgeous, you couldn’t deny that. He was well over 6 feet, and his tight black dress shirts did little to hide the muscles he touted. His fur was dark grey, like a misty mountain range. Sometimes you imagined touching it.

You felt dwarfed, which wasn’t something your chubby ass had experienced much. So that was nice.

But that’s where the positives ended. Yes, you looked great on his arm, a slinky black gown to match his silky black slacks and shirt, but you had no connection.

He seemed uninterested or unwilling to get to know you. You figured, if you were going to have to spend your lives together, you could at least develop a friendship. It wasn’t the love filled marriage you’d dreamed of, but it could still be a partnership, nonetheless.

You tried everything you could think of to seduce the absolute brick of a man. You flirted with him during every interaction you could. You brought him little treats you had baked while he worked. You rubbed his shoulders after a long day. Nothing seemed to make him warm to you.

He seemed comfortable having you around, but also seemed to have no interest in interacting with you, unless you initiated it. It was starting to drive you mad.

You’d noticed little things about him that were more subtle. Things you didn’t realize he’d do. He always protected you when he was around. You were… clumsy to say the least, and the amount of times he’d caught your dumb ass as you were about to fall was kind of comical. It got to the point he always had a hand hovering around you. At your lower back, your hip, your thigh. It was almost like he gravitated around you.

Then there was his eyes. He didn’t express much on his face, in his dangerous line of work, he couldn’t. But that didn’t stop his eyes. You’d learned to read him from watching his eyes. You’d be in meetings together, and without fail you could guess his response. The subtle ways his brows furrowed when he was interested, and listening intently. Or the fire that flashed when he got annoyed.

You noticed his eyes when he looked at you as well. You couldn’t tell what it was, but there was a distinct, unique look in his eyes when he looked at you. And a faint blush to his cheeks when you caught him staring.

You’d started thinking maybe something would come of you two after all, but despite your ever boldening efforts, nothing happened.

Finally, after nearly a year of this new life, you were pent up, and frustrated. You shared a bed, which made any sort of self pleasure extremely difficult. Normally you could time things for when he was busy, or showering. But one night, much later than you would have liked to be asleep, your cunt throbbed.

You squirmed lightly in the large king size bed. He lay mere inches from you, soft snores rising from his chest. His face was serene, calm. You didn’t get to see him at peace very often. You’d begun to cherish seeing him like this.

You couldn’t focus long enough to go to sleep. Your thighs were sticky with your arousal. You wanted to be fucked. It had been so long. Prior to the wedding, you’d been told he’d expect you to fulfil certain… duties. But he’d never touched you in that way aside from a chaste kiss at your wedding.

You’d spent years of your life before meeting him, fearing the tyrant man you’d likely marry, and sometimes, dreaming about the handsome man you’d marry. But you were met with him, something you’d never expected or imagined. Uninterested.

You whined softly to yourself. You were desperate. He was asleep… right? You listened to his breathing. It sounded even. His soft snores solidified your decision.

You turned to lay on your back, a hand snaked down to gently rub your aching clit. You almost moaned out loud, your other hand whipping to your mouth to cover it. He was so close. He was so beautiful. You wanted him. It surprised you how confident you were in that asseratation. You spun your fingers in circles on your small bud while gazing at his face.

You imagined his hands on your body. Those huge, strong hands. What things had he done with those hands? The idea of such violence colliding with your soft, pliable body, had you stifling another moan.

You dipped lower and sunk two fingers into your cunt. You couldn’t help a whimper slipping through. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. You wanted him to fill you, you wanted him to take you. Why couldn’t he just want you back?!

You groaned in frustration, your fingers desperately pushing in and out of you. You were starting to think you wouldn’t be able to cum while staring at his face, wanting him so badly.

“Please…” you moaned his name before you could stop yourself.

His eyes snapped open. You yelped and scrambled to pull your fingers out of your body, your positioning clear.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” He demanded, his voice dark, an edge you couldn’t place to it. He turned to look at you, his eyes raking down the thin sheet that covered you. Your pj shorts were pulled to your knees, your tank pulled up and over your chest. All that stopped him from seeing you on full display was that barely there sheet. You felt your nipples harden and his eyes flashed down from yours to stare.

“Answer.” He gave no room for argument. His eyes didn’t leave your chest.

“I, uh, I must have been having a bad dream. Sorry I wo-” he didn’t let you finish. He ripped the sheet off of your body and before you could even react, he climbed on top of you, pinning you down underneath him. He held your hands above your head in one thick fist, his knees in between your legs, holding them open. His other hand lightly caressed your round, soft tummy.

“Do not lie to me.” He whispered into your ear, leaning down so his face was next to yours. “You have one more chance to explain why you are almost naked, moaning out my name like a slut.”

Your cheeks burned. You turned your head and squeezed your eyes hoping maybe that would make it all go away.

His warm breath on your face told you it wouldn’t.

“I… I… I was just…” you didn’t know what to say. I was just fingering myself while desperately thinking about you fucking me?! Yeah… no.

He stared at your face. You peeked up at him, surprised by the slight smirk you could see playing in his lips. You had thought he was furious? But maybe…

“I was touching myself.” You spoke softly. Embarrassed still. Even with your soaking cunt spread open for him.

“What were you imagining?” He replied, not missing a beat.

“You.” You practically whispered. He groaned above you.

“Show me what you were doing.” He leaned back and let go of your wrists. He sat back on his calves, kneeled in between your thighs still. You looked up at him, eyes wide with uncertainty. He nodded curtly towards your exposed pussy. He brought his hands up to massage idly at your thick thighs. His thumbs ran along stretch marks and dimples near your hips.

You squirmed, hesitant to perform such a vulnerable action in front of another person. He turned his face from the flesh of your thighs he was handling, up to yours and caught your gaze. “This is your final warning. Do not push me, love.” His tone, deadly. You found your cheeks burning even hotter at the casual term of affection he’d used.

You couldn’t pull your eyes from his, but slowly lowered your hand down to your clit. You rubbed yourself unenthusiastically.

Your husband who had never seemed as wolf-like as he did now, tsked at you. “I don’t think pathetic movements like those were what made you moan my name.” He reminded you again of your embarrassment.

You whimpered and a shudder ran through him. You reached your fingers further, and pressed two shallowly into your cunt. You were surprised by how much more wet you had become. The fear, the uncertainty of his next move, had you on edge like never before.

“Now, tell me, no don’t stop moving.” He interrupted himself when you paused. “That’s right, now tell me, why were you imagining me while fingering yourself? Why were you staring at my face while trying to make yourself cum?” You thought your cheeks couldn’t have gotten more red and hot until he had said that.

“I, please, just let this go, and we can pretend nothing happened.” You begged him, pleading eyes gazing up at his unimpressed ones. “I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t listen very well, do you?” His tone was threatening. He flipped you over in the blink of an eye, and pressed your soft, round body into the bed. You felt his rock hard cock press into your ass from behind through his pyjamas. Your eyes flew open at the realisation of how turned on he was.

“Does that make you less self conscious, love?” He asked, patronisingly, grinding his hips against you. “You might even get a reward if you’re a good slut for me.” You felt yourself get even wetter, if that was possible.

“I was thinking about you fucking me, because I think I might be in love with you, and you never even give me the time of day, and we are just laying in this bed every night, so close and yet so far and I hate it and I don’t know what to do!” You shouted in a chaotic, blubbering stream. You gasped a breath after the words had finished tumbling from your mouth. You hadn’t really meant to say quite that many words…

For a long moment, your wolf hybrid husband was motionless above you. Your face was pressed into the mattress. Tears began to prick the edges of your eyes with each second that dragged on.

“But… I’m a monster?” He asked quietly. “I thought maybe you were just horny and wanted a quick fuck with a warm body.” He flipped you around, your face inches from his. He stared at you with large, round eyes. The stern, controlling man who held you seconds ago was gone, replaced by a shy puppy. “You love me?” He asked. You could see uncertainty flash through his eyes.

“You’re my husband.” You replied, the doubt clear even as you said the words.

The handsome man looking down at you scoffed. “That doesn’t mean anything. You didn’t choose me. You didn’t get to have a say. I didn’t want to take advantage of our situation. I know…” he trailed off. “I know there are unfair expectations for physical relations in arranged marriages, but I swore I’d never be that kind of man, I’d never push you to do anything. I promised myself I’d never let you know how desperately I wanted you.” His eyes widened as he seemed to realise what he said as he said it.

“You’re my mate, I think.” You spoke softly, uncertain of yourself as well. You reached up and pressed your hand against his face. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back into your touch.

When he opened his eyes again, they were solid black. “Those are dangerous words, love.” He smelled your arousal on the hand that cupped his face. You hadn’t registered it was the hand previously fingering your cunt.

“I like danger.” You said despite its cheesiness. It worked. Your mate chuckled.

“You like monsters too?” He asked again. A smirk had replaced his wide eyed surprise. His hard cock pressing against your soft tummy reminded him of your current predicament. You nodded enthusiastically at his question.

“Who would have thought, my precious, little human mate would be a desperate slut for wolves.” You dipped your head at his words but he pulled your chin back up, dragging your eyes to meet his.

“I love you too, I have for a very long time.” He kissed you, long and hard. The first real kiss you’d ever shared. You felt yourself gripping him everywhere, both of your hands touching the others bodies. He squeezed your hips, fingers and claws digging into your flesh.

He nipped down your neck, not breaking the skin, but enough to leave a trail of marks. You felt his hand go to his waistband, and he groaned as he released his cock. You had known it would be big, but big didn’t even begin to describe the behemoth in front of you. You felt your face pale.

The wolf above you licked his lips. “I know you can take it. One of the reasons I like my partners to be a bit thicker, better to manhandle, eh?” He teased you.

You looked between his face and cock, and his apparent disregard of your concern just made you wetter.

“I can smell you, slut.” He looked down at you with smug eyes. “Yeah, you’ll take me alright. Even if it have to make you.” A dangerous glint flashed in his eyes, and you felt the head of his dick at your entrance.

You second guessed yourself. You started trying to protest, but he covered your mouth with one large hand. “Now now, none of that. As you said, you’re my mate. You’ll love it.”

He slowly worked his head into you, and it was already breathtaking. You felt fuller than you’d ever felt, but anxiety at his size rose even further. Before you had a chance to protest, he started pushing deeper.

He wasn’t rough, but he definitely wasn’t gentle. He fucked into you with shallow thrusts, each pushing deeper than the last, until you could feel his knot battering at your entrance. The stretch was overwhelming, but you could feel the shadow of pleasure behind it.

Once he was at his full length, minus the knot, he started fucking you in earnest. He bent your legs up and over his shoulders, and practically folded you in half. It felt amazing to be so easily manoeuvred. Any stress you’d carried about being too big for him, melted away with each desperate caress he gave you. It was like he couldn’t touch enough of you at once.

The pain from his size kept fading, but the pleasure only built. Soon you were loudly crying out with each thrust. He grunted above you. He spoke of filling you with his seed, breeding you.

You could feel your orgasm growing as his thrusts got rougher. His hand snaked up to your neck, and you watched a wicked smile cross his face. He pressed into your neck, squeezing your throat. Your hands raised to his arm, trying to pull him away. It was almost comical, your tiny fingers prying at his thick muscular arm.

You started seeing spots and panic filled you. Your husband stared directly into your eyes as you struggled beneath him.

“Good pet, you can do it, don’t worry.” His comforting words sounded like they were too far away. You felt his knot pushing against your cunt. You tried to scream, but no sound could move past his fist on your neck.

Everything collided at once. Your vision was fading and your orgasm rising in front of you when he slammed his knot deep into your pussy. You screamed, even though no sounds came out. You both came, hard. He released your throat, and peppered you with kisses while you rode out to spasms.

Hot cum poured into your battered cunt as his thrusts turned erratic and staggered. He couldn’t move much due to his knot, but he did what he could. You felt the huge pressure drag up and down the entrance of your pussy. He came for so long, longer than your entire orgasm. You were coming down while he was still filling you up. You gripped each other's bodies, sweat and saliva mixing.

He collapsed to the side, pulling you up and on top of him, his cock still wedged deep inside you. You moaned involuntarily at the movement.

“Hmmm, I hope that was better than your fingers.” He hummed, amused. You grinned down at him.

“Marginally.” You teased. He looked up at you with offence and you winked, leaning down to kiss him again. You didn’t think the excitement of that was going to wear off any time soon.

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

Yandere batfamily x neglected reader

The manor is cold, silent as a tomb, and for once, it feels like a fitting home. You lie still on the bed, too small and fragile in the heavy, towering room. They all gather around you, each staring in shock, faces pale, breaths shallow—as if hoping that, by holding their breath, they might somehow trade their own life to coax warmth back into your cold form.

Bruce’s hand hovers over you, hesitant. His calloused fingers, so accustomed to war and violence, seem clumsy when they brush against your cheek. He trembles, silent, fighting against the whirlwind in his chest, his stoic mask cracked beyond repair. “I promised to keep you safe,” he whispers, his voice breaking in a way none of them have ever heard before. “I promised… and I failed you.” His hand, heavy with the weight of every failure, drops to his side, useless.

Dick’s hands cover his mouth, choking on a sob that won’t stay hidden. He’s the eldest, the one who was supposed to know better, to set the example. But he looks at you now, his eyes red and raw, remembering each time he walked past you, too busy laughing with others to notice you slipping away. “Why didn’t I tell you…?” he whispers, agony etched across his face. “Why didn’t I show you that you were loved?” The words fall into the silence, lost, and he knows you’ll never hear them now.

Jason kneels beside the bed, clutching your lifeless hand in his, as if he can pull you back with sheer force. His shoulders shake, his body radiating rage, despair, regret. His lips tremble as he remembers the countless times he shrugged off your gaze, ignored the quiet plea in your eyes. He thought he was sparing you from his darkness, protecting you from the world. But now he sees it for what it was—neglect, cold and unkind. He bows his head, the unbreakable Red Hood shattered, silent tears falling onto your still fingers.

Tim stands back, his face white, hands trembling as he presses his fists to his sides. The detective, the genius, who noticed everything—except you. He let the days slip by, assuming there’d always be more time, that you’d understand he was busy, preoccupied with saving the world. But now, as he watches the life drained from you, he feels a pang in his chest sharp enough to cut through bone. “I should’ve been there,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “I should’ve been a brother to you…” He stares at you, eyes rimmed with despair, the guilt hollowing him out from within.

Damian’s usual steel has melted into something unrecognizable. He doesn’t know how to touch you, where to place his hands, and the hesitation makes him feel powerless in a way he’s never known. He’d prided himself on being stronger, colder, above such weakness—but now, faced with your absence, he finds himself wishing he’d let you in, softened just a little. “You… you weren’t supposed to…” He can’t even finish, his words broken. He reaches out, almost unwilling, to touch your hand, flinching when it’s cold. His lips press into a thin line as he tries to hold back tears, but they fall, betraying the ache he’d been too proud to acknowledge.

They stay by your side, each of them reliving every lost opportunity, every moment they could have held you close and didn’t. Days pass, blurred, and they linger in the same room, surrounded by memories of what should have been.

When Alfred brings them food, they push it away. They can’t bear the thought of comfort while you lie there, untouched by life. They whisper to you, sometimes out loud, promising things they can’t ever deliver: "We'll make it up to you…we’ll fix this." But no voice answers back.

Driven by desperation, Bruce turns to ancient books, rumors, magic, anything that offers a hint of hope. He works night after night, chasing the impossible. The others follow him, each digging into their own corners of madness, driven by the need to correct what they destroyed. But every ritual fails, every lead falls cold. And the bitter truth gnaws deeper: there is no cure for regret, no resurrection from guilt.

The night finally falls silent, and they’re left alone with you, as if the universe itself mourns. Each of them curls beside you, their heads on the bed, hands on your arm, your hand, your chest, wherever they can cling to you, trying to pretend for one last moment that you’re still there. They hold on, eyes shut, whispering prayers to a god who’s deaf to their pain.

When morning breaks, none of them rise. They stay beside you, unwilling to face a world that doesn’t have you in it. They’ve lost you, their last chance to be the family they should have been, and they know now they’ll never be whole.

(A/n: no one asked and I also didn't but INSPIRED BY DIS IDEA FROM @steor-ra ILY BESTFRIEND BUT PLEASE UPDATE 💜👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩)

[carebearbussy]

𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙥𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨

ᥫ᭡ 𝙨𝙮𝙥𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: 𝙞𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝… 𝙨𝙪𝙠𝙪𝙣𝙖 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙗𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙞𝙣 𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡.

ᥫ᭡ 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝙘𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙜𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙘!𝙨𝙪𝙠𝙪𝙣𝙖 𝙭 𝙛𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙚!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

ᥫ᭡ 𝙘𝙬: 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 𝙬/ 𝙖 𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙩, 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙, 𝙫𝙤𝙮𝙚𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙢, 𝙥𝙚𝙩 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨, 𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙪𝙢𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙗𝙖𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 216

ᥫ᭡ 𝙬𝙘: 1,4K

𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙖 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙮 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

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You don't know how you ended up here.

Currently, you were standing on the steep steps of the Zen'in estate, alongside Uraume, Kenjaku, and, well, yourself. But you didn't feel like yourself. Instead, you felt an overwhelming evil fill your system. You felt the bile in the pit of your stomach churn, and the air in your lungs suddenly gained heaviness. But of course, you were supposed to be ready for this kind of thing.

You watched Uraume dismantle a giant cursed spirit, splitting it from the inside out and freezing its insides. Their expression told you that they were indifferent to this kind of treatment. "Whats wrong Y/N? Never seen a cursed spirit bleed?" Kenjaku spoke up. "I-I have..." that was a lie. And it was clear Kenjaku knew that, but he let you have your reassuring moment.

Uraume had previously informed you about the ritual of bathing in the blood of cursed spirits. It made your head spin even thinking about it. They called you 'weak' or 'tender' for saying that. But I mean, who wouldn't be disgusted by a giant bleeding cursed spirit? The sight was downright vile.

"Y/N, Please do not keep Sukuna Sama waiting." Uraume says. "What? Where is he?" You say, trying to keep your composure. "He is down those stairs, in the bath I have prepared for him. He has ordered me to inform you upon your arrival, to come to his side. I can show you the way if you would like."

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"What are you looking at, brat? You wanna come in?" Sukuna says, staring directly into your eyes. Most of his head was submerged under the crimson fluid that surrounded him, and he had a lustful look in his eyes when he spoke to you. One of the many things that never failed to make you weak in the knees.

"I wouldn't prefer that... I don't wanna get my hair wet." Which was an obvious lie, to the truth that you were scared. But Sukuna knew you too well, and could see through your facade. And with a chuckle, he said, "Women are so dramatic sometimes. But I can tell you're lying. You're scared, is that it?" You pause and look at the scene before you. The pool of blood is at least a couple meters deep, and it was absolutely huge to your standards. "You scared of drowning? Ill hold you up then. These worries of yours are irrelevant to me. Be a big girl and get inside already."

You didn't want to seem weak in front of Sukuna, but the thing was, he already knew you were weak. So there was truly no need to hide that from him. Sukuna basically knew everything about you, as being one of the perks of being his favorite playthings. You aren't too sure how you managed to get this far into your questionable relationship with the curse, but it really happened with no negotiation. He suddenly took a liking to you and your uncoordinated self. Something about you was charming to him. How cute.

You suck in your breath and close your eyes, as you are reassuring yourself to be more brave. But as you make your descent downwards, it was hard to. Which in turn makes you trip over your steps, with a loud shriek. But as you land and fall feet first inside the water, you find yourself being held up by Sukunas arms. "Such a clumsy thing to do in front of your king." He says, clearly amused in your antics.

You start to quietly panic, as the only thing holding you up in the deep liquid is Sukunas strong hold on your thrushing body, keeping his hands attached to your waist. "Calm down already. You aren't drowning as long as i'm here." His words didn't fix your crumbling composure.

"You need my help? Or do I need to teach you how to calm the fuck down."

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You couldn't think straight.

With the way Sukunas hips piled rived into yours, it turned you into a blabbing mess. He had brought you to the shallow area of the steps while still submerged. While he was siting on one of the steps, you were going practically dumb on his cock. You held onto his shoulders with each hard thrust of his hips, holding on for dear life at this point.

All that could be heard was splashing from the waves that formed around the two of you, and the squelching of your aroused pussy.

"K-kuna please-" You say as his cock continues his assault on your poor cunt, his gruff hands moving your hips up and down like a ragdoll. "Holy shit- hhahhh- I cant- Please" "Use your words, big girl." He says, a harsh hand coming up to grab and handful of your hair. "Its too much- im gonna cum soon kuna!" You say embarrassingly, hiding your face into Sukunas shoulder.

"Aw, but we just got started right?" He says with a fake pout. This little fucker. "Cmon, keep trying. You wish to please me, correct?" With a smug grin tugging his lips, he forces your head to look over your shoulder at the mess your making on his cock.

"Uraume! Get us a robe while your at it, yeah?" Sukuna yells from across the room, his eyes preoccupied on your shaking body. "At once, my lord." Uraume says, taking a leave. Uraume? Were they here the whole time? You went too blank spaced in the mind to even notice anybody else.

But your thoughts come to a halt when Sukuna stops, flips you around and ruts into you from behind, his hands snaking around your waist, head resting on your shoulder, causing you to grab onto his thighs for dear life. The relenting pace he was going at, paired with the angle he was fucking your pussy in made you see stars, indicating your soon coming release.

"Right there- shit right there! Don't stop- please-!" You held your head hanging low, too focused on the pleasure Sukuna was handing your way. "Oh my, so bossy today. Who are you to think you can order me around?" He says, low groans leaving his mouth from behind your shoulder. "Im about to- oh my god oh my god-" And with that you cum, your cunt convulsing and tightening around his length, practically milking him.

"Good fucking girl, let it all out." He says, while still thrusting into you, maintaining his relentless pace. "Stop! Too much-" You yelled, mouth hanging open uncontrollably. "You want me to fill you up? You'd want that wouldn't you. You want your kings seed?" He grabs the sides of your face, and moves his hands in and out, mimicking the movement of your mouth and saying in a high pitched voice 'Yes, I want my kings seed!'

He laughs with Uraume at this, who is standing unbothered at the sight before them. Holding two matching robes for the two of you. You couldn't help but let out loud moans from how overwhelmed you were. "You see that Uraume? Shes embarassed, its pathetic really. the poor thing isn't used to people watching." "The way she is moving tells me she is, she is overreacting really." Uraume says, observing the sight, with no lustful intentions. Your head starts shaking, trying to say you don't. "Please Kuna! I cant-

"You like when they watch? My drama queen truly." He says, slowing down his movements. "Fuck, being so good for me. Heres your reward, pet." And with a harsh groan, releases inside of your fluttering pussy, filling you to the brim with his seed, and painting your inner walls white. You whimper with your head low, as Sukuna rests his head in the crook of your neck, hands still resting on your hips.

He pulls out of you and flips you around, grabbing your chin. You are basically on the brim of passing out from how intense that was. He picks you up by the ass, forcing glops of cum to drool out of your cunt, and pool into the water. Sukuna looks amused at the piece of art he had just created.

"Good job brat. Uraume! Get us those towels, and make sure she can stand, I don't need an annoying little pet the next day."

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[luveline]

𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐬 𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧

remus’ touch after a long night prompts a tired confession (and a slew of clumsy kisses). 

requested here. modern au. fem!reader, 3.6k.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

“I'm going to bed,” Sirius mumbles, scratching at his eyes as he gets up. “Don't let her sleep in her makeup. She'll get an eye infection.” 

Your eyes are getting sore, but it's hardly Remus' responsibility to make sure you wash your face tonight, nor Sirius’ to remind you. “I'm a big girl.” 

Sirius sends you a smile, ignoring your chiding. “Goodnight, my loves,” he says, waving you both away as he heads out of the living room and up the stairs. 

“Notice how he didn't do his dishes?” Remus asks, shifting beside you. 

He's sitting as he tends to, slouched in a way that can't be good for his back in the long run but is clearly comfortable short term. His chin is on his chest, his legs kicked out under the coffee table, which is decorated by the casualties of the night. Sirius’ dinner plate, Remus’ mug, James’ rarely used handheld console. He'd been playing a cutesy farming sim before he said goodnight an hour ago. Sirius stayed to mess with James’ crops and eat a late supper. You're surprised it took him as long as it did to admit defeat. 

“What time is it?” you ask. 

You're laying on the sofa with your socked feet tucked behind Remus’ back, of which he's yet to complain. His elbow brushes your shin as he brings up his arm. “Nearly one in the morning, now,” he reads from his watch. “Let's go to bed too, yeah?” 

“I don't want to.” You turn your face into the pillow behind your neck.

“Me neither,” Remus says, dropping his hand on your knee.

You watch another twenty minutes of TV together failing to summon the energy to stand, but the want for a glass of water grows too big. Your head throbs as you get up, offering your hands to the pretzel that is your favourite housemate.

Remus turns off the TV and lights. You lock the front door. He carries the dirty dishes to the kitchen and you fill up two glasses of water to take with you. It's all so… regular. A routine you share nearly every night, only to climb into your two separate beds. 

He ushers you out of the kitchen and down the hallway with his hand behind your shoulders, his touch a phantom as you ascend the stairs.

You're silent beside the creak of the old wood, too tired to speak. Remus is similarly quiet, though he does whisper, “Watch,” when you nearly kick the box of Halloween decorations waiting to be taken up into the attic. 

You leave your water on the towel box in the alcove and dance around one another in the bathroom. Sirius’ toothbrush lays on the sink still wet, but otherwise there's no signs of him. 

You're feeling very, very tired. You hadn't realised how bad it was until you're putting your toothbrush in your mouth, leant up against the window sill, a slot of cold air seeping in from the dark outside. Your eyes shutter closed. The scrubbing sound of Remus brushing his teeth is almost lulling. 

He swills out his mouth and washes his brush. “Here,” he says gently. You open your eyes just enough to see him beckoning you forward. “Dove, your necklace.” 

“Oh. Thanks.” You turn your back to him. 

His fingers are damp and cool on your skin as he unclasps your necklace. He often takes it off for you. It's one of the things you'll miss when you guys aren't living together anymore, the slow meander to his bedroom, the wood of his door jam on your cheek as you lean against it and give him a hopeful smile. Sometimes he's awake, reading a novel on his side in bed or listening to music at his desk, other times he's sleeping. On those occasions you spend too long lingering, stolen seconds spent staring at the rise and fall of his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” you say as he puts your necklace in the jewellery dish. It comes out missing vowels, lips stuck together as though honeyed. 

You spit pathetically in the sink, rinse your brush, and consider sitting down. “I'm tired,” you whine, wiping your lips. 

“I know,” Remus says, giving you a fond nudge. “Just wash your face and get on with it.” 

“You first. I'm going to nap standing up for a bit.” 

He puts as much of his hair behind his ears as he can and turns on the tap. This is just as familiar as brushing your teeth together. It's not quite as bad as watching James Perfect Skin Potter wash his face with bar soap, but you have to admit that Remus’ eight-nine pence face soap hurts your heart. He washes it off, pats his face dry, and takes the small bottle of bio oil out of the medicine cabinet to pipette onto his pinky finger. “Wash your face,” he says, smoothing the oil into his scars one by one. 

You shake your head. “M'gonna do it in the morning.” 

“That's why your eye was swollen a few weeks ago. You know yourself you won't.” 

“I might,” you say, letting out a big breath as you rub your sore eyes even sorer, “I'm too tired.” 

“Can you sit up, at least?” 

“No.” Remus takes you by the shoulders and forces you to sit on the edge of the bath. “Aggressive?” 

“Don't fall in,” he says, cupping your cheek briefly as if to make sure you've heard. 

You are hearing him, seeing him, even feeling the immensity of his touch, but you're tired, and you know you can let yourself relax completely with him. You'd be the same with James or Sirius, though neither of them could have your head feeling so dizzyingly light from a single touch as Remus can. You probably wouldn't let them persuade you into this, either, tilting your head back to watch through blurry vision as Remus soaks a cotton round in your facial oil. 

“Close your eyes,” he says. 

“Was that a dracula impression?” 

“I command you.” 

You close your eyes. The queasy feeling of oil drags against your lids as Remus wipes them, loosening the stiff tubes of mascara that coat your lashes. It's not a short process because he's very, very gentle, holding your face delicately as though you're a flower in need of coddling, and him the sun. It's the only metaphor that would ever make sense for you and Remus; he's like the sun even if it goes against every statement he's ever made about himself, or anyone else has, for that matter. People think he's a moody, sarcastic boy, and he is, but he's also a vestibule of sweetness, softness, and warmth. The kind of heat you'd only ever feel kissing your skin under the summer sun. But more than that, he's the relief that follows when the clouds come out. 

And his hands are all over you. Your head gets heavier by the minute, eased into dozing by his touch and quiet tones. “We're almost done. I'm gonna have to carry you to bed at this rate.” 

“I'm going to miss this so much one day,” you say. It's easier to admit when you're not looking at him. 

Remus turns on the tap. Hot water runs, you can tell by the sound as strange as it seems, and he wrings the dirtied cotton round before replacing it with a new one. He wets it, bringing it just that touch too hot to your cheeks to wipe you down. “What are you going to miss, dove?” 

“Us. You. I'm going to miss you.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“Nowhere, but one day I will be. James will finally have had enough of us and I'll,” —you swallow around nothing as a rivulet of water runs down your cheek, a cooling tear from the cotton round— “have to move out and we'll never see each other anymore.” 

“Don't be silly, you're not going anywhere.” 

“It's not about the going,” you murmur, peeling your eyes open tentatively as his dabbing follows down your cheek to your neck. “I miss you sometimes and we still live together. I can't imagine how much I'll miss you…” 

Remus puts the cotton round aside. He takes your face into his hand, and suddenly his touch feels raw, nothing like it had moments ago. Because Remus would wash your makeup off for you any day of the week, but his looking at you like this, so unshielded and unabashed, is a rarity. 

“You won't have to miss me. Even if we did move away from each other, I wouldn't let it be that far.” 

“Friends move away all the time. We don't speak to half the people we knew at school.” 

“I only really knew you and the boys,” he says. It isn't true but it is at the same time. Together, you'd been a happy lot, but your current housemates are the ones you'd known. “And see? We're still together.” 

“But for how long?” you ask. 

Remus brings his second hand, holding your face entirely. He covers your cheeks, index fingers sliding slowly under your ears. He's exceedingly gentle, and his eyes are soft. He holds you like you're made of glass, like you could break under a hint of pressure. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side as though he might lean in for a kiss. Maybe he doesn't know he's doing it, but Remus is a very purposeful soul. He'd do much worse to wind you up if you wanted him to. 

You sober up. It's like he has caffeine in his palms. 

“You want to go where I'm going, is that it?” he asks quietly. 

“Yeah,” you say, barely say, voice shame-facedly weak. Is he asking what you think he is?

“Do you want to start now?” 

You breathe out as one of his hands shifts down your jaw. “Yeah, I… I want to start now.” 

“Okay, dove. Then close your eyes again.” 

You hold his gaze for a second that feels infinitely long and short at once, your heart racing. Clarity has returned, a thrust into wakefulness even if your fatigue ties knots around your ankles. You look at him in his late night glory, his scars shining a pink-white like the petals of a young peony flower, and you know it's happening now. 

You shut your eyes. 

He steps closer, though the bath you're perched on is low, and he has to bend a considerable amount to reach you. The weight of his hands on you doesn't change, not even as he grows near enough to sense the heat of his breath against your lips. It's his nose that makes first contact as it slides against yours, and then his forehead presses down into you, his lips noticeably absent. Each contiguity between you thrums. 

A pit opens in your chest, cleaved by his voice as he says, “I'm going to kiss you, okay? S'that what you want?” 

Your hands don't feel like your own. Under the sickening nervousness twining its way through your ribs, you're excited. You're smiling, your voice shaped by it. “Yeah. It's what I want,” you say. 

“Good. It's what I've wanted for a while–” while pressed into your lips, all shaken up by an emotion you've never heard him speak with. He kisses you and you're frozen, and he waits and waits and pulls away to push back in. You remember yourself then, responding to his wading with some pressure of your own. Sparked back to life. 

It's so strange. It doesn't feel real. Remus Lupin kisses you heated and hard for just long enough to feel it in your teeth before he pulls away. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his fingertip running down your cheek, following that same path as your earlier rivulet. To think he saw it, really saw it, locked it away to remember and trace into your skin now… maybe he's seen much more of you than you realised all along. 

“Will you do it again?” you say under your breath. 

Remus must hear the thread of insecurity running through your question; you're afraid he'll say no, but he strokes your cheek again with that unfathomable softness and says, “Yeah, dove, of course I will.” 

“Do you want to?” 

And that's less insecurity and more selfishness, wanting the confession. He hears that, too. 

“I want to kiss you more than I've ever wanted anything,” he says, eye to eye with you, your head tipped up and your heart in your throat, twitching and fizzling like a firecracker. “Yeah? And all that missing me you've been doing? All your worrying? You don't need to do that. You've never needed to do that–” 

“I just never thought you liked me like that.” You and Remus aren't new to one another. “You've been the same since the day we met.” 

Remus’ hands get a little more solid where he's holding you. “Dove. Dove, are you mad?” 

“Remus–” 

“Maybe I have been the same, but did you really not notice that I–” He squeezes your cheeks playfully, almost in disbelief. “If you want me, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere without you. You're not going anywhere without me.” 

“So you like me?” 

“Yes,” he says, his eyebrows pinched together at the starts. “Of course I do.” He laughs. “That's what I'm trying to tell you.” 

“Oh,” you say, lifting your head. 

Remus shuts his eyes a millisecond before you shut your own and kisses you again. The second round is softer, his smile to yours and struggling to find purchase. His breath huffs out in a minty laugh, shockwaves through your mouth. 

“Stop laughing,” he breathes, his hands falling to your neck, your shoulders.

“You first.” 

Your lips part under his, a split-second of contact. He yanks away before things can get too heavy, and you're glad he does, but for a moment you feel the loss like a wave of vertigo. 

“Sorry, I'm going too fast, and you're tired.” His touch is ticklish behind your shoulder. 

“It's okay. Maybe it is a bit fast, but I'm not tired anymore,” you confess. 

Remus hugs you, cementing every feeling for him you have as he wraps his arms around you from over your shoulders, a deft hand cupped behind your neck. “That's not true. I can feel your back shaking. Let's go to bed.” 

“After that?” 

“What, are you worried it won't have happened in the morning?” he asks genuinely. 

You go limp in his arms as he takes your weight against his chest. Not worried, but rather not sure you can be away from him so soon. You ask him in a whisper if you can come and sit with him, not to sleep with him, not to do anything else, and he whispers back, Anything you want. You both entertain the lie that you won't fall asleep in his bed. 

—

Remus tenses as he hears the scuffling sounds of movement downstairs. It takes a train of thought awakening for him to realise it's only James, rising early as usual to put on a load of washing and prepare bits for lunch before he goes off for training. He can see him in his mind's eye if he tries, his friend dressed in the red and white rugby uniform, green socks up over his calves and white cleats scrubbed pristine for another ruck in the mud. 

Remus’ relaxes, stretching out in bed until his hand bumps into something rigid. 

He flinches. 

You're laying on the mattress beside him, your head slipped off of the pillows and your arm tucked beneath you. It doesn't look comfortable, and if it were any other morning he'd pull it straight for you, but. 

I kissed you, he thinks to himself, as though talking to you. He turns away from you until his back clicks and alleviates the ache in his hips, though he has to settle eventually, back on his back, no way of ignoring you. He doesn't want to ignore you. The opposite —why are you so far away? Can he hold you? 

What are the rules here? 

Kissing… not dating… You're here in his bed, you'd asked to stay. 

He takes your hand and pulls at your arm. Still sleeping, you mumble and move onto your back, releasing the pressure on your shoulder as he pulls you toward his chest. Your face is impassive, lax in sleep. 

He should let you sleep. 

“Dove,” he says, stroking up the length of your arm. 

“Mm?” you hum. 

“I need to ask you something.” 

You twitch awake with a small cough. Your eyes are red with a lack of sleep as you open them, blinking, and he wishes stupidly that he could make it better. He makes a sympathetic sound for want of more to do. 

“Why have you woken me up?” you ask, blinking at him. You gather that there's nothing urgent happening and push your face into his shoulder, practically nuzzling him. “It's Saturday.” 

“I just need to ask you something.” 

“So ask me,” you encourage through your sleepiness. 

The washing machine whirs downstairs. It’s an old machine that you often joke is taking off into orbit during the final spin, loud as anything. He can barely hear your sluggish breathing underneath it, but he can't miss the catch in it after he asks, “Can I be your boyfriend?” 

It's not the catch he's expecting. You laugh and readjust, wrapping your arms around him from the side and kissing the side of his neck clumsily. “Y'u asked me last night,” you say in a borderless run-on, sounding about as dopily in love as he's ever heard you. 

He thinks about it. Yes, he did, after he'd kissed you many more times than he should've and curled up in bed with you, hands held loosely beneath the blankets. He remembers the question, the answer. The last kiss that followed, and you falling asleep beside him. 

“I need a coffee,” he says, encouraging your head back so he can kiss your temple. 

“No, you need to sleep more with me. And maybe kiss me again. If you want to.” 

Sleeping isn't half as interesting as kissing you. He slots his nose against yours and languishes in the feeling of your lips, wondering if he's having a false start. He could still be dreaming. It would make sense. 

The door clatters open with a curse. James stands in the doorway with a folded pile of Remus' washing from the radiators in his arms, an apology on his lips, “Sorry, mate, the door got away from– oh my god. Oh my god?” 

Remus isn't an overly shy guy but he can't deal with this. “For fuck's sake,” he mutters, dropping his face into your shoulder. Your arm wraps under his neck, fingers splayed across his cheek. 

“James–” you begin, resigned to your fate. 

“This is flat-cest. This is the cardinal sin.” 

“We don't live in a flat,” Remus says. 

“That makes it worse. You can't even blame close quarters.” Remus peeks up to watch James in the doorway, still clinging to Remus’ washing, pure shock curdling his features. He shakes his head. “I'm telling Sirius.” 

“Please don't!” you say.

You slump back into the pillows as James leaves anyways. 

Remus hugs your soft abdomen. “Don't worry,” he says.

“I guess it's a good thing you've already asked me out,” you say. 

“Why, what can they do?” Remus asks, wondering if he's allowed to put his face on your chest or if that's too forward. You rake a hand through his hair and encourage him forward, to his delight. 

Frantic words. You and Remus loved up in bed despite it. 

“I'm chucking them out!” 

“James, they've been seeing for weeks. Can I go back to sleep?” 

“What?!” 

You grumble into his hair. “That's not even true… Does everyone know, then? That I liked you?” 

Remus thinks of the shadow of you in the doorway, that sheepish smile you send his way before you ask him to unclasp your necklace before bed, or your face as he’d wiped the sooty stain of mascara from your cheek last night, half in love with him as you fell asleep in his palm. 

“I don't think so, lovely,” he comforts. “Don't worry about it. We'll clear it up at lunch time. James isn't even mad, he's just sulking thinking we didn't tell him.”

“How could you not tell me?” James asks on cue, rounding the door again, arms ever tighter around the bundle of Remus’ clothes. He assumes it's being kept hostage. “I thought we were best mates.” 

“James,” you say softly, all sympathy. 

Remus likes the feeling of your voice under his ear, and your slightly too-quick heartbeat. He could fall asleep here and now if it weren't for the company. 

“It's new,” you're saying, softness melded to a sweet pride. “Okay? I've barely told Remus how I feel, of course I was going to tell you. We were only talking about it last night. It really hasn't been weeks, Sirius is a stirrer.” 

Remus pulls the covers up over your heads and climbs on top of you in a rush, demanding that the both of you be left alone, to James’ great annoyance but your delight, your laughter loud in the shell of his ear. Your chest shakes with it beneath him. 

A great wad of fabric hits him in the legs. “Twats,” James says, seemingly stalking off. 

Your whisper sends shivers down his spine. “We're alone again. Do you have anything else to ask me while you're too tired to remember?” you tease. 

There's not a chance in the world that Remus would ever forget this. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks for reading!! I really hope you enjoyed, it's been a little bit since I wrote for remus like this so I was actually a bit nervous and I hope it's okay :D &lt;3

[cute-sucker]

all i can think about is boxer!rafe with his cute clumsy gf??

𐙚˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

rafe being a boxer did not help your situation as an unnaturally clumsy person.

you're always on the brink of failing down, head face first into concrete, or something even worse. you feel like an idiot every single day as you try to get through obstacles that face your everyday life.

going up the stairs? yes, you have fallen going up the stairs.

going down the stairs? check that off the list too. that was done a hot minute ago. it's all a blur to you, but when you and rafe first got into a relationship it was alarming the amount of bruises you got.

it was strange to be with someone so coordinated as him, as if every single on his moves was strategic. you had watched him box and every move deliberate. power and strength oozed off of him, and you wondered what you even offered in the relationship. after all he was the one taking care of you.

he could tell when you were about to fall - his hand stuck out to catch you, he could tell when you were going to trip, hands reaching for your shoulders. you would always give him a cute smile afterwards, and a welcoming kiss.

but there were other times when you felt worse about it, crying to him about how incompetent you were, "can't do it, rafe. i'm so, so clumsy," and you could tell that he was fighting the urge to laugh as you pouted.

"nah. i like it," he would mutter, before gently smudging your lipstick with his finger as he tilted down to give you a peck, "keeps me on my toes."

and yet there were times when being clumsy did not help at all.

you were snuggled to his side, smelling his hoodie in deeply before sighing. the movie was playing in the background as he held you close to his chest, as a soft humming escaped your lips. it was a moment you knew you would always remember, and you raised your arms to stretch.

little to your knowledge the sleeves of your shirt went down to uncover a litter of blue and green bruises. they looked fairly recent but still were blossoming on your skin. unbeknownst to you, rafe's eyes quickly traveled to your arms.

"hey? you good?" he sputtered out, and you gave him a smitten nod, burrowing deeper into his chest. rafe looked even more concerned, readjusting - which forced you to get up as a short whine left your mouth.

he tugged at your sweatshirt, "what the hell was that?"

you furrowed your eyebrows, "what the hell was what? you have to be more specific rafe-" you hated this, and even though you didn't know what he was talking about there was this inkling of fear that stuck into your heart.

rafe let out a grunt, before pulling away down your sleeves again, and then he pointed at the bruises, "these? who hurt you?"

dumbfounded you stared at your arms, and then looked at rafe - his eyes practically bugging out of their sockets, jaw clenched as if a vein was about to burst and you couldn't help but start giggling.

"hey. hey, focus," a hand reached for your jaw as you stared into his steely eyes. suddenly you saw another side of him, the rafe that everyone talked about. the one that could knock out a guy with one punch, the one that came home with bloody knuckles and a chewed mouth guard. and yet it was the same rafe that slept in your bed comfortably and whispered your name gently as if he wanted to etch it on his heart.

that rafe.

you had zoned out again before you noticed his furious expression, and then an unpleasant smile that crossed on his face. it looked as if he was trying to feign being calm, and you felt tears prick your eyes.

"rafe-"

"no crying. c'mon baby, just give me a name."

now you were chuckling through tears, and he gave him an incredulous look.

finally he pecked your lips, his words oddly sweet, "listen. i've always told you i'm gonna protect you right. it's jeff isn't it-" his words came out sharp, and you knew exactly who he was talking about - your boss at the restaurant you worked at who complained about your inability to do anything right.

but that was definitely not it.

"rafe!" you finally sputtered, "rafe it's me."

finally he stopped, his mouth gaping open, "what do you mean it's you sweets?"

you huffed, looking down at your arms, "i'm so darn clumsy that i have bruises everywhere. i always check before i go to bed, yk' to check how many i have."

rafe's concern quickly shifted to a mix of frustration and worry as he examined the bruises on your arms, letting soft clucks. he let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair before turning to you with a furrowed brow.

"sweetheart, you have to be more careful," he said, his tone tinged with annoyance but softened by genuine concern, and then he finally tugged you in closer as you started to protest.

"we'll talk about this later. maybe you'll start boxing, huh? you'll be my little champ."

𐙚˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

taglist for all my fics; @wearemadeofstardust0

taglist for boxer!rafe: @maybankslover @vogueprincess @spookyscaryspoon

let me know if you'd like to be added!