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kjhbsies · 13 days ago

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Undeniably and Secretly Yours

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James Potter x Slytherin!reader

synopsis: James Potter is in a secret relationship with Y/N, but things spiral when someone mistakes Regulus Black for Y/N’s boyfriend and spreads the rumor around Hogwarts. How far will he go before he can’t take it anymore?

wordcount: 1,663

note: 16+ fluff. will probably do one last part. comment if you want to be tagged <3

part I. part III.

Regulus Black was cornered, and he absolutely hated it.

Literally— his back was pressed against the cold stone wall near the dungeons, arms crossed as he glared at the four boys in front of him: Sirius, Remus, Peter, and... James, who was staring at him with a murderous stare that made Regulus wonder if he ever did something to him.

"How exactly did you find me here?" Regulus deadpanned.

Sirius smirked, tapping his temple with his forefinger. "Great instincts, brother. I'm basically a prophet."

Peter awkwardly cleared his throat, trying to suppress a laugh. Remus, awkwardly standing beside him, scratched his head with the same hand that was holding the Marauder's Map.

"What's that?" Regulus pointed at it.

"Nothing." Remus smiled at him.

"Looks suspicious."

"It's just... homework." Remus hummed.

Sirius clapped his hands together. "Anyway—! Regulus, my dear, weird little brother... tell me something. Are you dating Y/n?"

Regulus blinked at him. "What?"

"You heard me. Are you dating Y/n Y/l/n?" He stepped closer.

"Dating? Where did you even—?"

James's jaw clenched, and his grip on his wand tightened.

"You're lying." Sirius pointed an accusatory finger at Regulus's nose. "You're lying through your teeth. You're probably snogging her behind the dungeons, don't you?"

Regulus gave him a disgusted look. "Why would I snog someone in the dungeons? That's unsanitary."

Peter snickered under his breath. James still hadn't moved or spoken— he just kept...staring. His left eye was twitching a little.

"Come on," Sirius whined. "Are you two or aren't you? Spill, Reg."

"If you're insinuating that we're together, then you're delusional."

Sirius gasped dramatically.

"We're just close. Is it so unbelievable that I have friends? Do you need me to draw a diagram?" Regulus shot back, clearly irritated.

Sirius, undeterred, leaned in again. "So, is she single?"

James's head snapped to look at him with a deep frown.

"I suppose?" Regulus sighed deeply.

"And you're going to ask her out to Hogsmeade this weekend? Valentine's Day is coming up, you know."

Regulus shrugged. "Probably."

PROBABLY?!

Regulus's voice echoed through James's mind like a death toll.

That stupid, little casual shrug haunted him, and he was absolutely losing his mind. He was pacing back and forth in his dorm room, whilst his friends were staring at him. His hair was messy— messier than usual, and he looked like one bad thought away from throwing himself out of the Gryffindor tower.

"Prongs, you gotta tell us what's wrong or else we can't help you solve your problem," Sirius said from where he was sprawled on James's bed, munching on a chocolate frog.

Remus, perched in an armchair, sipped his cup of tea. He hummed thoughtfully while eyeing his friend. He had his suspicions— had them for a while now— but after Sirius's interrogation with Regulus, he connected the dots.

James threw his hands in the air. "I can't!"

"Why not?" Peter piped from the floor.

"Because I just— I just can't!"

"Since when do we keep secrets from each other, huh?" Sirius sat on the bed dramatically. "We're brothers! We solemnly swore and everything!"

"Maybe Prongs isn't ready yet." Remus shot James a knowing look.

"...You cheated on your NEWTs again?" Peter's eyes squinted at James.

"What? No!" James snapped.

There was a beat of silence.

"...You gay?" Peter tried again, dead serious.

"NO!" James cried, absolutely losing his mind because his friends were definitely not helping right now. He let out a wounded groan and flopped onto the couch dramatically. "I'm doomed." He muttered through the cushions.

Meanwhile, in his head, a horrible scene was playing on the loop: Regulus, all intimidating and handsome, cornering you somewhere dark and romantic (and stupid)— asking you to be his date on Hogsmeade on Valentine's Day. You, smiling shyly, will accept it. Regulus will buy you chocolates, give you a plush teddy bear, and kiss your hand like some male lead in a romantic muggle movie.

James almost sobbed at the thought.

"Prongs, you're spiraling." Sirius exchanged glances with Peter.

"We have to do something," Peter whispered.

"What? Like an exorcism?" Sirius whispered back.

"Oh, Merlin, it's like the Evans fiasco over again." Peter shook his head, looking at him with pity.

"It's not." Remus walked over to where they were.

"How do you know, dear Moony?" Sirius lightly nudged him in the shoulder.

Remus leaned on the bedpost, looking more smug than usual. "Because, dear friends, I am basically... a prophet."

"Hey, only I get to claim divine intervention around here!" Sirius frowned.

James groaned again from the couch, not lifting his head. "Kill me now."

The library was quiet— eerily quiet— except for the soft flipping of books and quiet murmurs. You and Regulus were tucked away in the far corner of the library, the one spot where the sun hits perfectly, and where Madam Pince rarely bothered anyone.

Regulus sat across from you, flipping a book open, but clearly not reading. "Sirius cornered me last night."

You blinked at him. "...What"

"Near the dungeons. Him, Lupin, Pettigrew, and Potter."

Your heart stopped at the mention of James's last name, but you didn't let it show. Instead, you leaned back in your chair. "What did he want now?"

"He interrogated me."

"About?"

"You," He answered flatly. "Apparently, everyone thinks we were dating."

You froze.

Well, that was... unexpected— or expected— given the way people had been whispering lately. But still, James must've heard that, right? You immediately imagined his reaction—probably furrowing his brows so hard it created a crease in the middle of his forehead, pacing around his dorm room, and tearing at his impossibly messy hair.

Sure, teasing him had been fun— I mean, he had the cutest pout. And it wasn't every day James Potter got jealous. Usually, you were the one watching him get tackled by his bunch of admirers, especially after Quidditch matches, while you try not to hex them to oblivion.

But even if it was mildly entertaining, the thought of James— your James— feeling insecure made your heart pinch. James was the most confident, brilliant, and the most adorable human being you'd ever met.

You frowned, lost in thought, until Regulus added something.

"...But then Sirius asked if you were single and if I'd be asking you out on a date."

THUD.

Both of your heads whipped around just in time to see a very disheveled, very pouty James Potter emerging from behind the bookshelf.

"Oh, hello," He said in the fakest, innocent voice he could muster. "Didn't see you two there."

You offered him a small smile when Regulus wasn't looking at you. "Looking for a specific book, Potter?"

"Mhm." James nodded, stepping into your little study area. He stood near you, still indulging himself with the books he couldn't care less about. "Just browsing. Loads of Slytherin energy here, though."

Regulus's eyes narrowed. "Are you following me?"

James blinked. "What? No. I came here for—" He grabbed the nearest book he could find. "—The Joy of Magical Fungus."

A pause.

"Fascinating stuff, really," James added.

Regulus frowned. "...Right."

James waved a dismissive hand. "Don't mind me here... just continue with... whatever you two were doing..."

Regulus turned to you. "Anyway, as I was saying—"

James loudly cleared his throat.

Both of you turned to look at him.

"Itchy throat." James chuckled and cleared his throat once again— this time, more obnoxiously.

"I was saying," Regulus gave a pointed glare at James. "Before I get interrupted—"

"Ahem."

"—Interrupted again, I was going to say I hadn't really considered asking you out, but maybe—"

James took a step closer beside you. This time, he was looming over the two of you. You scratched the back of your neck, trying to suppress the secondhand embarrassment creeping up your spine.

"Do you mind?" Regulus asked, clearly annoyed.

"Not at all," James replied.

"Do you live in the library now, Potter?"

"No. But I do believe in broadening my... intelligence."

Regulus scowled. "You're literally holding that book upside down."

"Am I?" James turned to look at his book.

Regulus opened his mouth to say something, but sighed instead, glancing at his wrist watch. "Whatever. I have class."

You offered him a tight-lipped smile. "Bye, Reg."

As Regulus turned to leave with a confused shake in the head, James casually slipped into the seat next to you.

You raised an amused brow. "The Joy of Magical Fungus?"

"Good stuff," James mumbled. "He was about to ask you out, wasn't he?"

You giggled and went to cup his face. "Hey."

"Hmm?"

"You're so obvious."

James's bottom lip jutted even more. "They all think you're single."

You kissed his pout.

"And worse, they think you're dating Regulus freaking Black."

You kissed the other side of his pout.

"He's not even funny."

Another kiss.

"Or beefy."

One more kiss on the nose. "You done?"

James sighed deeply and finally melted into your arms like a dramatic little spoon. “...Maybe.”

You ran your fingers through his hair gently, the one thing guaranteed to make him stop spiraling.

“Listen to me,” you whispered. “I’m your girlfriend. I like you. I love you when you're pouting, jealous, and dramatic. But also when you're smug and sweet and a bit of a show-off. No one, especially not Regulus, is going to change that.”

James peeked up at you, cheeks pink. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“And maybe,” He added, voice muffled against your sweater, “We could tell people soon. So no one else tries to steal you.”

You smiled. “I thought you wanted it secret for now.”

“I changed my mind,” he huffed. “I’m claiming my territory.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m in love,” James corrected. “It’s worse.”

James's hand tightened around your waist, almost pulling you into his lap. He doesn't even care if people find out about you two right now. He doesn't even care one bit if Regulus walked in on you two suddenly.

Because Regulus couldn't make you feel everything he did.

Not today. Not ever.

©kjhbsies

taglist: @dearmy-diary @kmhbygss @ladycaramelswirl @mao-nuwang

#james potter x reader #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x you #james potter fanfiction #james potter fluff #marauders #james potter

1K notes · View notes

chrisisvbun · 5 months ago

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three soldiers. 40s!steve rogers & 40s!bucky barnes x chubby!fem reader x origins!logan howlett.

synopsis: steve, bucky and logan, three soldiers that were hanging out in a bar, lay eyes on a beautiful woman that seems to be their type, and instead of fighting for whoever will have you, they solve things like mature men they are: having a foursome.

cw: foursome, triple penetration (jeez gurl) sweet steve, rough bucky and logan, slight bi!logan, mentions of gay sex, anal, unprotected piv, crempie, oral (both m and f), dom!logan, dom!bucky, dom!steve (mentions of sub Steve tho), chubby reader, slight mention of insecurities, fluff, aftercare.

words: 4k (I'm sorry.)

a ten nsfw chapter series masterlist.

Bucky and Steve's drinks were already empty by the time Logan approached to hang out.

The three of them were soldiers, they shared experiences, people they met, women they slept with, and they found out they shared a taste: plump, chubby women. A girl with flesh to grab, grip, bite. Extra flesh was amazing for the three of them, anywhere in the female (or male) body: tummy, hips, thighs, arms, cheeks, breasts, ass, everything was welcome.

And it's just their luck that you walk in. A gorgeous plump woman, with chubby rolls, fat thighs, broad hips, soft skin, and gorgeous cheeks that made your under eyes wrinkle when you smiled.

As you walked in, the three of them follow your body with their eyes, and where they place their eyes betray them in what they are attracted too. Bucky's eyes were staring al your fat, big thighs, and how you squeeze them together. Steve, ashamed of himself for looking at you so bluntly, was looking straight at your breasts, the cut of your dress showing how big and soft they are. And Logan, Logan was enamored with that tummy of yours, those rolls that press and show in your fat body so beautifully, in such a precious way that had him drooling. He wanted it even fatter with his baby there, but that's just the animalistic instinct talking.

So they had a bit of a chat, trying to figure out which of them was going to approach, and finally, they decided that, why not the three of them? If you backed off, the one that had more chemistry with you could try by himself.

"Hi there." Bucky smirked at you, leaning against the counter with Steve by his side and Logan from behind.

"Add what she has to my tab." Logan said, his eyes still looking down at you while he passed his card to the bartender.

"Are you all by yourself here?" Bucky said again.

"Uhm, yeah..." You said, shyly, which made the three men smirk.

"Lookin' too cute to be by yourself." Logan said from behind you, putting a strand of hair behind your ear. You blushed, you eyes glancing at the three men.

"Guys, we are intimidating her." Steve spoke up, and offered you his hand. You grabbed it shyly, and he kissed your knuckles. "I'm Steve Rogers."

"Bucky Barnes." Bucky gave a tiny bow, removing his hat.

"And that's Logan." Steve nodded at the mentioned, who was still enamored with your figure and your hair.

"Hi." He smiled at you, and his grin widened when you smiled back.

"So, doll, you sure you are alone here? No other men?" Bucky asked, crossing his arms.

You smiled. "Just the three of you."

"Three is a lot, isn't it?" Steve said, smirking at you while his eyes moved all over your body.

"it's not that big a number." You said, starting to get the situation.

"Really? Think you can take three?" Logan's voice was almost in your ear, his hand moved to your broad waist, squeezing it and making you gasp.

"M-maybe... I-" You swallowed, your eyes moving between the three of them. "I won't know until I try."

(...)

Logan said that his apartment was a good place, and it definetly was, he said he had the biggest bed, and the biggest mirror that covered the wall next to the bed.

And during the car ride, Logan was driving with Steve next to him, and Bucky already worked up, all over you. His hands gripped your thighs, kissing your cheek, your neck, your chest, while mumbling sweet praises. "So pretty, so soft..."

You gasped when he sat you on his lap, his hands gripping your ass like his hands where made to be there, and making out with you. His tongue was about to get all hungry inside of your mouth, until he had a taste of your sweet lips, automatically melting on your kiss. Your hands grabbed fists of his brunette hair, Bucky's hands moving under your dress to squeeze the flesh of you backside.

"Love birds." Logan called, you removed your lips from his, your lipstick over Bucky's lips and surroundings, and of course, all over your too. "We are here."

Before you could climb off his lap, Bucky lifted you easily in his broad arm, and like that, he removed all the insecurities you had about your weight, because he closed the door with one arm, while the other was under your thighs.

"Comfortable?" Steve smiled sweetly to you, and almost like he could read your mind, he kissed your sweetly while being held by Bucky. "You are beautiful, my God." He smiled between kisses, and allowing himself to move a hand to one of your big breasts. He moaned and pulled away. "Logan, be quick."

"Relax, pretty boys." Logan opened his apartment door, pushing it open to let the three of you in. "Uh-uh-uh." He stopped Bucky. "My turn."

Bucky rolled his eyes and let you stand on the floor. Before you could miss the touch of Steve and Bucky, Logan's hands were all over you from behind, gripping your waist, your breasts, your thighs, your stomach, while grunting on your ear.

"You are not that innocent, aren'tcha?" He said and kissed the shell of your ear, both of you watching Steve and Bucky removed his jackets and belts. "Takin' three men, three soldiers, you are charming, you are beautiful, this isn't your first rodeo, isn't it?"

You giggled a bit, caressing his big arms. "It isn't, but I never had three." You said, blushing. Logan chuckled, kissing your cheek.

"So sweet, I want to binge on you." He groaned and he began to trail open-mouth kisses over your neck, holding your hair behind. "Boys, let's get the princess ready."

(...)

Logan wasn't lying when he described his bedroom, he was totally right.

You were making out with Steve, he laying between your legs and holding your back to have stability. Bucky was already shirtless, Logan was watching Steve and you making out, on his white tank top and smoking a cigar.

"Steve, let the girl breath." Logan puffed out the smoke.

"Yeah, we are supposed to share." Bucky teased, lying between where Logan was sitting and where you were lying with Steve.

Bucky's hand cupped the back of your neck to kiss you, your hand went to his chest while Steve began to kiss your neck.

The differences between the best friends were clear. Steve was sweet and gentle, his bites and kisses were like cuddles in your skin, while Bucky was rough and desperate, his teeth sank on you lips and neck, trying to make you bleed, everything under Logan's gaze.

Steve's sweet hands pulled off the sleeves of your dress, kissing your shoulders and all the new skin exposed. Bucky hooked a finger on Steve's shirt.

"Take this off, man." He said as he pulled him away from your skin to be the one kissing it.

Steve rolled his eyes and removed his shirt. "You are not joining, Logan?" Steve said.

Logan checked him out a second and smirked. "I'm good watching you three for now, pretty boy, don't worry 'bout me." He winked at him, taking another drag of his cigar.

Steve chuckled, a slight blush on his cheeks. He moved to you again, pulling your dress down to leave you in your white bra and lacy blue underwear.

"Wanna get down?" Now, Steve had pulled Bucky's hair, and consequently, Bucky was removed from your skin.

His bright blue eyes moved to you, looking for your agreement. When you nodded eagerly, he smirked, and quickly began to pull down your panties and get between your legs.

You looked down at him, breathing heavily as he began to lick your slit, his warm tongue on your most sensitive part. You moaned, and your hand moved to press him more against you, a sign that allowed him to begin devouring your cunt.

Your whimpers were silenced but a pair of lips, that tasted like smoke and mint. You quickly recognize Logan's cologne, your hand moved to his hair too, kissing him hungrily while moaning against his lips.

Steve, of course, didn't want to be the four-wheel, so he unhooked your bra. His eyes brightened at the sight of your big breasts, and he started to kiss them both, squeezing them in his broad palms. He moaned against your flesh like he had never seen a pair of tits in his life.

You were overstimulated by this point. If you had to choose, Logan was the best kisser: sweet and rough at the same time, he had that cocky smirk that slipped between kisses every time you moaned. Bucky ate your cunt like it was his favorite meal: messy and hungry, his tongue lapped in your clit and when you started to get used to that, we would fuck you with his tongue, his warm muscle in and out of your tight entrance. And Steve, that sweet mother fucker was worshiping your body like you were a goddess, his hands gripped your flesh, not wanting to let you go ever. And even with his sweet nature, he covered your tits with hickeys and bite marks, he sucked your nipples and pinched them violently.

Bucky's tongue was having his wet dream coming true. A wet, fat cunt like yours, with such a sweet taste, such a responsive body with it. His head was squeezed against your thighs just like he wanted, like he had dreamt the second he layed eyes on you.

"Gonna take turns or is your friend gonna eat her out until we get tired?" Logan asked, obviously rhetorically.

"From my point of view, he looks like he is more into the second one." Steve said, his breathing ragged as he looked down at Bucky, his head squeezed in your big thighs. That mother fucker was having his fantasy coming true.

Logan rolled his eyes but his harsh look softened when he found your face: a pleasure pout, puffy red face, lips parted, heavy breath, and your little whimpers.

"Looks like Bucky is getting the first orgasm of the night." Logan teased.

"Fi-first?" You asked, whiny.

"What? You thought you would have only one orgasm with three men?" Logan raised his eyebrows in a chuckle. "Darlin', you are gonna walk out of here dry, if you can walk once we are done with you."

"What Logan means is that we have a lot of stamina on us, we are gonna take great care of you." Steve said, as he kissed your shoulder gently.

You squeaked when you felt the intrusion of Bucky's fingers inside of you, he smirked up at you as he rubbed your clit with his rough thumb, his face glistering with your slick. "C'mon, doll, lemme have the first." He said while kissing your thigh.

The knot in your tummy snapped in the second he pressed the tip of his fingers in your spongy spot, wetting the blankets under you and Bucky's hand.

"That's it, veery good." Logan soothed you, caressing your hair as you came out of your high.

Bucky removed your legs from his shoulders. "I'll take the ass"

"I'll take the front." Steve said quickly.

Logan rolled his eyes, making you giggle. He sighed dramatically. "Guess I'll have your pretty mouth then." He amirked, you giggled a bit again and he pressed a sweet kiss on your lips.

Steve removed his pants and boxers, sitting against the headboard, and helping you sit on top of him, kissing you sweetly.

"I'll be gentle, 'Kay?" He said with those sweet eyes in yours. You smiled and nodded, kissing you again.

He slowly began to sink you on his long cock, until his balls were pressed against your ass. You squeezed his shoulders, as he kissed your face to soothe you. You heard Bucky chuckle.

"If she is having problems with him, imagine what's gonna do with you." He said to Logan.

"W-what?" You said, looking at them from behind your shoulder.

"Logan is... pretty big, yeah." Bucky chuckled.

"And... and Steve is not?" You tried to understand.

"Oh, no, it's just... I'm definitely not bigger than him." He also chuckled. You almost looked scared. "You are gonna do perfect, sugar." Steve kissed your face again, as he began to rock upwards to you, slow and gentle.

All your worries dissappear once his cock began to kiss your sweet spots, briefly as he rocked against you, grunting under his breath.

"So tight, Jesus..." He threw his head back a second, but instantly moved back to kiss you, this time hungrier and deeper.

His hands grabbed your ass to move you up and down on his length, the clapping sound of his skin against yours filling the whole room.

Riding Steve was like a dream, you felt so loved and treasured, and surely you weren't expecting that in this kind of situation. His eyes looked at you like you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, his hands grabbed you like you were delicate, made of porcelain. He kissed you like you were the woman of his life.

You heard the sound of fabric being removed and turned your head to see Bucky finally removing his pants. And while Steve kissed your neck as you rode him, you gasped at the sight of Bucky's cock. It had the same length as Steve's, which was already long, but it was way fatter, enough to make you doubt if it would fit in your virgin ass.

He spread the lube over his shalft, pumping it a few times before he got behind you.

"Don't you dare to stop." He smacked your ass, kissing the nape of your neck. "Gonna get you ready, and you are gonna keep riding him like a good girl, alright?" You nodded with whiny little sounds. "Very good." He smiled, peppering kisses on your neck as his big finger covered in lube began to sink in your back entrance.

You squealed at the intrusion, but you didn't stop riding Steve. The blonde kissed you, trying to soothe you from the possible pain, but there was not such thing, only raw pleasure.

After you got used to one, Bucky sank another, moving it in a scissors way to stretch you out. He whispered soft praises in your ear, telling you how well you were taking him, how tight and warm you were.

"I need you to relax, doll." He said in your ear, slowly removing his fingers. "Can you take a deep breath for me?" You nodded, inhaling, retaining, and by the second you exhaled, Bucky was already sinking his tip in.

"Oh god!" You moaned, hugging Steve's neck.

Now, you had both friends rocking against you, filling you up, getting you cockdumb with a few thrusts. Steve was hitting your cervix beautifully, while Bucky was using your tight ass, gripping your hips to rock against you harshly.

"Having a good time without me I see." Logan teased, finishing his cigar.

You looked at him, tears filling your eyes at the overwhelming pleasure that you were feeling. He removed his belt and then his tank top. You were drooling, literally, against Steve's neck, between moans, at the sight of his enormous body, that you didn't notice when he pulled off his pants, showing that Bucky and Steve where right.

He was longer than Steve, fatter than Bucky, it had a long, thick vein that started in his happy trail and finished in his tip. You were thanking and blaming God that you didn't have him in your ass or your cunt, because he was definitely gonna rip you open.

He stood in front of you, pressing his tip on your parted lips. You kissed it messily, his tip already covered in your saliva, trying to fit it in your mouth slowly due to the movements of your body. You stayed still, letting Steve jackhammer you while Bucky fucked you from behind, and slowly slid his cock in your mouth, fitting half of it.

"Can't take it?" He mocked you. "Guess I'll have to take your cunt once blondie finishes."

He grunted when your tongue moved around his thickness, pulling your hair to keep your head still, until you began to move it back and forth, gagging as you tried to take more of him

"Fuck sake..." Logan grunted loudly.

"L-language." Steve said between groans.

"Shut up or I'll use your ass as my sex toy." He threatened and laughed when noticed by your reaction that his cock throbbed inside of you at the idea.

Steve rocked against you harder, Bucky hugged your body from behind, both of them trying to get you over the edge.

Your eyes widened when both men hit your spot almost at the same time, making you clench around them as your orgasm snapped, coming all over Steve's cock and dripping into the blankets again.

Weakly, you kept sucking Logan off, your tongue lining that thick vein and giving the tip some kitten licks that made him smile between groans.

A couple of thrusts inside of you and Steve came inside of you, his thick release painting your cunt. Your legs shivered at the warm feeling, and you had to remove Logan's cock from your mouth to take a breath. But his hand moved you to make out with his cock again, showing that he wasn't done with you

Bucky's thrusts began to get irregular and messy, his pace already ruined, and with a shaky moan, he pressed head in your shoulder and his hips against your ass, which was dripping his cum in that very second.

"S-sorry..." He apologized, already sensitive, but the shaky laugh that came out after that showed that he wasn't sorry at all. "I cum a lot." He chuckled, staying inside as you kept sucking off Logan.

You were already exhausted, burnt out, and Logan could see that. He removed your head with a little pop and kissed your cheek.

"Take a breath." He mumbled. "And you two, get off. Gonna show you how it's done." He teased, although there was some truth behind his words.

Bucky removed first, you hissed a bit as clinged to Logan, who helped you lift your hips in order to Steve to roll off. He lied you on the bed, getting between your legs and putting them on his shoulders. He kissed your ankle gently as he slid in.

You moaned weakly, mumbling something like you couldn't take it anymore.

"You sure? Because she seems to be sucking me in." He teased, slowly rocking his hips against you, Steve's cum still dripping from there.

In a second, he gripped your legs and began to fuck himself inside of you, mocking your expressions as you got overwhelmed once again with how he filled you up. You loved riding Steve, it was magical, but missionary with Logan? He hit the right spots with every movement, definetly a winner.

He suddenly stopped, looking behind him to find both young boys with their hands on their cocks, two pairs of eyes on how your tits and rolls bounced.

"You know, boys." He started. "I think there is enough room."

Your eyes darted between Logan and the two friends, slowly understanding the situation. Logan smirked when you clenched around him at the idea. "And someone here seems to like the idea."

You looked at the three men now in front of you, broad and masculine. Steve pressed your left knee in your chest while Bucky did the same with your right one, your abused hole with Logan's dick still inside now in sight.

Slowly, Bucky slid in, you whimpered at the stretch, but still taking it, breathing in and out.

"You look like you are giving birth." Bucky teased, Logan grunted.

"Don't give me ideas."

Steve gently slid half of his length in, with each inch, your moans got louder and louder, you could have come in that second.

Three cocks inside was a lot, too much, of course, but you were taking it so good that it seemed like you did this every single time.

"Such a dirty whore, taking three cocks like a champ." Logan teased, starting to slowly fuck himself inside of you.

Steve did the same, although much slower and gentle. Bucky snapped his hips against you in a quicker pace, watching how his cock disappeared inside of you.

It didn't take long for you to feel that knot in your tummy undoing itself, each thrust a little pull that threatened to snap it.

"I-I..." You babbled, just noticing you were drooling over your chin. "Cum... p-please..." You managed to pronounce.

"Cum, huh?" Bucky smirked, grunting as he kept thrusting.

"Well aren't you pretty?" Logan teased. "She is taking us so well, maybe you deserve to cum." His broad hand moved to knead your breast.

"She does, of course she does." Steve moaned low, and his rough thumb moved to your abused cunt, finding your clit and flicking it in his pad.

"Oh god!" You sobbed, gripping Logan's forearm and the bedsheets.

You threw your head back and simply allowed yourself to let it go. The room was filled with the clapping sound of skins snapping against each other, grunts, groans, growls and moans, whiny airy sounds that sometimes appeared from the men's lips.

Finally, the knot snapped undone and you came, you came a lot, there was a big stain in the bedsheets that was your art piece, and your entrance was dripping a thicker fluid that covered their cocks that, after a few thrusts, began to come, one by one.

Your core and thighs were a mess of slicks, and you, you were a shivering disaster at this point, shaking with overstimulation, your pupils dilated like you were on drugs.

Bucky was the first to cradle you in his arms, holding you against his chest while cuddling your sides.

"Get her clean, I'll change the sheets so we can rest." Logan said once he caught his breath.

Bucky lifted you easily, rocking you as he moved to the bathroom with Steve. The blond caressed your hair and kissed your face while Bucky cleaned you gently, his hands moving over your body with nothing other than affection and care. Once cleaned and dry, Logan put you on some boxers of his and one of his flannels.

"Ready to sleep, beautiful?" He asked, caressing your hair. You smiled lovingly and nodded, making him smile too and he leaned to kiss your nose.

"Here, doll." Bucky handed you a cup of tea. "That throat must hurt." He kissed the top of your head.

"You made me tea?" You asked surprised, your eyes shining at him.

"Of course I did, doll, why so surprised?" He lied in the right side of the bed, with you sitting between Logan's leg and resting your back and head on his chest, his arms around you.

"I didn't expect this, that's all." You said shyly, drinking from your beverage.

"Well, that's the bare minimum, you were so kind letting us do this with you, and you took it great." Steve said softly, kissing your forehead and laying on the other side.

"You three do this often?" You asked curiously.

"Never the three of us, Steve and I have done threesomes, but never with the old machine." Bucky elbowed Logan, who rolled his eyes.

"And it was a great experience, darlin', I must admit." Logan nuzzled against your hair, the two soldiers nodded along.

"Well, I wouldn't mind repeating it other time." You fidgeted with the cup.

"Is that so?" Steve pressed his face in your shoulder, smiling sweetly at you.

Bucky's hand move to caress your thigh. "I wouldn't mind either." He kissed your arm gently.

"Well, everyone seems happy in this situation." Logan sighed. "Guess we will have to share you, because if we do this everytime, we are gonna end up breaking you."

"I'll take the first." Steve said quickly.

"I'll take the second!" Bucky followed alone.

"Don't you think she gets the right to choose, you idiots?" Logan huffed, and you giggled.

"I'll take Logan first." You answered.

"Oh, come on!" Bucky pretended a complain.

"He earned it!" You giggled.

"Yeah, I got the apartment." Logan added along. "And I'm the eldest."

"How old are you?" You asked innocently. The three men got silent.

"You don't wanna know yet, darlin'."

2K notes · View notes

agreeewrites · 3 months ago

Note

hi congrats on 1000 followers!!!! i seriously love your work sm the bill weasley magic lessons series altered my brain chemistry. idk if you write for aged up harry potter but if you do can you please write “1000 tears” with harry i love him in deathly hollows era when he’s all angsty and it’s soooo good when people write him to have a crazy reunion with the reader when he gets to shell cottage after saving them from malfoy manor it’s always giving peak hormones lol

hi love!!! tysm for the request, and I'm so glad you enjoyed Magic Lessons! angsty Harry is also my favorite, so I had a lot of fun with this one. Hope you enjoy! 🤍

1000 tears | H.P.

feat. Harry Potter x reader

cw: MDNI 18+, smut, love confessions, war stuff, mentions of blood/injury, angsty Deathly Hallows-era Harry, friends to lovers, reader has an implied close relationship with Remus and Tonks (parental), Dobby lives bc this is my fic and I can do whatever I want

masterlist

You sat curled up in your bed, knees to your chest, and stared at the crack in the bedroom door. Lupin had sent you to your assigned room with a piece of chocolate an hour prior, insisting you try and get some rest. But you couldn't even get yourself to lay down, the chocolate lying untouched on the bedside table.

You'd lost track of how many tears you'd shed.

Harry was out there, having disappeared while searching for a Horcrux with Ron and Hermione hours and hours ago without communication. He refused to let you go with them, having all but begged you to stay behind at Shell Cottage.

Where it's safe, love.

And now, you had a bone-deep feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. It wasn't like Harry to not send any kind of communication, and if he couldn't, Hermione always did.

Things between you and Harry were…complicated. You weren't together. Who would be reckless enough to start a new relationship in the middle of a war? But the connection between you was strong, having grown from a schoolyard crush to an all-consuming devotion over the past few years, and you knew Harry felt it too. But there were more important things to worry about at the moment—romance could wait until after the war. If there was an after.

The clock ticked audibly on the wall above your head.

This was ridiculous. You couldn't just sit here. If Harry thought something happened to you, nothing would stop him. Not Lupin, not Molly, not Moody—

A crash and a wail echoed through the silent house. You immediately recognized the cry as Dobby’s, and jumped out of bed, grabbing your wand from the night stand.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you approached the closed door, turning the ancient knob as quietly as you could. Wand raised, you pulled open the door, stupify on the tip of your tongue.

“What on earth happened! And where have you been?!” Molly bellowed, and you paused in the hallway.

“Malfoy Manor,” you heard Ron reply just before Dobby loosed another shriek of pain.

“Harry Potter saved Dobby! Harry Potter is Dobby's hero!”

“It’s alright, Dobby—let go—Dobby, they have to—”

You flew down the stairs and around the corner, finding Ron, Hermione, Lupin, Molly, and the wounded House Elf crowded into the foyer. Harry was trying to gently pry the bleeding Dobby from his pants leg, his handsome face smeared with dirt and blood, expression tight with frustration and exhaustion.

But he was alive.

“You're supposed to be asleep,” Lupin scolded, noticing you hovering in the hall, and Harry’s head snapped up, green eyes melting with relief.

“Dobby and Hermione need a Healer,” Harry said, his gaze locked on you. You could tell he was white knuckling his self-control, trying to stay calm and prevent the terror from whatever just happened to them spread to the rest of you.

“Good thing I was awake then,” you replied, giving Lupin a pointed look as you moved into the crowded foyer. You stooped to survey the House Elf's injuries. A blade had grazed his side, blood blooming beneath his tunic, but it was shallow. “Episkey,” you murmured, and the wound knitted itself most of the way closed, ceasing the bleeding.

“Oh, thank you Miss Harry Potters friend! Thank you!”

“My pleasure, Dobby,” you sighed, pushing to your feet.

You hadn't realized how close you were to Harry, too focused on healing Dobby, and now we're standing nearly chest to chest, nose to nose.

The look on his face knocked the air from your lungs. His usually serene eyes were burning, heavy-lidded and bruised with exhaustion. He smelled of smoke and the sting of dark magic, his black hair tosseled and knuckles bloody.

His index finger brushed the edge of your hand, so light you almost thought you'd imagined it, and you swallowed a shudder, your body reacting as if he’d done something cataclysmic.

Everything in you wanted to throw your arms around him and kiss the pain away, steal it all for yourself so he'd never have to suffer under the burden of responsibility again—but you resisted.

“Boys, can you get Hermoine into the kitchen?” you asked, shifting to step away before you completely lost focus.

For a split second, Harry’s index finger hooked your pinky, wanting to keep you close, but he quickly dropped his hand and turned to his friends.

“C’mon then, hold onto me,” Harry said, crouching down to their level. Hermione looped an arm around Harry's neck, the other already around Ron’s waist, and together they lifted her up.

She groaned, her head lolling onto Ron's shoulder, but protested no further as they carried her into the kitchen and set her gently onto a chair.

“Don't overtax yourself,” Lupin warned, catching you before you left the foyer. “Be smart.”

“I'm fine, Remus,” you bit, pulling away from him.

You followed them into the kitchen, pretending not to be jealous at the easy contact between Harry and Hermione. You knew there was nothing romantic between them, and you loved their friendship. His depth of love for his friends was one of the things you admired most about him. But her ability to touch him so freely, a luxury you could only imagine, made your stomach twist.

To distract yourself, you set to work making some tea and preparing your supplies. Usually, the three of them would chat amongst themselves, strategizing, reminiscing, poking fun, but they were strangely quiet. The house sat heavily around the four of you, the silence almost tangible, broken only by the cottages occasional creak and groan.

When you set Hermione’s tea in front of her, made just the way she likes it, plus a pinch of goldenrod for the pain, she barely managed a whispered ‘thank you’. Her face was buried in the crook of Ron's neck while he held her close.

Oh, how lucky they were to be loved out loud, even if they hadn't admitted it to themselves yet.

Harry was leaning against the counter, eyes flitting anxiously between his friends and you, so you poured him a cuppa as well.

When you brought it to him, intending to set it on the counter beside him, he instead reached out to take it from you. His cool fingertips brushed yours over the heated ceramic. “Thanks,” he murmured, voice gravelly.

“’Course,” you said through the tightness in your throat. His touch lingered a moment longer before he brought the warm cup to his chest.

You set up your supplies and sat beside Hermione, gesturing for her to set her injured arm on the towel you laid out. She obliged, grimacing when the drying blood pulled at her skin.

As gently as you could, you used a rag soaked in warm water and antiseptic to clear away the blood. You nearly recoiled when the injury revealed itself.

Mudblood.

“Hermione, what—” you gasped.

“Bellatrix,” Ron hissed. “Tortured her while we were locked up.”

You were speechless, shocked to your core, and instinctively turned to Harry, but he was looking at Hermione's arm, eyes swimming with pain.

“I'm so sorry,” you whispered, turning back to Hermione.

She shook her head, dismissing your sympathy. “Just do what you can,” she said through gritted teeth. “Please,” she added.

So you did. Bellatrix had used an enchanted blade, so the word would scar, but with some time and attention, you were able to get the wound partially healed, and most importantly, the pain under control.

At one point you had urged the boys to go get cleaned up, their brooding energy weighing on your heart, but neither budged an inch. Ron stayed glued to Hermione’s side, catching every one of her tears, while Harry hovered over your shoulder, only moving away when you needed something, like fresh gauze or a refill of your tea. A strong herbal blend you developed to keep you focused during long nights spent studying in the common room.

It had come in handy more times than you cared to admit since the war began.

You secured the last bandage around her forearm, and looked up to find her asleep on Ron's shoulder, his head leaned against hers, eyes closed.

The roll of gauze was lifted from your hand, and you felt Harry's heat at your back. Even blindfolded and deaf, you'd be able to sense him anywhere.

“What are you—”

“Cleaning up,” he replied. “You've done enough.” His tone was gentle but firm, and you rolled your eyes.

“Me? I've been sitting here for days while you—”

“And I'm sure you worried yourself half-to-death,” he cut you off, and you clamped your mouth shut. “I can put away some bottles while you rest for a second,” he said, grabbing the vials from in front of you.

“Can't help but worry about you,” you muttered petulantly.

Harry's footsteps paused just behind you, and your breath caught in your throat. Then, his arms wrapped around your shoulders, warm and solid and home, and he buried his face into the curve of your shoulder.

“Please don't,” he whispered, exhaling a shaky breath. “Because if you ever asked me to stay—”

“I would never ask you to stay.” Tears burned behind your eyes, heart aching with relief and something too similar to grief to bear another name. You twined one of your hands with his, the other coming up to tangle in his dark waves. “That’s why I asked to go with you.”

His grip tightened. “I would never ask you to go.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. “I know.”

Ron stirred, and Harry slid his arms from around you, leaving you cold. You wiped the tears from your face before he could see them, though you had no doubt he knew they were there.

“Ron, you gotta take Hermione to bed,” Harry said, shaking his friends shoulder, and Ron came fully awake.

Ron gave a grunt in acknowledgment, then lifted Hermione into his arms, cradling her against his chest like she was the most precious thing in the world. “Thanks, mate,” Ron said to you, nodding his head.

“No need to thank me. Just glad you're all alright,” you replied, waving him off.

“Me too.” He glanced at Harry, something unspoken passing between them, before turning and carrying Hermione down the hall to her room.

The silenced stretched between you until it became unbearable. “I guess I'll head to bed before Lupin bites my head off,” you joked, though it landed flat.

Harry, sweet, always supportive Harry, gave you a weak smile anyways. You knew he wouldn't ask you to stay up, even though he'd likely be up until sunrise, but it still hurt when he answered with a single nod and turned away, walking into the living room without another word.

You had just climbed into bed when there was a knock on your closed door. Wiping away the tears that had collected once again, you pulled open the door, fairly certain you would find Lupin or Tonks standing there, ready to scold you for not going to sleep when your were told.

Harry stood in the dark hall, his glasses reflecting the silver moonlight like coins. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

“Sorry? For wha—” Harry pushed through the door, directly towards you. You barely had time to gasp before he was grabbing your face and hauling you in for a messy, breath-taking kiss. He kicked the door shut with his foot, the bang a little too loud for the quiet house, but Harry didn't falter for a second. You barely heard it though, your ears ringing as your blood rushed under your skin, your mouth moving instinctively against his, matching every desperate push and ravenous pull.

His hands were everywhere, gripping your hips and tangling in your hair and pressing at your back, like he wanted to fold you under his skin, fuse your bodies together in every way imaginable.

“Harry,” you whimpered when he broke the kiss to breathe, your lungs burning along with the rest of you. It took you a moment to register that he was crying. “Harry, what—”

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—I couldn't—” a strangled sound cut off his words and he sank to his knees, his grip on your hips going slack. “I tried, I—”

“I-I don't know what you mean,” you said, fighting back your own confused tears as you stroked his hair, his face buried into your abdomen.

“I thought I could wait, could keep you from getting too close, but I—I can't.” Harry looked up at you, pain-stricken face streaked with tears and glasses crooked, his mouth pulled down in a sorrowful curve. “I need you, but I can't risk losing you.”

You lowered yourself to his level, taking his face in your hands and drying his tears with you shirt sleeve. “You aren't going to lose me,” you tried to soothe, but your own emotion made your voice tremble. You both knew that it was entirely possible one or both of you would die in this war. Countless others had, and if love could overpower mortality…so many lost would still be living.

He shook his head. “If they know about you, what you mean to me—they'll—” another sob ripped from his chest, and it felt like it ripped out your heart with it, the sound so agonizing you wanted to cover your ears. “What they did to Hermione—I can't hear you scream like that, I can't—”

You were left speechless, crushed under the weight of what your friends, your Harry, must have experienced. Had one thing been different, he wouldn't here right now, in your arms where he belonged. You never would have kissed him, never would have held him, never would have known—

“Just tonight, then,” you whispered, watery and half-pleading. “Just one night, Harry, please.”

“I don't want just one night,” he snapped, though you know his sudden anger wasn't directed at you. “I don't want to wait. I don't want to fight. I don't want to be Harry fucking Potter. I just—” his breathing was labored, his jaw flexing under your palms. “I just want to be yours.”

“Harry—” your voice caught on the words, so used to swallowing them that speaking them felt as foreign as it did exhilarating. “Harry, I love you.” His eyes squeezed shut, his breath hitching. “In my heart, you're mine. You're my Harry.”

He opened his eyes, their green brighter than you'd ever seen it, stark against the red of his lids and black of his damp lashes. “I love you too. So fucking much,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your inner wrist, up your forearm until he reached your lips, molding them together in a timid, salt-licked kiss.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, drawing him closer, and he quickly reciprocated, deepening the kiss until it reached the same fervor as before. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest, racing alongside yours as he reached behind you and yanked your quilts and duvet onto the floor.

You were about to ask why when he kissed his way down your neck, leaning you back onto the pile of blankets. His body weight was warm and delicious pressed against you, filling a space long empty in your chest, and you sighed, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“So soft,” he murmured, nursing a spot under your ear that made you gasp, the sound twisting into a breathless moan. His hips canted forward in response, an involuntarily flex of muscles, and he whined. “Sorry, lovely. I'm so sorry—”

You silenced him by dragging his mouth back to yours and kissing him as fiercely as you could. Testing the waters, you rolled your hips against his, fiending for even a little friction, and it was his turn to gasp. You seized your opportunity and licked into his mouth, chasing his tongue with yours, and he completely melted into you.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, his hands sliding under your shirt to paw at your bare skin. He kissed back down your neck, teasing the sensitive spot he found and making you squirm. You felt him hardening rapidly against your hip, losing his breath every time your hips bucked into his.

“Harry,” you pleaded, not entirely sure what you were asking for, only that you needed more of him. All of him.

He grunted when you shifted to roll your hips directly against the bulge of his cock, the thin fabric of your shorts doing little to mask the rough texture of his jeans. One of his hands slipped from your body to undo his pants, his weeping, flushed cock springing free and slapping against your lower belly.

“Baby, I need to—Merlin, I'm so sorry,” he panted against your neck as he pulled your shorts and panties to the side. He spread his fingers through your slit, exposing your drooling pussy to the cold air of the room. He plunged one finger in, then another, stretching you with quick, deliberate strokes that had you keening.

“Please fuck me, please, please, please,” you babbled, digging your nails into his back when he withdrew his fingers to fist his cock, dragging the head through your slick and coating himself in your honey.

“Baby, fuck, you're so wet. My good girl, yeah?” He peppered your throat and chest with kisses, like he was atoning for some great sin while he pushed that first few inches into your tight heat. You cried out, and he clamped a hand over your mouth, startling you both. “Sh, sh, have to be quiet f'me. I’ll be gentle, but I just need to—” His hips stuttered forward another inch when your gooey walls clamped around him. “Fuck, lovely, I'm sorry, you just feel so—”

You lifted your hips and he slid a bit deeper, sinking nearly half-way into the wet grip of your cunt, and he made a pained sound in his throat, your own mewl muffled by his rough palm. Your whole body was humming with pleasure, like he was ripping through the dark curtains of your soul and letting the light finally spill out.

“Fuck, I'm sorry.” He rested his forehead against yours, biting the back of his hand covering your mouth to keep from crying out as he pushed deeper, almost there. “I love you, and I'm trying to go easy but saints. You make it so hard to be good.”

You nodded desperately, locking your eyes onto his and trying to convey what you wanted. I know you love me, but fuck me like you hate me.

His eyes searched your face. “Tell me what you want, love,” he said, removing his hand from your mouth to grip your jaw.

“I don't want to hold back anymore,” you replied, voice breathy and high.

Something in him snapped. His hips thrust forward, his pelvis smacking against yours as he finally bottomed out. His cock kissed your cervix, the stretch bright and delicious.

“Fucking hell, you're so goddamn tight,” Harry growled against your neck, grinding his hips against yours. You'd be shocked to hear him speak so roughly, but you were on another planet, nails carving lines down his back as you clung to him.

His fingers dug into to meat of your thigh, lifting your legs up to wrap around his waist, helping him drive even deeper as he started pounding into you. Long, deep strokes that had your mind-melting, toes curling, and a too-loud cry slipped free.

“Baby,” he scolded, covering your mouth again and slowing down his thrusts.

“M’sorry,” you mumbled against his palm. “Please don't stop.”

“Have to be quiet, okay?” He removed his hand, pressing a soft kiss to you lips. “Lupin will kill me.”

“Lupin can bite me,” you giggled, pulling him back down for another kiss.

Harry smiled against your mouth, his teeth catching your lower lip and tugging gently. He snapped his hips forward, knocking the air out of your lungs as pleasure bolted through you. “He'll have to go through me first,” he purred.

Seeing this more assertive side of Harry was doing funny things to your brain and your heart, your pussy fluttering around his iron length.

Was this what it was like to be his?

You pushed at his shoulder, throwing your leg to roll him over, landing in a straddle over his waist. His eyes widened in surprise, but quickly rolled back when you circled your hips, his length hitting an entirely new angle inside of you.

He tugged his shirt off, then yours, pulling you flush down against him as he fucked up into you, too impatient to hold still.

He was hitting it just right, abusing that soft spot inside of you that made your eyes cross, and you could feel your release rapidly approaching.

Sweat collected between you as your furiously ground your hips together, fucking each other with everything you had. Completely lost in the feeling of one another, desperate to push the other over the edge. The lewd slap of your sopping pussy was driving you both crazy, heightening the risk of being caught substantially, but you were too far gone to care anymore.

“Need you to come for me, baby. Please. Need to feel you, before—fuck, that's it, I’m so close—” Harry managed to get a hand between you, his middle finger making quick circles over your clit. His hips snapped up a final time, and you both were done for.

Your orgasm exploded through you, whiting out your vision with searing pleasure, and you buried your face in his neck to keep from screaming his name.

He bit down on his fist, a grunt of pleasure escaping as he continued fucking you, his thrusts growing languid and sloppy as your cunt milked him dry.

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” you whined in his balmy skin, twitching and shaking in his arms as he finally sagged against the ground.

He removed his hand from his mouth, pinpricks of blood emerging from the wounds he'd sustained earlier reopening. “Saints, I love you so much. You're so beautiful,” he panted, kissing along your sweaty hairline. “Did so good for me, my lovely girl.”

“I love you too,” you sighed happily, nuzzling into the space under his jaw and brushing your lips against his light layer of stubble, letting your body relax into his.

He ran his fingers through your hair, holding you close as he caught his breath, the two of you basking in the afterglow.

“I meant what I said—anyone that wants to hurt you will have to go through me first,” he murmured after a few moments of quiet, his voice turning serious. “I'll do everything I can to protect you.”

You pushed yourself onto your elbow, meeting his eyes. They were shadowed with uncertainty, a bit glassy with collecting tears. His hand came up to hold your cheek, his thumb smoothing a long your kiss-stung lips.

“Whatever happens, this will be worth it,” you said, trying to inject as much conviction into your voice as you could, though seeing his tears brought your own back to the surface. “Even if this is the only night we get, it's worth the risk.”

He nodded, bringing your lips together in an airy, tearful kiss. “You're worth fighting a war for,” he whispered, catching your tears with his thumb. “And I'll get you to the other side of it if it's the last thing I do.”

You shook your head, burying it into his neck as a sob forced it's way up your throat. “I’d rather you take me with you.”

“Absolutely not,” he said, his grip tightening as he forced your head up again. “You have to promise me that no matter what happens, you'll live to help build what comes next.” You started to shake your head again, but he didn't let you. “Promise me.”

“I can't—”

“You can. And you will. This world is better with you in it, my love.” He rested his forehead against yours. “And I'll promise to do everything I can to stay with you.”

You drew in a shaky breath, your heart so full you could hardly breathe. “I promise, Harry.”

He flipped you beneath him, molding your lips together like it would set your promises in stone. “No more tears,” he murmured. “Tonight, we’re celebrating.”

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mysumeow · 23 days ago

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︵ ☆ Malleus NSFW Alphabet (J-R) Pt. 2

ᓚᘏᗢ WARNINGS: AFAB body reader. ᓚᘏᗢ A/N: when i wrote the first part i did notice my writing skills rusty T_T what dedicating your time to academic pursuit does to a mf i guess. this time, i felt like words flowed more smoothly :'D | ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎ . . . TWST MASTERLIST | PREV. | NEXT

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Not that he thinks it’s some sin or something like that, he doesn’t see much sense in doing it. His mind focuses on other things unless the sexual tension becomes overwhelming enough for him to relieve it. Much to his disadvantage, however, when you seep into his mind, occupying his thoughts that were reserved for concerns of less carnal nature, he finds himself not knowing how to feel about it.

Despite you being the reason he can’t retreat to Ramshackle’s isolated atmosphere anymore, he isn’t averse to how lively you’ve made it. You’re a synonym of trouble, one that is buoyant and vibrant, however. You occupy his thoughts more often than he’d like to admit.

He’s a bit confused on why, but that doesn’t deter him from stroking his aching cock to the thought of you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Edging (giving), but he didn’t realize he’s into it until he noticed a pattern after a while. It wasn’t intentional the way he kept his movements slow and deliberate; it’s because he adores you and wants to take his time pleasuring you—that’s it, really. You grow needy, daring to thread your fingers into his hair and pull. He finds it amusing how you scrunch your nose and moan for him breathlessly.

To no one’s surprise: breeding. He has you pinned under him intending to breed you. It’s an instinct amplified by his draconian blood; he can’t help it. You get a handsome, otherworldly fae whose heart is devoted to you, and in return, you get bred. It kind of comes with the package.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere he knows no one will see. He doesn’t want anyone walking in on you because your bare body to him is a sight only he should have the grace to witness. His possessiveness oozes to that extent, too. When deciding where to do it, he must consider his status as a future king. If there’s evidence or rumors running around about the heir being improper in public, he could get into trouble.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

When you wear jewelry. The shiny mineral catches his attention. Beautiful, shiny mineral + you (also appealing to his eyes) activates a part of his dragon brain to go nyoom haywire. Also, considering he likes your neck itself, the embellishment of a necklace provides is, for him, as if you were offering yourself as a pretty present awaiting for him to unwrap. Many bite marks will result on your neck.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Not fond of impact play, either receiving or giving. If it’s pain that gets you off, he can attain that through other means, such as biting and overstim.

Also, no sharing. The dragon part of his brain is averse to the idea of someone else touching you intimately.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Don’t be surprised if he’s a bit clueless the first time. Take your time to guide him, show him how and what you like; he’ll be more than glad to follow through, placing your pleasure as his priority when his mouth and fingers play with you. Be warned, though, once he has learned your weaknesses, he’ll exploit them.

When it comes to the other way around, you kneeling between his legs and stroking his cock, it doesn’t take much for him to orgasm. The novelty of the sensations you evoke with your tongue makes it relatively easy for you to attain that.

He’s more intrigued to find what makes you gasp and tremble, so he prefers to give you oral.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

His pace tends to begin sensually, taking his time to savor you. He wants to cherish having you in his arms without fear of getting interrupted; he can demonstrate how much he thirsts for your warmth. He’ll take it slow at first. When the heat clouds his rationale, the pace quickens; that doesn’t stop him from showing tenderness during it, though. He’ll be holding your hand, a thumb caressing the back.

The pace roughens and becomes demanding when he’s jealous—yes, the future king of Briar Valley expresses such emotions—and it’s worse because that’s an emotion he’s not used to feeling. He’s a prince destined to take after a nation, a talented and powerful mage, and a student who excels. What is there to envy? Wait…what do you mean someone was courting you?

Good luck.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If he sees you’re desperate, there’s a chance he’ll cave in. He prefers the sessions to be longer because 5 minutes aren’t enough to show you his love, but if you insist, he’ll please you. On the other hand, if he’s feeling like being a little tease, he’ll make you wait for it.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

If you’re one to come up with suggestions repeatedly, he’ll look forward to your proposals. Malleus is intrigued by what you can come up with, and he’s open to your whims. Then again, true to a fae nature, he can be impish depending on your request.

#twst x reader #twst smut #twisted wonderland smut #malleus draconia x reader

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sundrop-writes · 1 year ago

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Meddle About

Sub!Spencer Reid x Dom!Fem!Reader

‘Cause it's not just a figure of speech - you got me down on my knees.

It's gettin' harder to b r e a t h e .

Summary:

You hate it when Morgan teases Reid. So when Morgan says that you are Reid's 'Mommy' - you verbally fire back without even thinking about it.

Reid vastly overthinks it.

So much so that he ends up calling you Mommy by mistake. And you definitely don't hate the sound of that word coming off his lips.

Sub!Spencer Reid x Dom!Fem!Reader. Co-Workers to Lovers. Smut. Set during Season One.

Word Count: 6,300

Criminal Minds Masterlist | AO3 Link

Detailed warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: general smut fic - porn with some plot; dom/sub dynamics (but this isn't a pre-discussed dom/sub relationship, the characters just fall into these roles naturally), Spencer is submissive and the reader is dominant; the main theme is Mommy kink - Spencer discovers that he has a Mommy kink after a joke that Morgan makes, referring to the reader character as Spencer's Mommy; Spencer calls the reader 'Mommy' and the reader also refers to herself with that title; the reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina (and breasts); it could be interpreted that the reader has larger breasts/is plus sized (but I think anyone of any size could enjoy this fic); the reader is part of the BAU; this is meant to take place during season one (baby Spence my beloved) but there are no other major canon events mentioned and the case being discussed is one that I have made up; some very background typical elements of Criminal Minds - murder, killing, systemic vicimization of women/violence from men towards women (passing mention of bodies being consumed by wild animals); the reader and Spencer fuck while on a case (but they aren't endangering anyone's lives from lack of their attention, so it's fine); mentions of potential injuries from a car accident (theoretical - doesn't actually happen during the fic); very slight threads of Morgan x Reader (mentions of Morgan being attracted to the reader - it could be one-sided); very passing mention of Reid having breeding kink (doesn't take place during the fic, just one of his thoughts); for the actual smut section: this could be interpreted as virgin!Spencer but that's not explicitly stated here (at most, this is just inexperienced!Spencer) (the reader is definitely way more sexually experienced than him); praise kink (we all known Spencer is so eager to be praised); mentions of breastfeeding - Morgan makes a joke about the reader breastfeeding Reid, which later turns into faux breastfeeding kink (the reader doesn't actually lactate, but she lets Spencer suck on her tits and calls it breastfeeding); the reader calls Spencer: 'baby', 'good boy',; descriptions of subspace - but it's not specifically called 'subspace' in the text; thigh humping - Spencer humps the reader's thigh; cumming in pants (Spencer); multiple orgasms/overstimulation (Spencer receiving); handjob - the reader jacks Spencer off while he is sensitive after his first orgasm; using lube as cum; dumbification kink - the reader calls Spencer 'dumb baby' and generally enjoys seeing his intellect drop the more turned on he becomes (Spencer also likes being called this); technically the reader doesn't get to cum, but she gets turned on from treating Spencer like the good boy that he is (and this is more about him). I think that's everything.

A/N: This was directly inspired by the scene from Reid's birthday party, where Morgan says 'Mommy to the rescue!' (talking about JJ) and then Spencer says '...Mommy?' and it seems like he is discovering his Mommy kink in real time. Especially because he is then trapped between Elle and JJ and he makes direct eye contact with their boobs, and he just has such a look of scared kink realization in his eyes. I considered copying that moment exactly and just replacing JJ with the reader character, but this seemed like more fun lmao. I had so much fun writing this and I think this is one of my best fics in a while. I hope you guys enjoy it!!

...

Generally, you hated being stuck with grunt work.

You knew that it was all part of the job - an important part of it. Paperwork, side interviews, background checks. Sifting through someone’s apartment looking for aspects of what kind of person they were based on their everyday life.

But you thrived more on being right in the middle of things. You preferred interacting with suspects, chasing people down, harsh confrontation.

Gideon said that you were overly controlling, impatient, brutally honest - that you had an ‘abrasive personality’ that put most men off. But that was why he often brought you into interrogations with male suspects. Many of the people you caught - men with superiority complexes who targeted the weak to make themselves feel powerful - they hated that you weren’t intimidated by them. That aspect of abrasion between you and the suspects often brought out a lot of information - things they spewed out trying to intimidate you.

But you weren’t needed on that front today.

No - instead, you were doing grunt work. The kind of work that made you impatient and generally aggravated.

The only upside was that you got to do it with Spencer.

He was one of the only men that voluntarily worked so closely with you so often, because he wasn’t intimidated by you. He took orders from you very well and naturally fell under your authority, bringing a natural chemistry to your partnership when you worked with him. Plus - his seemingly endless stream of ‘fun facts’ was like listening to the radio, which did help to soothe your boredom during these kinds of mindless tasks.

You were on a case in Texas. Five women raped and tortured before having their bodies hung from a tree and consumed by cotoyes that the UnSub knew lived in the area. Since police had closed in on him, he had gone on the run. He had killed three more women since fleeing, while leaving no clues as to what his ultimate endgame would be or where he would be going next.

Hotch sent you and Reid to find that out while the rest of the team worked victimology and profiled the scenes of the most recent murders, following the trail he was leaving.

After spending hours sifting through the suspect’s house, looking for any small clue about where he might be going - you came up empty. When you touched base with Hotch, he told you that you and Reid would be going to visit the suspect’s ex-wife - who lived four hours away. You needed to interview her to see if she could give you any further insight to the man, and perhaps - beat him to the house if she was the ultimate target.

(A lot of the victims looked like her, and it couldn’t really be a coincidence.)

You knew that lives were at risk, and it was juvenile of you, but all you heard was: long, boring drive. Boring day. You hoped that Reid would be good company through it.

Now, you were waiting outside of the police station in the bureau-issued SUV, waiting for Morgan to come and give you the file with the ex-wife’s address and contact information.

“Did you know that over forty-six percent of Texans own a gun? Texas is second only to Montana in registered gun ownership, where over sixty-six percent of citizens proudly tote their right to bear arms.” Reid told you, continuing to look over the case files that were sitting in his lap.

When you looked over toward him to reply to this odd factoid, your mind got caught up on something else.

“Reid, come on, take your feet off the dashboard!” You told him, reaching over to gently smack his knee, trying to encourage his legs down from the awkward position.

It bothered you for several reasons - the idea that he would leave shoe prints on the dashboard, which was minor and cosmetic, but still annoying. And the fact that if the car did happen to get hit head-on, the air-bag would explode out and push his knees into his chest, causing his shattered leg bones to pierce his organs and possibly kill him. (At the very least, he would never walk again.)

Speaking of which:

“And put your seatbelt on!” You barked, now noticing that he wasn’t wearing it past all of the files he had piled into his lap. “You of all people should know how many deaths are caused by not wearing a seatbelt.”

Spencer opened his mouth to spout out this exact statistic, but before he could get the words out, another voice entered the conversation.

“Aw, Reid, listen to your Mommy.”

You were almost startled by Morgan’s voice coming from the open driver’s side window so suddenly. His appearance there as if out of nowhere was so jarring that you couldn’t get caught up on the way he had called you Reid’s Mommy. Your head whipped toward Morgan so quickly that you didn’t notice the flash across Spencer’s features - worry, dawning. You didn’t take note of the way he rushed to comply with putting on his seatbelt. As if he was rushing to please you, even unconsciously.

“I bet if you’re a good boy, she might even breastfeed you when you get there.”

Morgan then pursed his lips and made loudly suckling noises, clearly imitating breastfeeding in what he thought was a comedic way.

Again - glaring at the muscled man through the open window, you didn’t see Spencer’s reaction. You didn’t see the way his large, glassy eyes flickered to your breasts (only emphasized by your own seatbelt crossed over the center of your chest) before he forced himself to focus on the files in front of him so that he wouldn’t feel so caught.

“Shut up.” You told Morgan, your voice so commanding and firm that his simple order was enough to get him to stop his antics.

“And give me the address already.” You held out your hand expectantly, and Morgan handed you the file, which you placed onto the center console.

Then, you turned back to him for one last point, determined to have the final word in the conversation.

“Besides, we both know that you’re the one who’s got an obsession with my breasts, anyway. Just because you stare while wearing sunglasses, doesn’t mean I don’t notice. My eyes are up here, pal.” You told him sharply.

He let out a scoff at this, and rolled his eyes behind his dark frames - but he made no clever comeback.

You had successfully bested him. And with that knowledge, you rolled up the window and left him standing dumbly in the parking lot as you sped off.

…

You pulled over later to put the address into the GPS system, and you let out a long-winded groan when you found that it was more than four hours away. Four hours and twenty five minutes.

So you pulled over again to get gas and stocked up on snacks, and you were surprised that Reid wasn’t giving you some lesson about the colloquial use of ‘soda’ and ‘pop’ (thinking that you hadn’t listened the other ten times when he had gone on the same rambling point about linguistics and how language evolves).

He was being far too quiet for your liking.

But he was keeping his eyes glued to the files, and you guessed that he was churning over something in that big brain of his, like he usually was.

You were entirely surprised when the next time he spoke - it wasn’t about the case at all.

“How - how do you know that Morgan likes your breasts?” He asked, his voice low and mousy, looking straight ahead as he fidgeted with his hands in his lap.

“What?” You gaped, the word flying out of your mouth as your brain was utterly slow to process what he had just said.

Hearing Spencer use the word ‘breasts’ was jarring, but somehow utterly adorable. You found it stirring a slight heat within you. Especially because he was still so shy. The whole thing made you want to pin him down and force the shyness out of him.

Spencer felt the need to further explain himself.

“When - when you were talking to him, you said: ‘we both know that you’re the one who’s got an obsession with my breasts.’” He said, repeating back what you had said, word for word, using that perfect memory of his.

You wondered if that’s what he had been doing, sitting there in his seat so silently for the past hour of the car ride - going over the conversation again and again in his head, trying to make sense of it. And because he couldn’t make any sense of it by himself, now he was consulting you.

Again, you found it so utterly adorable.

“Morgan didn’t deny it. So - was it a hypothesis based on something, or did you just call him out hoping that you weren’t wrong?” Reid continued, sparing only a singular glance in your direction, a look that you caught out of the corner of your eye with your gaze still mostly focused ahead on the road.

You found it intensely cute that he was using the word ‘hypothesis’ in this situation. You wondered if he ever turned it off - the textbook big words and the intellect that he always carried himself with. You wondered if you could make him turn it off. You wondered if there was any situation where Spencer Reid could be as stupid as any other man - chasing a bone, desperate to get his nut off.

For the first time ever - you imagined Spencer Reid underneath you, blabbering nonsense, begging for release with your hand around his cock as you pumped him, red and aching, so slick in your palm. Desperate, empty-headed, beautifully stupid.

(See, this was what happened when you were forced to do grunt work. You got bored. And when you got bored - you had to entertain yourself somehow.)

“It was a pretty well-informed hypothesis.” You replied. Now that Spencer had brought the topic up, you certainly weren’t going to shy away from the discussion. “Morgan often brings up my sex life, and wants to engage in detailed discussions about my sexual encounters with me. So I assume that he spends a fair amount of time thinking about me in a sexual way.”

Reid let out a choked-off noise at this.

You continued.

“Plus, he’s always staring down my top. He’s not exactly subtle.”

“You - you actually notice that kind of thing?” He chirped, his voice becoming a few octaves higher as worry flooded him.

You bit your lip, suppressing a grin.

Of course, you had noticed the times that Spencer stared at your breasts as well. He was even less subtle about it than Morgan was. You didn’t mind it when he did it, because you knew that Spencer wasn’t exactly casanova. He didn’t have a different girl every other week like Morgan did, so taking a glance down your shirt when he passed you a morning coffee was probably about as much action as he got.

Secretly, letting him get away with it was your gift to him.

“Don’t worry about it, baby.” You told him, the pet name slipping out mindlessly as you reached over and gently patted his knee as a form of reassurance.

This movement unintentionally drew his eyes toward your chest, especially in his desperation to look anywhere but your face, not wanting to make eye contact with you. But he found his eyes glued to the swell of your breasts once again - hating how perfect they looked, even through the simple cotton shirt and plain bra that you wore.

“Sorry, Mommy.” The word slipped out before he could even consciously process it. “Sorry!”

Spencer raised a hand to smack his own face at lightning speed, and slumped down into his seat in embarrassment.

You bit your lip to suppress a grin. It stirred a filthy heat in your belly. But you knew that Spencer likely needed a while to sit with this and wouldn’t want to talk about it - not yet. So you reached over and turned on the radio, letting the music fill the space so that the silence wasn’t so awkward and gutting.

…

Spencer didn’t talk for the entirety of the rest of the car ride, which didn’t surprise you.

When you finally arrived at the ex-wife’s house, his hands were shaking with nerves as he tried to unlatch his seatbelt. You probably should have just left him alone to struggle, but an evil spark, likely fueled by the boredom of the day, flared up inside of you. You couldn’t resist the urge to lean over the console, very purposefully showing off your breasts as you gently pushed his hands away and undid the belt for him.

“Here, let Mommy get that for you.” You said, distinct teasing on your breath as you mumbled the words into his ear.

Spencer huffed out a deep sigh and collapsed back into his seat, and pushed his hair out of his face in frustration. But he didn’t say anything more as you gathered the files in preparation for the interview.

He only spoke when you moved to get out of the car.

“Look, I-” He began a half assed explanation, and you easily cut him off.

“You let Morgan get in your head too much.” You told him with a chuckle, opening your door and getting out.

But as he forced himself to follow you with numb limbs - he knew that this definitely wasn’t all Morgan’s fault.

…

The ex-wife didn’t know much.

She described the marriage as hell - the suspect exhibited all the typical behaviors as a husband that they would have expected. He hated women, and he wanted full control over his wife at the time, which eventually led down the path of divorce. They had to sell the house they had bought together, but neither of them had moved out of Texas since. But he hadn’t contacted her in years.

She had two young kids from a new relationship, and when the woman stepped out to take a call, you picked one of them up to soothe his cries, hushing him gently while you rubbed his back.

Because of this, Spencer found himself even more dizzy and confused.

He knew that it was Frueadian - some deep, misguided part of his psychology - something broken and missing inside of him because of his own fractured childhood.

But seeing you being so sweet with a kid, especially after the day he’d had - he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be your baby, or if he wanted to shoot his cum so deep inside you that it would ensure he could give you one.

(Ultimately, he knew that it was likely both - and that didn’t answer any questions for him. It just gave him far more questions.)

…

Even though the ex-wife couldn’t give you guys much more than you already knew, Hotch wanted you and Spencer to stay close by in case the suspect decided to make his ex-wife the end game. The two of you would be able to make it to her first if she called for help.

So you and Spencer had dinner at a random local barbeque place off the highway and Spencer still didn’t talk much through it, other than posing some theories about the case. Even though he was a bit more talkative, he still refused to look at you - he stared down at his plate the whole time. Though whenever he did look up, you noticed that his eyes lingered on your chest - and he still wouldn’t look you in the eye.

By the time the bill came around and the two of you were ready to leave, you knew exactly what you had to do.

…

Spencer waited by the car with his bag while you checked in and got a motel room (needing to stay in town, you got a room for the night). When you came back, you handed him the room key and then moved to get your bag out of the car.

“Do… you already have yours?” He asked quietly.

“Hmm?” You hummed in reply, slinging the strap of your go-bag over your shoulder before you closed the back door and used the remote to lock up the car.

“Your room key?”

You suppressed another grin.

“I only got one room.” You told him. “You don’t mind sharing with me, right?”

You gave him a purposeful look - looked at him through your lashes, bit your lip slightly, and subtly squeezed your breasts together with your upper arms, emphasizing them. You knew exactly what you were doing to him, but hopefully it seemed subtle.

“I - uh - no.” Spencer stuttered. “It’s fine. We can share.” He gave a grin, not wanting to appear upset, even though his entire body was racked with nerves.

Spencer followed you to the room and he fumbled with the key with shaking hands for a moment before he sighed and then handed it to you.

His insides quaked when he saw that there was only one bed.

He wasn’t sure if he should say anything about it. The two of you had slept in the same room before, but you had never shared a bed before. Sure, you had slept near each other before. He had accidentally fallen asleep on your shoulder on the plane or vice versa. But you had never crawled into bed together with the intention of sleeping together.

And yes, just the entendre behind it made Reid’s head spin.

He had a heavy knot in his gut, and hatefully - a distinct stirring in his crotch. He could only imagine how embarrassing it would be for you to wake up and see him compromised in some way. Or god forbid, if you caught him moaning in his sleep because of unconscious dreams that he couldn’t stop - for you to think that he was some kind of dirty sex pervert because of it.

He felt an overwhelming need to clear the air overtake him. He had no clue how to broach the subject, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to spend the night like this. He wouldn’t be able to sleep with this anxiety hanging over his head.

He studied you carefully as you sat down on the edge of the bed, ditching your bag off to the side and heaving out a tired sigh as you began taking off your shoes.

Spencer put down his own bag and then stood there, fidgeting nervously as he searched for words.

“I - uh - I am sorry about earlier.” He mumbled out the beginnings of an apology. “What Morgan said was stupid, and I-”

“I don’t think it was stupid.”

You let out a chuckle, and reached up the back of your shirt. Spencer found himself frozen, his eyes tracing your every moment as you unhooked your bra underneath your shirt and then moved to maneuver the straps out from your short sleeves while you kept talking.

“I think he had a point.” You added on. “Good boys should get a reward. And I think you were fairly good today. You didn’t eat all your veggies at dinner, but you kept your feet off the dashboard and you were quiet during the car ride. You definitely get points for being patient during such a long trip, baby.”

Your voice smoothed into a soothing tone, that word - baby - melting like butter over your tongue in a way that made Spencer’s knees wobble. He hadn’t known it until right now, but you calling him a ‘good boy’ and listing off such mundane things he had done that made him worthy of a reward fired off sparks inside of his brain.

A breath choked off inside of his throat as you stood up off the bed and peeled your bra completely out from under your shirt. Somehow it was one of the sexiest things he had ever seen, revealing the hard peaks of your nipples and the beautiful natural teardrop shape of your breasts to him through the cotton fabric.

Spencer wanted to speak, but his tongue felt so heavy and dry inside of his mouth. He knew that he was staring at your chest so blatantly now, but he couldn’t peel his eyes away. He couldn’t even feel ashamed anymore.

That dull tingle in his crotch had turned into a full on stinging interest, and he unconsciously pulled at the fabric of his pants, trying to loosen some of the tension that was growing, not even considering how it might look to you - him dumbly reaching for his crotch to make it look looser when his hardening bulge was becoming more obvious by the second.

It was one of the most ‘caveman’ things he had ever done in front of you - standing there with his mouth hanging slightly agape, pulling at his crotch without caring how it looked. You definitely wanted more, wanted to see how dumb he could get. How far you could make him devolve.

“So what do you say, baby boy?” You hummed, stepping close into his personal space now, causing him to get a whiff of your perfume - something that was only a dull trace after such a long day, but still smelled so good. “Do you want Mommy to breastfeed you? Do you wanna suck on my tits as your reward?”

You gently ran a thumb across his cheek, and paired with the words, Spencer’s brain short-circuited.

He knew realistically that you weren’t actually offering to breastfeed him. There was no evidence in your life to say that your body could actually support the production of milk currently - but you were offering to let him play pretend. To suck on your tits with a very sexual air, to call you Mommy without the teasing humiliation behind it that Morgan had hinted at (or maybe Spencer liked that humiliation, he wasn’t even sure). (He hadn’t even known before this morning that he liked the idea of calling you Mommy, but here he was).

All he could conjure in response was the dumbest, non-human sound.

“Nngh.”

It was a grunt from the back of his throat - too much blood swelling to his cock all at once and too much direct attention from you making him dizzy.

You giggled quietly.

“Come on, baby. Just say the word. And Mommy will give you everything you need.”

Spencer inhaled sharply. At this point, he was desperate to get some oxygen to his brain.

His mind was racing, chanting out:

‘Yes! God, yes! I want it so badly, Mommy! I want anything you’ll give me. I need you. I need you so badly.’

But all his lips could form in the wake of such dizzying lust was:

“Please.”

“Good boy.” You sighed.

You used a hand on his chin to tilt his face up to meet yours, and you consumed him in a kiss - he was hungry and eager to meet your touch, moaning loudly into your mouth, his hands racing to touch you now, rushing up to grip on your hips in the most utterly needy way. He balled the fabric of your shirt in his fists, like he couldn’t get enough of you - like he was afraid you would dissolve away if he let go of you for even a second.

It was cute, to say the least.

You only let the kiss last for a moment, though. You pulled away to a disappointed whine from Spencer, which you quietly hushed.

“Hey, it’s okay baby.” You soothed him. “Come here. Mommy’s gonna take good care of you.”

You lead him toward the bed, getting rid of his tie in the process, and Spencer stepped out of his shoes along the way. You slid onto the bed and laid up on the pillows on your back, Spencer clumsily following you, crawling on all fours. The two of you had barely started, but he was full-on panting now, racing to catch his breath while his blood hammered through his veins.

He watched on with eager curiosity while you got comfortable, fluffing the pillow under your head before you then reached down and pulled up your shirt. You pulled the fabric to sit up under your chin, finally revealing your gorgeous breasts to him.

If he was lost for words before, then he had receded back to a total neanderthal now.

His mouth fell open and his salivary glands started working overtime as his eyes raked hungrily over your chest - enjoying the pure beauty of the fatty mounds, striped with zig-zagging stretch marks and completed by your hard peaked nipples.

“Here, come on, baby.”

You had to remind Spencer what the goal was, guiding him into place with a hand on the back of his head. You helped ease his body to lay on top of yours as he relaxed into you - and his mouth finally found its rightful place on your breast. He became greedy, suctioning hard on your nipple as though he might actually get something out of it.

Truthfully, he did get something out of this.

It definitely wasn’t any form of nutrition, but it was something that drove him lustfully insane and made his head fuzzy and warm in the best way. This was the only time in his entire life that he didn’t have ten thousand thoughts running through his mind like the news blasting on television in the background. This was the only time since his first conscious memory that he had actually known his mind to be quiet.

He felt intensely thankful for it. Intensely thankful toward you for giving him this feeling.

In that moment, without all the noise, all he knew was the comforting feeling of your fat tit under his mouth, the heat of your body under his own as you cradled him. The soothing firmness of your hands through his hair and down his back - and the distant, sweet purring of your voice in his ears.

“Good boy.” You hummed, loving the feeling of him moaning around your nipple - so constant and so greedy now that you were sure he didn’t even know that he was doing it. “Such a good boy for me. Such a good boy for Mommy.”

Your cunt was humming between your thighs, aching so hard at seeing Spencer like this. The usually composed, intelligent, practically robotic Doctor Reid reduced down to a blubbering, moaning, needy mess just because he wanted to suck on your tits.

Just because you had called yourself Mommy a few times in his presence.

It was so utterly beautiful, and you wanted more.

(You didn’t think that you could ever let him go after this. You probably wouldn’t be able to stand the idea of another woman touching him after this. But you would have to think on that more later.)

You noticed Spencer canting his hips, unconsciously seeking friction against his hard cock while he continued to suck on your breast. With his eyes closed blissfully, drool gathering around his lips where they met your skin in the most utterly adorable way. You couldn’t help yourself - you scooted your knee between his thighs. You then used a hand to help his hips into place, adjusting him so that he was getting good friction against your denim-clad thigh.

“There you go. There you go, sweet boy.” You hummed, feeling another jolt through your body when he let out a sharper moan against your tit, and began humping your leg in earnest.

You were quick to encourage him, putting both hands on his hips and helping him along while he greedily hung onto you. He had on your hip, the other hand slipping up to cup fingers around the bottom of your breast, making sure you didn’t escape him while he moved his body against you so frantically.

“That’s just what you needed, isn’t it, baby?” You moaned out, your voice wavering slightly as the pleasure of it all thrummed through you. “Just a dumb little baby who needed Mommy’s tit.”

The term ‘dumb little baby’ came flying out of your mouth before you could stop it. Though you knew exactly why it happened. Seeing such a brilliant genius reduced down to this truly did something to your ego. And apparently hearing those words from you did something to him, too.

He whined sharply against your skin and his hips stuttered abruptly. You knew it wouldn’t be long before he came in his pants, his cock throbbing against the friction of your thigh. And this thought alone caused your mouth to run off without restraint.

“Such a needy little thing.” You sighed. “You love being Mommy’s dumb baby, don’t you? Not a single fucking thought between your ears, just sucking on Mommy’s tit without a care in the world.”

Spencer moaned and it sent another jolt through your body - another harsh pang through your cunt. You loved how much he needed you. You loved how much he was clearly eating this up.

You didn’t even care if you got to cum tonight; you just wanted to exhaust him for all he was worth. Because he was so fucking pretty like this.

“You gonna cum for me, baby boy? You gonna cum for Mommy? Come on, baby. Cum for me.”

These words were what ultimately sent him over the edge. Well that along with your strong hands on his hips, encouraging him along while he was mindless and busy mouthing on your breast.

His jaw dropped open, finally loosening that desperate suction on your now slightly sore nipple as he began to pant frantically over your now spit-soaked skin. He moaned hotly while he humped you in an entirely adorable, almost distraught manner - absolutely desperate to have the most friction on his cock while his orgasm overtook him.

You could feel his needy cock throbbing against you, trapped inside of his pants, shooting off hot ropes of cum that quickly soaked into his underwear and even then, seeped into the fabric of his slacks. You grinned and bit your lip as you felt that wetness even beginning to soak into your jeans, knowing he must have set off quite a big load.

Spencer soon collapsed on top of you, gulping in air as he tried to catch his breath.

Any normal person would have taken pity on him (seeing as he was clearly nervous and inexperienced) and wound things down to end the night here. Anyone else would have likely let him rest.

But again, you felt devilish temptation overtake you. (It was a feeling that seemed to be much more ripe around Spencer Reid.)

You just felt thankful that your temptation and inclination toward chaos came in the form of lust, rather than something more violent, like the people you studied every single day. Everyone around you should be thankful for that.

You used your leverage (and the fact that you weren’t nearly as exhausted from the experience) to flip him over onto his back. He let out a surprised sound as his back made contact with the mattress - blinking up at you with shocked, glassy eyes as you moved down his body slightly.

“Wha-?” He mumbled out the question, only getting out part of the word before you reached for the zipper on the front of his now wet pants.

“Hey, shh, baby. I just wanna see you.” You told him quietly, causing him to stare down the length of his own body at your hands as you worked.

You got the button and zipper undone quickly and you let out a quiet ‘fuck’ as you peeled back the wet fabric of his grey slacks to reveal the sight of his simplistic (very Reid) white cotton underwear slightly transparent and stuck tight to his cock, coated in wet, sticky cum.

“So pretty baby.”

He only whined in response.

You couldn’t help yourself - you reached up and pulled down the waistband of his underwear, feeling more lust pricking through you as he was truly revealed to your eyes. He was perfect. Glossy and wet with his own release, his cock pinky red from the exertion and friction, still half hard. You pulled the clothes down over his hips and he lifted his body to help you, clearly glad to be rid of the mess, and the second you untangled the fabric from his ankles and ditched everything aside, you were back on him.

You skimmed the tips of your fingers oh-so-lightly up his shaft where it was sprawled across his pelvis, and his hips jolted. He let out a bitter gasp - as though cold water had been splashed across him.

“You said-” He choked on the words as you ran your thumb right underneath the crown, gently pressing into the head, causing him to choke on a moan while his knees quaked.

You sat on his knees to keep him still and his head became so fuzzy once again.

‘You said that you only wanted to look.’

The sentence died off in his lungs somewhere, and truthfully - he didn’t want to protest. He didn’t want you to stop.

“Sens-sensitive.” He whined. “Too much.”

“But you’re so pretty, baby.” You replied, your voice turning smooth and warm like butter again, melting over his whole body, causing all of his muscles to go soft and pliant for you. “Your cock is so pretty. I need to touch you.”

He let out another strangled noise when you cupped your hand and took him fully in your grip this time, giving one good tug across his cock from root to tip. When you did this again, faster this time, his lungs seized inside his chest - trying to take in oxygen so quickly, as though he were drowning on dry land.

“You gonna be good for me, baby?”

“Yes.” He gargled back in response. “Yes, Mommy.”

He was already so wet from cumming in his pants, and he let out a pathetic dribble of precum as you continued to move your hand - so it was an easy, slick slide. One that sent harsh shockwaves through him from overstimulation. Against his own will, he soon ballooned back to full hardness - becoming painfully swollen in your hand while you sped up your touch and closed your fist tighter around him. It caused the most wonderful hurt between his legs, and made a downright filthy wet sound as you pumped your grip faster along his needy cock.

Spencer heard wailing and felt the soreness against his throat before he realized that he was the one making those desperate sounds. He distantly wondered what it might sound like to someone else, if the rooms on either side were occupied, if the motel would receive a noise complaint about some frail woman getting fucked to death by her husband next door - because that’s what he sounded like in his own ears.

But any of those half-thoughts were chased out of his brain the second you flicked your thumb up over the head of his cock and your dirty mouth filled his ears once again.

“Gonna milk this pretty cock, baby.” You told him, your voice firm. “You gonna show Mommy how much you can cum for me? Gonna show me what a good boy you are?”

Spencer let out another pathetic sound, his body singing with pleasure at his pure need to prove to you that - yes, he was a good boy.

He felt tears wet on the side of his face before he realized that he was crying, but it was all too good to ask you to stop.

You used your other hand to cradle his balls and you swooped down to capture his gasping mouth in another kiss (a very messy, open mouthed kiss that Spencer could barely pay attention to). Spencer screamed into your mouth while he painted his stomach with cum once again.

You only stopped jerking his cock once you had truly milked every last drop from him, his hips seizing up off the bed and your hand almost slipping off him completely from how sloppily wet it was with more of his cum added to the mix.

He was purely exhausted then. His eyes blinked heavily, struggling to stay open. He vaguely remembered you cleaning him off and tucking him into bed - but he definitely enjoyed falling asleep curled up next to your warmth.

…

The next morning, Spencer felt hungover.

He wondered if that’s what good sex always felt like - the combination of endorphins rushing through your body and physical exertion tackling you over. His legs were sore, as though he had run several miles. (Which wasn’t even something he could make a bold comparison to anyway, because he didn’t exercise nearly as much as he should for someone with this job). He woke up starving, grateful when you drove to a diner down the road after checking out of the motel and planted him in one of the booths before going outside to call Hotch in order to touch base with the rest of the team.

You came back with a small grin on your face.

“Turns out that tip the ex-wife gave us about their first house in Arlington was pretty solid.” You told Reid. “They caught the guy on his way there. He had another girl in the trunk. They got her back mostly unarmed, and took him into custody.”

Spencer nodded. “That’s good.”

When he moved to grab another sugar packet out of the caddy on the side of the table, three of them already open and empty beside his cup of coffee, you grabbed him by the wrist.

“That’s enough, baby.” You told him.

His stomach curled, that distinct feeling running through him again. And against his will, that word slipped out - again.

“Yes, Mommy.”

...

A/N: This is a standalone oneshot. There won't be a sequel or a continuation, so please do not ask for one. If you liked the fic, please comment about the body of work that has been written, or consider reblogging to show your appreciation. If you want to see more Spencer Reid fics that I have written, you can check out my Criminal Minds Masterlist, or you can check out my Masterlists for other fandoms to see if anything catches your eye. Thank you for reading!

#sundrop writes #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #sub!spencer #sub!spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic

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mahalachives · 1 month ago

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Part 8: Everything I Am, Everything I Will Be

Azriel x f!reader

Genre: fated mates, rom-com, crack humor, eventual angst, eventual smut

Summary: Azriel never expected to finally meet his mate and to be… this.

A walking disaster with a talent for tripping over air, an uncanny ability to charm even the grumpiest Illyrian, and a knack for throwing herself headfirst into situations that require his immediate intervention.

She is warmth where he is shadow, laughter where he is silence. And worst of all? She makes him smile without trying.

Azriel, Are you Okay? - Masterlist

Azriel had first noticed you in Velaris, long before fate had decided to intervene.

It had been an ordinary afternoon in the Rainbow.

Azriel had been returning from a briefing with Rhys, his shadows trailing behind him like gentle wisps of midnight.

Most people gave him a wide berth—the Shadowsinger’s reputation ensuring his solitude even in crowded streets.

She’s coming, his shadows whispered suddenly, their tone unusually bright, almost melodic. The one who speaks to plants.

Azriel tilted his head slightly, curious.

His shadows often brought him snippets of information about the residents of Velaris, but rarely with such… delight.

That’s when he saw you.

You were hurrying along with an armful of ancient scrolls, humming softly to yourself about deadlines and temperamental flora.

Before he could step aside, a particularly ornate scroll adorned with painted lilies slipped from your grasp, rolling toward his feet.

Catch it, his shadows urged eagerly, already curling toward the falling parchment.

He caught it before it could unravel completely, his gloved hand gentle with the delicate parchment, careful not to damage the exquisite illustrations of rare night-blooming plants.

“Oh! Thank you,” you’d gasped, “These are absolutely irreplaceable botanical records, and my supervisor would have my head if—”

You froze mid-sentence as you finally looked up, eyes widening in recognition, a small pressed flower falling from between the pages of your notebook.

“You’re Azriel,” you whispered. “The Shadowsinger.”

He’d simply nodded, extending the recovered scroll with one hand while quietly retrieving the fallen flower with the other.

Her heartbeat sounds like hummingbird wings, his shadows observed, sounding almost… enchanted. She smells like lavender and old books.

Your fingers brushed as you took both items, a fleeting touch that sent an unexpected warmth shooting up his arm like gentle sparks.

His throat tightened pleasantly, a subtle flutter spreading across his chest as his shadows curled briefly toward you like morning mist reaching for sunlight.

Warm, they murmured happily. Bright. Remember her forever.

“Thank you,” you’d said again, softer this time, a small smile lighting your features.

He'd inclined his head in silent acknowledgment before continuing on his way, gently quieting his shadows when they tried to urge him to follow you, to learn more about the female who’d caused such a stir among them.

We’ll see her again, they whispered confidently as he walked away. She matters to us.

Azriel had dismissed their unusual behavior with fond exasperation.

His shadows could be fanciful at times, prone to innocent fixations that often proved meaningless.

Besides, his heart had belonged to Mor then.

Had for centuries. Would for centuries more, he'd thought.

He was wonderfully wrong.

Five centuries of life had prepared Azriel for many things.

Torture. War.

The darkest corners of Prythian's courts. The weight of secrets that would break lesser males.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for the paralyzing uncertainty of preparing for his first date with his mate.

"You look like you're planning an assassination, not a romantic evening," Cassian drawled from where he lounged against the doorframe of Azriel's private chambers in the House of Wind. He eyed Azriel’s fourth—or was it fifth?—tunic choice of the evening. "I mean, if you’re aiming to impress her with murder skills, go for it. But I’d suggest toning down the ‘serial killer’ energy at least a notch."

Azriel didn't respond, busy adjusting the collar of his tunic for the fourteenth time.

The fabric embroidered with silver stars seemed simultaneously too formal and not formal enough.

He'd never cared about his appearance beyond functionality before.

But tonight... tonight mattered.

You mattered.

"I've never seen you this rattled," Cassian continued, his grin widening. "Not even when we infiltrated the Winter Court during the Frost Solstice and you got cornered by that deranged—"

Azriel shot him a warning look, shadows coiling tightly around his scarred hands. "I'm not rattled."

Liar, his oldest shadow whispered in his ear. Your heart races at the mere thought of her.

His shadows had been insufferable since the day you'd fallen on him in the archives—growing more vocal, more insistent with each passing day.

They'd recognized the mate bond before he had, whispering your name when he tried to sleep, urging him toward you at every opportunity.

Centuries of perfect control, undone by one female with a talent for calamity and eyes that saw straight through his carefully constructed walls.

"Have you decided where you're taking her?" Rhys asked, materializing from the shadows of the hallway. The High Lord's violet eyes gleamed with barely suppressed amusement.

Azriel nodded once. "The oak grove."

Cassian raised an eyebrow. "The treehouse? No one knows about that place."

"Exactly," Azriel replied, finally turning away from the mirror. He didn't need to explain further.

Both males understood the significance—he was sharing something private, something he'd kept hidden for centuries.

Rhys's expression shifted, something knowing gleaming in his eyes. "Interesting choice," he said, the words weighted with meaning Azriel couldn't quite decipher. "There's something... fitting about it."

Before Azriel could respond, Cassian clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make lesser males stagger. "Well, don't keep the lady waiting. And remember—" he winked "—I've got a favorite blade riding on you sealing the bond by the full moon."

Azriel growled low in his throat. "Get out."

Both males laughed as they retreated, though Rhys paused at the doorway.

"Az," he said softly, all humor gone from his voice. "You both deserve this. Remember that."

The words struck deeper than Azriel wanted to admit.

Five centuries of darkness and solitude had convinced him he deserved nothing but shadows.

And then you had crashed into his life—literally—upending everything he thought he knew about himself.

She is your light, his shadow whispered. Your starlight. Your home.

He had one final thing to retrieve before leaving.

From his desk, he took a small wooden box containing the gift he'd spent hours carving.

A ridiculous gesture, perhaps, but one he hoped would make you smile.

That smile.

It haunted him.

Brightened corners of his soul he'd thought long dead.

With a deep breath, he unfurled his wings and stepped to the balcony.

Before launching into the evening sky, he allowed himself one moment of vulnerability, one whispered confession to the sunset.

"I am terrified."

You had faced many terrifying things in your life.

Cave-dwelling monsters with too many teeth.

That one particularly aggressive goose on the mountain trail.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared you for the sheer, overwhelming panic of getting ready for your first official date with Azriel.

"I have nothing to wear," you wailed, flinging another dress onto the growing pile on your bed. "Nothing."

Lira, sprawled on your one comfortable chair, didn't even look up from inspecting her nails. "You have approximately seventeen outfits on that bed alone. Not to mention the three I brought over. And the one Mor sent with a note that said—and I quote—'wear this if you want to see a shadowsinger blush.'"

"None of them are right!" You held up a midnight blue gown with silver accents. "Too formal."

A casual tunic and pants. "Too boring."

A revealing red number that had somehow found its way into your closet. "Too... Mor."

Lira sighed dramatically. "He's seen you with bedhead, covered in mud, drenched in the Sidra, and tripping over literally nothing. If you showed up in a flour sack, he'd probably still look at you like you hung the stars."

"That doesn't help!"

"Fine." Lira finally stood, sifting through the fabric mountain with expert precision. "Wear this. It's pretty but comfortable, and the color brings out your eyes."

She held up a simple but elegant dress in a deep violet hue with subtle silver detailing.

The fabric was light and flowy, perfect for a summer evening in Velaris, yet structured enough to look intentional rather than haphazard—something you desperately needed help with.

"Are you sure?" you asked, taking the garment with reverent hands.

"Positive. Now..." She gestured vaguely at the disaster that was your hair. "Let's tackle that next catastrophe."

An hour later, you stood before your mirror, barely recognizing yourself.

The dress fit perfectly, highlighting curves you didn't know you had. Your hair was pinned in an elegant-but-not-too-fussy style that somehow made you look like you belonged in the Night Court's fashionable circles.

"See?" Lira said smugly, adjusting one final pin. "You clean up nicely when you're not falling into things."

"Don't jinx it," you muttered, nervously touching the moonbloom pendant that hung around your neck.

The delicate flower seemed to pulse with life in the fading evening light, a constant reminder of Azriel's feelings.

Gregory bubbled energetically from his bowl, performing what looked suspiciously like approval laps.

"Even Gregory thinks you look good," Lira commented, tossing a pinch of fish food into the bowl. "And he has very high standards. Don't you, Gregory?"

A loud knock interrupted your nervous fidgeting.

"He's early," you hissed, panic rising again. "He said sunset! It's not sunset yet!"

"It's close enough," Lira pushed you toward the door. "Now go. Be awkward. Be romantic. Be yourself. And for Cauldron's sake, try not to fall into the Sidra again."

With one final glare at your so-called friend, you took a deep breath and opened the door.

And promptly forgot how to breathe.

Azriel stood there, not in his usual Illyrian fighting leathers, but in formal Night Court attire—well-fitted black pants and a deep blue tunic that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. His wings were meticulously groomed, the membranous material almost glowing in the late afternoon light.

But it was his face that caught you off guard.

The usual carefully controlled mask had slipped, revealing raw appreciation as his hazel eyes swept over you.

"You're beautiful," he said, the words coming out rougher than usual, like he hadn't meant to speak them aloud.

Your cheeks heated.

"You too." You winced immediately. "I mean, not beautiful—well, yes, beautiful, but handsome. You look handsome. Good. Nice. I'm going to stop talking now."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. "I brought you something."

From behind his back, he produced not flowers—which would have been the conventional choice—but a small, intricate wooden box.

"For the menace," he said, gesturing toward Gregory's bowl. "From one guard to another."

You opened it to find a tiny, perfectly carved castle tower—a fish hideout for Gregory's bowl.

"You got my fish a present," you said, staring at the delicate woodwork, complete with miniature windows and a tiny door. "Did you... did you make this?"

A rare flush crept along Azriel's cheekbones. "I had time."

The image of the Night Court's most feared spymaster whittling a tiny castle for your emotional support fish was almost too much to bear.

"Gregory appreciates your dedication to home security," you managed, placing the tower carefully in the fish bowl. Gregory immediately swam through the tiny doorway, clearly approving of his new quarters.

"Shall we?" Azriel offered his arm—a formal, courtly gesture that somehow seemed both foreign and perfectly natural coming from him.

"Where are we going?" you asked, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow and trying not to focus on the firm muscle beneath your fingertips.

His shadows curled playfully around your wrist. "It's a surprise."

Your eyes widen with wonder as you take in the treehouse, your lips parting in surprise.

You can't believe Azriel has brought you here—to a place he built with Cassian centuries ago and maintained alone for three hundred years.

"You're taking me to your secret hideout?" The words tumble from your mouth, wonder filling your voice.

Azriel's hand moves to adjust the moonbloom pendant at your throat, his fingers lingering against your skin.

The touch sends a flutter through your chest, your pulse quickening beneath his fingertips.

"I wanted to share something with you," he says, his voice rougher than usual. "Something private. Something no female has ever seen."

The weight of his admission isn't lost on you.

Five centuries of guarding his privacy, his secrets—and here he is, offering a piece of himself so willingly.

"I'm honored," you say, meaning every word.

"You should be," he replies, a rare lightness in his tone. "Cassian doesn't even know I still come here." He pauses before adding, "The wards only recognize my blood... and now yours."

Your heart skips a beat at the revelation that he'd altered ancient wards for you.

As you climb the stairs, your foot catches on the lip of a step—your usual gracelessness making an appearance at the worst possible moment. Before you can tumble backward, Azriel's hand snaps out to steady you. Instead of a polite rescue, he pulls you flush against him, his palm splayed across the curve of your lower back, fingers edging just a little lower than strictly necessary.

Heat floods your body at the contact.

The thin fabric of your dress does nothing to hide the firmness of his chest against yours, and you can't help the quiet gasp that escapes your lips as you look up at him through half-lowered lashes.

His shadows coil around your legs, bold and hungry.

You can feel them reaching for you, as though they want to slip under your dress and map every inch of your skin.

"Careful," he murmurs, but his dropped voice makes the warning sound more like an invitation.

When you try to straighten, he doesn't let you go immediately.

Instead, his fingers flex over your lower back, pressing you firmly against him. Your breath hitches as something pulses between you—an unspoken promise of what could happen if you just gave in.

With visible effort, he loosens his grip, drawing a shaky breath as he eases you upright. But his thumb grazes the curve of your hip in a final caress that feels like a claim.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "Try not to fall again," he teases softly, his tone laced with sin. "Next time, I might not let go."

"Sorry," you murmur, your cheeks flushing. "Gravity and I have a complicated relationship."

"So I've noticed," he replies, fondness warming his voice.

As you enter the treehouse, you're struck by the beautiful details—floating faelights, a moving star map, a low table set with foods that somehow match exactly what you like.

But it's the walls that truly capture your attention.

Maps, notes, sketches—centuries of observations, thoughts, a private world spread out for you to see.

"What is all this?" you ask, moving closer to examine a map of the Night Court.

"Records," he answers, standing close enough that his wing brushes against your back. A small shiver runs through you at the contact. "Observations. Memories."

You realize what you're looking at—his personal history, his private sanctuary where he keeps the parts of himself he shows to no one.

"Why did you bring me here?" The question comes as a whisper, vulnerability plain in your voice.

"Because you deserve to know me. All of me. Not just what others see."

For a male who has spent centuries in shadows, who has built his life around secrets and silence, the offering is monumental. He is giving you the power to truly know him—and with it, the power to truly hurt him.

"I don't know what to say," you admit.

"You don't have to say anything," he assures you, guiding you to the table with his hand at the small of your back. "Just... be here. With me."

As you sit across from each other, Azriel's shadows refuse to stay contained. They reach for you, wrapping around your wrists, tracing the line of your neck with a boldness that makes your skin heat.

"Your shadows are very... hands-on," you observe, watching as they caress you like living extensions of his desire.

You notice the heat creeping up Azriel's neck. "They've grown fond of you," he says, clearly understating. "They've never... responded to anyone like this before."

"Just the shadows?" you ask, surprising yourself with your boldness.

His eyes drop to your lips, and you can almost feel the phantom touch of his mouth on yours.

"No," he says, his voice dropping to a register that reveals his desire. "No, starlight. Not just the shadows."

The endearment sends warmth blooming in your chest.

Throughout dinner, you watch Azriel relax in a way you've never seen before.

He tells you stories he's never shared with others—mishaps and adventures with the Inner Circle, lighter moments that few would associate with the fearsome shadowsinger.

You laugh freely, entranced by the way he watches you, the way his lips curve when you throw your head back in amusement. Around him, you feel lighter, brighter, more than you've felt in a long time.

Your peaceful dinner is interrupted by a faint sound outside—one that Azriel's trained ears catch immediately.

"Was that...?" you ask, peering into the darkness.

"Ignore it," he sighs.

"But it looked like—"

"Cassian," he confirms, caught between exasperation and amusement. "And if my shadows aren't misleading me, Mor is with him."

Your eyes widen. "Are they spying on us?"

"They're attempting to," he corrects dryly. "Rather poorly."

You burst into laughter at their friends' antics, finding humor where others might find irritation.

"We could give them something to spy on," you suggest, mischief dancing in your eyes.

Azriel arches a brow, heat visible in his gaze. "What did you have in mind?"

The idea of acting out an exaggerated romantic scene to scandalize your friends delights you.

"Oh, Azriel," you exclaim in an exaggerated breathy voice. "I had no idea you could do that with shadows!"

He plays along with surprising enthusiasm, his voice dropping deliberately lower. "It's a rare talent. One I've been saving for the right person. For you."

His shadows put on a dramatic display, swirling around the room with theatrical flair. But some use the opportunity to touch you in more intimate ways—tracing down your arm, caressing your collarbone, stealing touches that make your breath catch.

"The right...angle?" you continue, your tone deliberately suggestive. "Or the right... position?"

When Cassian crashes outside, you have to bite back your laughter. But beneath the amusement is a rising heat, a dangerous awareness of Azriel—of how beautiful he looks with rare humor in his eyes, of how much you want to turn this playacting into reality.

"Both," he says solemnly. "It requires... flexibility. And endurance." He leans forward, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. "Fortunately, I have centuries of practice."

One bold shadow caresses your neck.

You break into laughter, the tension momentarily diffused. "That," you gasp between laughs, "was the most fun I've ever had fully clothed."

When your laughter subsides, you find Azriel studying your face with an intensity that makes your heart race.

"I've existed for over five hundred years," he admits quietly. "And I can't remember the last time I laughed like that."

The vulnerability in his admission touches something deep within you.

"Well, I'm happy to make a fool of myself anytime if it makes you laugh," you say with a warm smile.

"You weren't the fool," he counters, rising and moving to the window. "Come. There's something I want to show you."

When you join him at the window, his wing brushes against your back—a casual touch that sends a shiver down your spine. The view of Velaris at night stretches before you, a tapestry of lights and shadows.

"It's beautiful," you whisper.

"This is how I see the city," he tells you, his voice an intimate murmur. "From above. In shadows and light."

When you turn to face him, he's already watching you—his hazel eyes reflecting the faelight, turning them to liquid gold.

"What are you thinking?" you ask.

"That I never thought I'd have this. That for centuries, I accepted solitude as my due. And then you—" He shakes his head, wonder in his expression. "You fell into my life. Literally."

You reach for his scarred hand, tracing the ancient burns with gentle fingers. The tissue is rough beneath your touch, but you don't hesitate or flinch. These marks are part of him, as essential as his shadows or his wings.

"These are part of you," you say softly. "Just like your shadows. Just like your wings. Parts I wouldn't change." You pause, realizing something. "You haven't worn your gloves since the library incident."

The observation seems to startle him, as if he hadn't realized it himself.

"Why?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

His shadows curl closer as vulnerability passes over his face.

"Because I've spent centuries hiding these scars." His scarred fingers intertwine with yours, the contrast between his damaged skin and your softness both stark and beautiful. "But after you fell on me that day, after you touched me without flinching... I found myself yearning to feel your skin against mine, even if by accident."

He moves closer, the bond between you drawing taut. "Do you know what it's like? To want something so badly you can hardly breathe with it? To have your skin ache for a touch you've convinced yourself you'll never deserve?"

The raw emotion in his voice makes your heart ache.

"Most people avoid touching them," he says, his voice rough as you continue to trace his scars.

"I'm not most people," you remind him, your tone dropping to match his. "I'm your mate."

The word hangs between you—mate—sacred and true. The bond between you flares at the acknowledgment, a rush of warmth that suffuses your entire being.

"Yes," he agrees, his voice rough with possessiveness. "Mine."

He reaches up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip in a touch that makes you tremble. His scarred hand against your skin feels right—as if you were made to complement each other, to balance his darkness with your light.

"In Illyrian tradition," he says, barely above a whisper, "the first kiss between mates is a sacred vow. A promise more binding than any words." His shadows embrace you both, creating a cocoon of privacy. "I do not make such promises lightly."

Your heart pounds as you understand the weight of the moment.

"What are you promising me, shadowsinger?" you ask, the title feeling right on your lips.

His eyes meet yours, centuries of loneliness and newfound hope converging in his gaze. "Everything I am. Everything I will be."

The words feel ancient, powerful, true.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he declares, the words both a warning and a vow.

"Good," you reply, unable to resist lightening the moment. "Because my knees are about to give out, and I'd hate to fall again."

A smile touches his lips, tender and full of promise. "I'll catch you," he promises. "I always do. I always will."

And then he's leaning in, his eyes never leaving yours. Finding no hesitation, he closes the distance and presses his lips to yours.

The first touch is gentle, reverent—a question, an offering of his heart. His shadows engulf you both, creating a world where only the two of you exist. He cradles your face like you're something precious, something to be cherished.

The mate bond explodes between you, a surge of sensation so intense it nearly buckles your knees. Colors, scents, feelings—all sharper, brighter, more vivid than you've ever experienced. You can feel his heartbeat as if it were your own, can sense his emotions mingling with yours in a tapestry of wonder and desire and rightness.

You slide your fingers into his hair and pull him closer, wanting more. A growl rumbles in his chest as he backs you against the window, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that matches your own. The feeling of him against you is more intoxicating than anything you've ever known.

"Azriel," you gasp against his mouth, unable to contain the emotion swelling within you.

"I can feel it too," he murmurs, wonder threading through his words as the mate bond flares between you. "The bond. It's singing."

Kissing him is like finding a home you never knew you were missing. His taste, his scent, the way he responds to you—it's intoxicating, overwhelming, perfect. His wings curve around you both, shielding you from the world in the most ancient Illyrian tradition.

Your scent and his mingle—your parchment and lavender now blended with his night-chilled cedar, marking you as his. Every nerve ending in your body feels alive, hypersensitive, attuned to each small movement.

You slide your tongue along the seam of his lips, drawing a feral sound from his chest that sends heat pooling low in your belly. He answers with a rough, devouring kiss that makes you moan softly into the quiet space around you.

His shadows take on a life of their own, swirling in a dizzying dance over your shoulders, skimming down your arms and waist—touching, tasting, exploring in ways that make you shiver with need.

The moonbloom pendant at your throat suddenly flares with bright, shimmering light, bathing you both in ethereal glow. You clutch at him, fingers threading into his hair and tugging just hard enough to make him groan.

When you finally pull apart, you're both panting. His eyes gleam possessively, making your breath catch. Your hair is mussed from his restless fingers; your lips feel swollen, tingling with the evidence of his kisses.

"Well," you manage, voice quivering with excitement, "as far as first kisses go, that was…"

"Insufficient," he growls, low and ragged, already leaning back in. He drags his thumb across your lower lip, collecting the lingering taste of your kiss. His wings flare behind him in a display that screams possession. "We should try again. For thoroughness."

Your laugh comes out breathy. "Thoroughness? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

His eyes narrow in challenge, the corners of his lips tilting into a predatory smirk. "I'm over five hundred years old," he reminds you, his voice decadently deep. "I'm no kid. And I'm very, very thorough."

A delicious tension crackles between you, heightened by the knowledge of just how far that promise could go. The mate bond pulses like a physical tether, tightening around your souls.

"Thank the Cauldron for that," you whisper, already tipping your head for another kiss. "Think of all the practice you've had."

His shadows flare, enveloping you both in a cocoon of midnight.

They skim across every curve, every hollow, every dip of your body they can reach, impatient for him to join them in full exploration.

Azriel swallows a groan, every muscle tensing as he fights for control. But one look at your parted lips and the flush darkening your cheeks, and you see the moment he decides to let go, to show you exactly how long he's waited, how desperately he's craved this moment.

"Practice," he echoes roughly, his breath skating across your mouth. "You have no idea."

Then he bends his head and captures your lips again, the kiss far from soft—raw and hungry, a promise that the thoroughness has only just begun.

You practically skip into the Botanical Archives, a goofy smile plastered on your face as you clutch a small bag of pastries in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in the other.

The memory of last night—Azriel’s treehouse, that kiss (kisses!)—still swirls in your mind like a flock of delighted starlings, making your heart flutter every time you replay it.

The Archives are quiet at this hour, mostly hushed librarians and scholars drifting between shelves.

But one voice shatters the hush the moment you step inside.

“Well, well, look who decided to waltz in here like she’s the High Lady of Good Moods,” Lira crows from behind the reception desk. “Did someone have a fun night, perhaps?”

You try to tamp down your giddy grin—but fail spectacularly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, setting your tea down and carefully ignoring the fact that you nearly trip over a stack of dusty tomes.

Lira narrows her eyes. “That’s not your I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about face. That’s your oh-mother-above-I-think-I’m-in-love face.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “Shh! Keep your voice down or the entire Archive will know I have…a reason to be happy.”

She laughs, straightening. “Please. The entire Archive already suspects you have some reason to be happy. You’re glowing like a star under a Cauldron-blessed spotlight.”

You roll your eyes, though the corners of your mouth curl upward anyway. “Anyway, are we cataloging the new Day Court scrolls this morning? Or are you just going to stand there and harass me?”

“Bit of both, probably,” Lira says brightly.

She taps a wooden crate with her foot. “We got a new delivery—again—like those Day Courtiers have nothing better to do than bury us in half-translated manuscripts. Go forth and sort.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, picking up the top scroll. “Ah yes, I shall valiantly bury myself in dusty documents for the sake of botanical advancement.”

Lira pretends to salute. “What a trooper. Let me know if you start missing that shadowsinger so much you can’t function.”

You open your mouth for a scathing retort, but she wiggles her fingers in a sassy goodbye and flounces away, leaving you alone with your scrolls, your warm tea, and approximately one million butterflies in your stomach.

You set to work at a large wooden table in a back alcove, where the morning sun filters through high, arched windows.

The gentle hush of the Archives usually soothes you, but today you’re too antsy—your mind keeps wandering to Azriel.

To the feel of his lips against yours, the warmth of his scarred palms, the way he promised to catch you if you fell. (And, to be fair, you are pretty inclined to falling.)

A silly grin curls your lips.

You find yourself humming a jaunty tune, tapping your quill on the table.

At one point, you even spin in a small circle, the skirt of your lilac day-dress flaring around your legs. If any of your coworkers see, you’ll deny it.

Forever.

“Snap out of it,” you mutter, unrolling a parchment with care.

The Day Court has included a thorough treatise on cacti. Instantly, your mind conjures Azriel’s shadows swirling around spiky succulents, and you stifle a giggle.

You’re so lost in daydreams that you almost miss the moment the alcove falls too silent.

A cool draft brushes the back of your neck, sending a ripple of unease across your skin.

Your humming halts.

You glance over your shoulder, expecting to see Lira or one of the other scholars.

But there’s no one—just row upon row of towering shelves and the gentle flicker of faelights.

Maybe it’s just a draft, you think, trying to steady your heartbeat.

You turn back to the Day Court scroll, pressing its corners flat against the table.

Then you hear it—a voice so soft it barely registers over the faint rustle of parchment.

“Hello…”

Your entire body goes rigid.

Slowly, you set your quill down, dread curling in your stomach.

The fine hairs at your nape prickle as a memory stirs—one you can’t quite place.

“Lira?” you call softly, forcing a calm you don’t feel.

No answer. Just eerie silence.

You let out a forced laugh. “I’m hearing things. Perfect.”

You try—try—to read the neat calligraphy on the scroll. But your eyes keep flicking to the edge of your vision, half expecting some lurking figure to emerge.

“She’s here…” another whisper comes, colder this time. “She’s back.”

Your blood runs cold.

The timbre of that voice claws at something old inside your head.

Your hands tremble as you half-rise from your seat.

You open your mouth, intending to speak—but the words never come.

Because suddenly, the hush around you fills with whispers, overlapping voices, some trembling with desperation, others echoing with a cruel, mocking tone.

“Do you remember us…” “You left us…”

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, and a jolt of raw terror streaks down your spine.

Flashes of old nightmares rise in your mind, a dark corridor, flickering torches, voices that taunted you in the corners of your dreams.

“She hears us again...” “Help us…let us out…” “You never should have run.”

Your vision shivers, the edges going hazy.

This isn’t real, you tell yourself.

Except it feels so real, the air turning frigid, your lungs refusing to draw breath properly.

You clutch your ledger like a shield. “W-who’s there?”

You hate how shaky your voice sounds.

No answer, just a chorus of nearly soundless laughter—both sorrowful and cruel.

It wraps around you like cold fingers.

And in that overlapping cacophony, you catch snippets of an old plea, your plea, from long ago.

“Leave me alone—please—go away!”

You slap your free hand over your ear, as though you can block them out.

“Stop,” you manage, voice cracking.

A chilling breeze seems to swirl around you, rustling the edges of the scroll. The ghosts’ voices crescendo.

“She fears us still…” “She remembers nothing…” “Don’t forget the blood…”

Tears prick your eyes, your throat tight with panic.

You don’t know what they’re talking about—you don’t recall any promise, any them.

“Stop,” you beg again, tears threatening to spill. “Please—”

A hand seizes your shoulder.

You yelp, spinning with your ledger raised defensively—only to find Lira, her face etched with alarm.

“Whoa!” she exclaims, hands up in surrender. “Easy! I come in peace!”

You blink rapidly, tears and panic making everything blur.

The voices vanish as if yanked away by an unseen thread.

Suddenly, you’re in the quiet Archives again, the morning sunlight streaming like nothing’s wrong.

Lira lowers her arms, stepping closer. “You okay? You look like you just saw the Bogge itself.”

“I—” You struggle to breathe normally.

Your pulse still pounds, and your ears ring with phantom echoes. You never should have run. “I thought I heard…” You shake your head, shame creeping in. “It’s nothing. I’m just—tired.”

She lifts a brow, unconvinced. “That was more than just tired. You were talking to someone, or something.”

You swallow, gaze darting to the corner of the alcove.

The weight of old nightmares lingers in the air, but the ghosts are silent now—lurking behind the veil, waiting.

“Maybe I… dozed off for a second,” you finally mumble, the excuse tasting sour in your mouth. “I’m really not sleeping well lately.”

Lira’s expression softens. “Then let’s get you some air. Trust me, inhaling stale parchment fumes isn’t gonna help if you’re feeling faint.”

Normally, you’d protest.

But the thought of staying here, alone, at this table—where those voices might return—makes your stomach churn.

So you nod, following her toward the exit, your heart still hammering.

As you pass through the high-arched doorway, Lira chatters about random Archive gossip, clearly trying to distract you.

You manage a weak smile here and there, but your thoughts remain fixed on those voices, how they echoed the nightmares you once had, how they accused you of leaving them behind.

Leaving who behind?

You can’t remember.

A final chill scutters down your spine as you glance over your shoulder.

In the alcove’s corner, the shadows are thicker than they should be, almost shaped like hunched figures.

Watching. Waiting.

A faint echo flickers in your mind, too familiar—childish whimpers, fear overwhelming your small body as you clung to blankets at night, wishing the voices would go away.

As you hurry after Lira, the rasping whispers claw at your memory.

“Don’t forget the blood… She’s still ours…”

Azriel appears so suddenly you nearly drop your ledger—one moment it’s just you and Lira in the corridor, and the next, the spymaster stands at your side, wings half-flared, shadows swirling restlessly.

His hazel eyes flick over you in a swift, razor-sharp sweep, cataloging every inch as if looking for injuries or signs of distress.

“Az,” you whisper, your voice still shaky from the lingering terror.

Lira startles, almost dropping the scrolls in her arms. “Cauldron,” she mutters, stepping back to give him space. “I’ll just…yeah.” She shoots you a worried look, then disappears around a corner, leaving you alone with Azriel’s intense gaze.

He doesn’t move for a beat—just stares, tension radiating from every line of his body.

The hush of the Archives thickens.

His expression is pure spymaster: unreadable, assessing, tinged with lethal calm.

Finally, in a voice carved from steel, he asks, “What happened?”

A wave of guilt crashes over you. You attempt a weak, tremulous grin. “Nothing. Just—library chaos. You know how it is.”

His jaw clenches, shadows uncoiling around his wrists like they’re ready to hunt.

“Don’t lie,” he says quietly. “I felt your fear through the bond.”

Your chest tightens at the reminder of how strong your panic must’ve been for him to sense it.

“I—” The words stick in your throat.

This man has faced wars, horrors you can’t fathom; the last thing you want is to burden him with ghost stories you can’t even explain. So you plaster on an overly bright smile. “It’s fine. Seriously, you can relax your wings now.”

He doesn’t.

If anything, they flare wider, as though to shield you from whatever threatened you. “Your hands are still shaking,” he observes grimly, eyes flicking to your trembling grip on the ledger.

A lump forms in your throat.

You force a laugh that comes out sounding like a pathetic squeak. “Must’ve been a dizzy spell. Too much dust. Really, Az, stop worrying.”

His nostrils flare with impatience—he’s clearly not convinced. Before you can protest, he steps forward, gathering you into his arms in one swift motion, ledger and all. The sensation of his firm chest against yours sends a jolt through your system that’s part embarrassment, part relief.

“Az!” you protest, cheeks heating. “We’re in the middle of the—”

He lifts you just enough to curve his arm beneath your knees, his other arm bracing your back. A neat little scoop that leaves you clutching at his shoulders, eyes wide. You can practically feel the hush of the Archives intensify as a few onlookers peek around corners.

But Azriel doesn’t seem to care.

His shadows swirl closer, forming a hazy barrier of privacy.

“You’re pale,” he says simply, as though that justifies everything. “And I’m not putting you down until you stop pretending this is nothing.”

“Az, I—” Heat flutters across your cheeks.

You glance around, mortified to be cradled bridal-style in front of whoever might pass by. But there’s no ignoring the steady thump of his heart against your ear, the secure hold of his arms.

It makes you feel…safe.

He looks down at you, his usually controlled features pulled taut with worry and frustration.

“You terrified me,” he admits low enough that only you can hear. “I’ve felt you anxious before, but never that close to panic.”

Guilt churns in your gut. “I’m sorry,” you manage, voice tight. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

His gaze lingers on the lingering tears clinging to your lashes, and the hardness in his face softens just slightly. “Tell me what scared you.”

“It’s nothing you need to hunt, I swear,” you say quickly, wanting to stave off the spymaster in him. Your voice trembles with the weight of the half-truth. “Please—just stop worrying.”

For a moment, he just studies you.

Then, releasing a sigh that ruffles your hair, he nods toward the nearest reading nook, a cozy alcove by a tall window. “We’re talking. Properly. Somewhere less exposed.”

He moves—with you still in his arms.

Your stomach swoops. “Azriel,” you hiss, mortified, “put me down. I can walk!”

His mouth presses into a stubborn line.

“You’re shaking,” he repeats. “Until I see you steady on your feet, I’m carrying you. You can glare all you want.”

You do glare. Furiously.

But you don’t exactly hate the warmth of his hold, or the reassuring solidity of his body. So with a defeated huff, you bury your face in the soft fabric of his tunic, hoping to hide from the curious glances of passing scholars.

It doesn’t take long for him to reach the alcove, where he sets you gently on a cushioned bench. One of his wings curls protectively around you in a half-shield, blocking out the rest of the Archives. Even as your feet touch the floor, he keeps a hand on your shoulder, as if afraid you might vanish.

“Tell me what happened,” he says again, voice firm but edged with a tenderness that tugs at your heart.

Your gaze drops to your ledger, your voice catching.

You can’t bring yourself to explain the whispers, the shadows, the half-buried nightmares you don’t fully understand. “I was just…overwhelmed,” you mumble, blinking rapidly against fresh tears. “I’m so sorry. I know you must have a thousand better things to do than rush here for no reason.”

Azriel’s expression darkens, and you sense that protective fury simmering behind his calm facade. “You are never ‘no reason,’” he says, each word clipped. “I’ll always come if you need me. You know that.”

“But—”

He slides onto the bench beside you, capturing your trembling hands in his. The warmth of his scarred palms steadies your breathing. “I can’t fix what you won’t tell me,” he murmurs, “but I can sit here until you feel safe again.”

The bond pulses gently, your chest loosening. You sniff, nodding gratefully. “I’m okay now,” you whisper, daring to meet his gaze. “Really.”

Azriel’s eyes remain narrowed, but you catch the barest flicker of relief. “If you say so.” His grip tightens just a fraction. “But if I sense that level of fear again, I will tear this place apart until I find the cause.”

The conviction in his voice sends a shiver through you. “Not sure the Head Archivist would appreciate you wrecking her shelves.”

He arches a brow. “Let her try to stop me.”

Despite yourself, a shaky laugh escapes your lips.

The absurd image of Azriel tearing down entire rows of rare scrolls in search of some imaginary threat is enough to dispel a bit of the tension knotting your gut.

“You’re impossible,” you say, but there’s no heat in your words.

He raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Maybe.” Then, more quietly, “I’d rather be impossible than let you face your fear alone.”

The sincerity in his tone nearly breaks you.

Emotion swells behind your eyes, though you manage to keep from crying again. Carefully, he shifts you closer, tucking you against his side. With his free arm, he drapes one dark wing around you like a shield.

Your heart flutters. The pressure of the wing against your back, the lingering hint of his soap-and-leather scent—together, they feel like an unspoken promise of safety.

A heartbeat of silence passes, your pulse steadying in time with his. Then, in a clipped tone that can’t entirely hide his concern, Azriel says, “Next time you sense anything—anything—off, you call me. Immediately.”

You open your mouth to argue—maybe you don’t want to feel like a damsel in distress—but the unyielding determination in his eyes melts your resistance.

“Okay,” you breathe.

He relaxes. Just a fraction, but enough that you feel the tension ebb. “Good.”

For a moment, you sit there in the hush, wrapped in Azriel’s wing, the rustle of his shadows quieting. You can practically hear his mind whirring, but he refrains from interrogating you further. He simply stays, presence unwavering, until the trembling in your limbs finally subsides.

Eventually, Azriel shifts.

You expect another question, another gentle demand for honesty. Instead, he lowers his head, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your forehead. It’s brief—barely more than a brush of his lips—but it speaks volumes.

A silent vow of protection. Of understanding.

Warmth unfolds in your chest, and you lean into him just a little more. Grip the fabric of his tunic a little tighter. Silently thank him for coming.

Even if you can’t tell him everything, even if your nightmares remain locked away, at least he’s here, fierce and unyielding, ready to chase away whatever haunts you.

You might not be entirely free of fear, but in his arms, with his protective wing folded around you, everything feels just a little more bearable.

Author’s Note: Azriel may be the king of quiet brooding, but she is the queen of secrets she doesn’t even know she’s keeping. I adore writing their soft, chaotic romance, and watching the shadows stir as her past begins to claw its way back. Things are only just beginning. 🖤 Tag List: @songbirdpond @tothestarsandwhateverend @lovely-susie @kksbookstuff @ladycaramelswirl @gamarancianne @writtenbypavani @bubybubsters @moonlitscrolls @valyas-corner @iris-lavender @lreadsstuff @nebarious @azrielssgirl @lamimamiii @fantasydreamwalker @dallynjennasgirl @tenshis-cake @lilah-asteria @sweetsugarcoffee @fall-winter-heart97 @lovely-susie @lreadsstuff @sofi03 @songbirdpond @nico707 @justtryingtosurvive02 @yourlocalcancer @saltedcoffeescotch @thatacotargirl @happypeanutstrawberry @theverseoftheblackpearl @tele86 @highladyofhogwarts @fuckingsimp4azriel @thegoddessofnothingness @lovelyflower7777 @stressed-reader @karespocketboyfriends @lreadsstuff @yourdarkroses-blog @plants-w0rld @oldernotwiser26 @ashduv @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @adventure-awaits13 @thegoddessofnothingness @fuckingsimp4azriel @highladyofhogwarts @stainedpomegranatelips @i-am-infinite @arcticfoxxes @hellohauntedturnstudent @yourallaround-simp

#acotar #azriel x oc #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #rhysand #cassian #nesta acotar #feyre acotar

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totalswag · 2 months ago

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i love you’re writing so much!! keep it up ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

i do have a request, if you haven’t done it!

popstar reader wins an award and drew is the one who hands it to her? like they’re dating and he’s presenting the award she nominated for!q

forever grateful ⎯ DREW STARKEY!

authors note may i just say thank you 🥹 really means so much hearing this. i haven't written something like this yet. feedback is always appreciated <3

taglist ✎ ̼ if you would like to be notified every time i post you will type in your username then be all set to go.

masterlist

summary drew giving you an award in one of the categories you were nominated in.

warning(s) none! bunch of cuteness.

Tonight marks the Billboard Music Awards. You've been having a great time with your friends, watching performances, and witnessing award ceremonies. Most importantly, Drew came with you as your plus one, and he will announce the category for which you have been nominated.

Drew was given this opportunity at the time the nominations were first announced. This is crucial for him since he has always wanted to make an award announcement. Drew said previously, "Imagine I announce your name when I present the award."

"Y/N, I can't believe Drew is announcing one of the categories you've been nominated for," Olivia Rodrigo stated before swallowing her water.

"Dude, tell me about it," you giggle, "I think it's crazy, and we talked about it today," you explain with hand motions.

The lights dim throughout the arena, indicating that Drew is walking on stage. Your face brightened up as he walked on stage with the envelope in his palm.

Drew walks on stage, microphone in hand, with a confident yet slightly anxious smile on his lips. He's dressed in a fine black suit, every bit the heartthrob the world knows him to be, yet your eyes is drawn to the faint twitch of his fingers, a telltale sign that only you would see. He's nervous about you.

"This next award," Drew's voice echoes through the stadium, smooth yet with a tiny hint of something gentler, "is for Best Pop Artist⎯an award that recognizes not just chart-topping hits but the artistry, passion, and heart poured into every lyric, every note."

The audience cheered and whispered names with anticipation. Applause filled the arena as the screen displayed the talented pop artists that received nominations.

Drew's smile grows a little wider, a little prouder, and his eyes scan the audience⎯searching for you, finding you. "And the winner is..."

"I'm so nervous" you mumbled to yourself.

Drew kept a straight face as he opened the card, "Y/N Y/L/N!" He smiles turning the envelope around before clapping his hands.

The room erupts. Applause, cheers, a standing ovation from some.

Your jaw nearly falls to the floor in absolute shock. This all feels like a fever dream⎯waiting for someone to pinch you. Only thing you could do was put both hands on the side of your head as you lift yourself up from the chair.

When you walk on stage, your dress shimmers under the lights. When you reach him, he hands you the award and whispers, "I knew it, baby."

"I don't know what to say, guys..." you start breathlessly, a giggle slipping through as the audience quiets. "This is a huge honor, and I couldn't have done it without my amazing team, my fans who've supported me every step of the way... and," your gaze turns toward Drew for a moment, "to the person who's been my rock through all of it."

Drew and you will always support one another. It's known that you both don't show affection in public⎯behind closed doors or with inner circle. Fans are gonna go crazy with this.

After thanking those who helped you along the way and those who nominated you, you were escorted back stage. You couldn't take your eyes off the gorgeous award in your hand.

Drew approaches you with a gaze of love and appreciation. "I am really proud of you, and we will celebrate tonight with any takeout you want.

Throwing your head back in laughter at his final comment, "First, I love you so much, and who can say their boyfriend gave his girlfriend an award," he chuckles, "and I will gladly eat takeout with you."

⎯⎯ my taglist! 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

✰ if you would like to be added to my taglist and be notified whenever i post please let me know in the comments or in my ask box. if there's a line across your name that means i couldn't find your account.

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electricgg · 30 days ago

Text

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 2: I Am Not My Body, Not My Mind Or My Brain

Masterlist Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 (Here!) / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 /

Trigger Warnings: Body Dysphoria, Medical Procedures

Heating food is a simple task. Humans have evolved enough through the decades to have invented this precious device called a microwave so that food could heat up faster for consumption. Sure, various studies confirmed that too much radiation on food is not suitable for your health, but people still smoked car batteries while claiming it was good for their anxiety.

Still, Timothy Drake managed to burn his dinner even if Alfred left instructions to leave it for one minute and twenty seconds.

He could feel the smugness coming from Damian’s spot at the kitchen island, chomping on his food with the refinement of a prince while staring at how Tim scraped his burnt food from the plate into the trash can.

Coffee will do for now. He will not have a meltdown over that diabolical microwave that seems only to burn his food without fail.

“Losing against a machine is beneath you, Drake,” the boy said while glaring at the coffee machine with disgust.

“I'll take it as a divine sign to wait until Alfred comes home. Or I will throw the damn thing out the window.”

Damian scowled.

‘Leave it to Drake to embarrass the family.’

‘At least it’s on the privacy of the manor. Not like the real embarrassment of the family.’ A cold voice whispered in the back of his mind, making the food in his mouth taste bitter.

It wouldn’t be the first time that she pulled a stunt like that to gather some attention from their father. Damian always kept track of her embarrassing actions (it satisfied him to know that no one could sink lower than the person he supposedly shares blood with), but it would be the first time the police had to be involved. Not even Todd had managed to do that, if we are talking about civilian aspects.

In his opinion, she needed to stop trying so hard and learn that she would never be on the same level as the rest of them. Too soft. Too weak. Too much of everything and too little of anything.

There was no way they could be related. Damian refused to be associated with someone who was beneath his intellect, and much less call them his sister. He demanded his father for a blood test after he had lived in the manor for about six months. His father only sighed deeply and denied his request.

Tt, curse his father’s sensible need to help charity cases.

The chattering from the television transmitted from the room next to the kitchen interrupted his train of thought, chair scraping as he stood up and began washing his dishes.

The main living room of the manor was spacious, a tall ceiling complementing the old-fashioned structure of the dark wallpapered walls and big door windows leading to the backyard field. An L-form black leather couch with a couple of decorative pillows and fluffy blankets folded in the corner was occupied by none other than Cass, who was very focused on the bright screen.

It didn’t take long for Tim to stagger towards the love seat with his cup of steaming black coffee, very proudly showing the ‘#1 Coffee Addict’ engraving on the porcelain. It was a gag gift from Bart, but it was the biggest one he had, so he used it religiously.

Damian stood behind the couch, arms crossed, as the news went on about the recent controversial theme that has been invading every type of communication media. Under any other circumstances, he would have gone down the cave for his late-night training due to not being on patrol.

But when the item that’s being talked about has been putting even the Justice League on tense negotiations, he’s a bit more inclined to put up with the fake neutral accent from the news reporter just to be more informed.

Mutants.

A bomb that the world is waiting for to blow up.

They’re not old news, but they have been gathering attention in the last few years. Especially in the past three years.

Mutants have always been a touchy subject. Most of the public confuses them with metahumans due to their similarities, but they couldn’t be any more different. Metas are a recent development compared to mutants. Mutants were born with their ‘gifts’, from physical to mental, while Metas are a result of experimentation or a freak accident that triggered their meta gene. While they share the fact that their powers/mutations manifest under stressful or traumatic situations, mutants have a broad spectrum of possibilities on how their mutation shows up.

Multiple studies have come up with the theory that puberty might be the trigger due to the imbalance of hormones and the unstable emotions that teenagers go through at that age, but it hasn’t been fully backed up because of the high rate of cases of mutations showing up at birth. Too many factors and possibilities exist on how to identify mutants to settle on just one theory.

Which brings the public’s opinion on mutants.

…People fear. A lot. It’s the basis of survival, the main reason why humans have lived and evolved for centuries. When facing something that qualifies as a threat to themselves, they will respond between their fight or flight instincts. As an evolving species, this has gone from physical needs to a more intellectual field.

Which leads to the public having very violent and strong opinions when it comes to mutants.

So, yeah. A very touchy subject.

“-that brings us to the big question: are mutants able to be controlled, or are we at the mercy of them?” a reporter with way too much blush even for the camera questioned, making Tim snort quietly behind his cup of coffee.

“That’s stupid.”

Damian couldn’t help but agree. And if Cass’s little shuffle was any sign, so did she. It was a very stupid statement.

Can a child with a gun be controlled, or are we at the mercy of them? The news was truly desperate for some pretty faces to get views on their programming.

“With that question in mind, let’s welcome our visitor of the night!” Interrupted a cheery male voice as the screen switched to the other side of the news set. It showed the interview chairs, soft blue chairs occupied by the interviewing reporters on the right side of the screen. On the left side sat the news’ visitor.

He was in a wheelchair, seemingly made of a sturdy material with a thick X formed on the wheels. Blad, thin eyebrows, and a gentle, pleasant expression. Dressed in a brown suit with a dark blue tie. It gave him a very open air, but with a touch of professionalism. He gave a very teacher-like aura. Trustworthy, intelligent, and secure.

“It is our greatest pleasure to present such an important figure to our interview. We present to you Prof. Charles Francis Xavier. An expert and leading figure in the genetics field, as well as many other scientific fields. It is a great honor to have you here!”

The man chuckled gently at the introduction, dismissively waving his hand over the very flaunting words of the reporter.

“Please, Professor Xavier will suffice. No need for full names here.” His tone was polite and kind, making the atmosphere more soothing after a very bootlicking introduction.

At this point, Damian’s interest was lost. He didn’t need to hear about stuff he already knew about due to all the data and information Drake had engraved into the family’s brain, thanks to Prof. Xavier’s papers on genetics. He could feel Drake’s upcoming debrief on the whole interview during the next meeting, taking notice of how he straightened his back and laser-focused on the TV screen.

As Damian walked away from the living room, the professor’s voice echoed down the halls.

“I’m sure that most people sitting at home are concerned about mutants, but I am here to reassure you that there’s no reason to be so. First, let me explain what the X-Gene is and clarify some assumptions. Shall we?

➳➳➳➳➳┄┄※┄┄➳➳➳➳➳

“It worries me, Alfred,” grunted Gordon as he sat down behind his desk. The butler followed the action, sitting on the opposite side with a worried frown on his face.

Gordon was waiting for him at the very entrance of the station, not even letting him go through the ridiculous registration process at the front desk where a very tired secretary sat surrounded by messy papers and four empty cups of coffee at her desk. He didn’t utter a word until they went up the stairs towards his office, dodging sleep-deprived detectives and running cops to do their duties.

“She didn’t seem to even recognize where she was walking or who I was.” Gordon began typing into his computer, sighing once he found the file.

“You mentioned Lady (Y/N) had a head injury,” the butler commented. “How grave is it? Is your doctor competent enough to treat her here?”

The underhanded comment was not missed, but he knew better than to take it personally. Gordon has seen at first hand how Alfred could be a deadly force when it came to the members of the Wayne family. Especially when he prided himself on his medical knowledge.

Even more so when it came to Bruce’s youngest daughter. He remembers very well the day the poor girl’s case came to his desk all those years back.

“Dr. Vidal hasn’t given her report yet, she is still waiting for some blood test results.”

That made Alfred switch his attention.

“I believe I am not familiar with her. What happened to Dr. Ramirez?”

“Old man finally retired two months ago and recommended Vidal for his position.” Gordon snorted.

“She has been here for about two weeks. I was expecting her to quit two days in, but she is quite stubborn. Took hold of the morgue and now only leaves to turn in reports or treat suspects and victims.”

“So nursing background? Perhaps Paramedic training?”

“Worse. Emergency Room back at Gotham General.”

That made Alfred grimace internally. He has way too many horror stories dating back to when Thomas Wayne worked at Gotham’s General Hospital. And ER was hell on Earth, as he recalled the multiple visits due to the young masters’ accidents when they were younger, and he didn’t have the proper resources.

“Try the night shifts. Those were adrenaline-inducing.” A womanly voice caught the older men's attention, making them look back at the office door.

Brown, long hair in a ponytail, and soft brown eyes with a strange glint. Tall and long limbs, her black heels clicking as she walked towards the desk. She wore a white coat, black loose pants, combined with a classy deep emerald green shirt.

But what took Alfred’s attention was her expression as she stared at him directly, even while handing Gordon a cream file with documents.

Her lip’s corner was curled in what could be interpreted as smug. But it didn’t feel like it when her gaze assessed him sharply. When they made eye contact, Alfred felt a freezing sensation at the back of his head and ran all over him.

Like cold nails scraping at his skull, gone the moment she took her eyes off of him.

What an unnerving woman. She fit right in this city without a doubt.

“Test results came back negative, but I wouldn’t discard a bacteria or infection in the following days. Aside from the scraped knees and the head wound, no need for stitches. There were signs of a swollen throat and vocal cords, all from vomiting and choking in the water, but at least the risk of water in her lungs is out of the equation.”

Gordon nodded, typing the report into his computer. He switched the documents around until he found the one he was looking for.

“And how is she responding? Does she know what happened?”

Dr. Vidal exhaled through her nose, a closed smile indicating there was a lot to unpack there.

“She has motor skills and reacts to questions and answers… but she doesn’t know anything beyond her name and someone named Billy. Claims she has to find him.”

That made Alfred’s stomach twist in a knot. This information wasn’t good at all.

“What exactly ‘she doesn’t know anything’ do you mean by?” the butler snapped in, making Gordon look at him and the doctor pick up the file to hand over to him personally.

“She has basic knowledge and quite a personality. But her mind becomes blank when asked about what her last name is, where she goes to school, what happened before the situation, or where her own house is.”

Gordon hesitates for a few moments, giving Alfred some space before asking in a very slow and careful manner. “Are you implying she has amnesia?”

The Doctor sighed, crossing her arms while sitting on the corner of the cabinet attached to the wall behind the desk and looking between the two men.

“I believe it’s a bit more than that,” she said in a mindful tone. Alfred felt his heart pounding at his chest, but he didn’t interrupt the woman.

Gordon nodded at her to continue, leaning over to listen to her theory.

“Whatever she hit her head with was with malicious intent. I found a couple of cement residues on her wound, and by the form of the injury, it was thrown at her, or someone took hold of her head and hit her with what I believe could be a brick. Did she fall into the water by accident, or was she pushed in? I don’t know. But I think that someone is out for her, and her mind is blocking it as a trauma response.”

The silence in the office went on for long minutes.

Alfred’s mind ran down with the possibilities. Master Bruce had plenty of enemies, both inside and outside the mask. And it wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to go for one of the children. He even remembered trying to talk his master out of microchipping each one of them while they slept, blaming it on his paranoia taking hold of his common sense.

But what puzzled him was that this was (Y/N). The ‘Embarrassment of The Wayne’.

He hated that title. Loathed it to hell and back.

A girl accidentally falls into a fountain on her very first gala, and the media goes nuts and creates a cruel moniker for a seven-year-old. He curls his fingers tightly around the document file in his hand.

The sobs and calls for her mother still make his nerves boil.

Which leads to why she would be a target.

While it made her feel insecure and the object of many cruel jokes and curious looks, it kept her safe and away from any dirty actions to harm her and Master Bruce.

A cruel price to pay for her safety.

“You mentioned another name.” Gordon’s voice took Alfred’s attention out of his head.

“Billy, wasn’t it?” He repeated the name with a frown. He couldn’t recall anyone with that name.

It took both men off guard at the dark look that came over the doctor, the air turning cold in just a few seconds. But it was gone in the blink of an eye. She cleared her throat and straightened her spine.

“Yeah. It could be someone close to her, maybe even the last person she saw before this happened. There are a lot of possibilities, but her mind latched onto the name like a dog with a bone.”

He tried to search through all the talks he had had with the young miss in the past few weeks and months.

No one named Billy came up in their conversations. Not a classmate. Not even a friend (She didn’t have any. She always calls them classmates.). All that she does is go to school, practice after school, visit the psych ward, and go back home. That’s it.

Before anyone could say anything else, a knock at the door took their attention. Gordon permitted them to enter. A young officer opened the door, his face filled with hesitation.

“Sir, we have an issue in the showers.”

Gordon mutters under his breath while taking off his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. “What is it now, Perez?”

“Um, it’s the Wayne girl.”

That got everyone standing up, with Dr. Vidal already running out the door towards the showers at the back of the station. The three men were also going a step after her, with Alfred almost catching up to her.

“What the hell happened?” Gordon questioned the poor, nervous guy.

“She broke all the mirrors, sir…”

“What?!”

➳➳➳➳➳┄┄※┄┄➳➳➳➳➳

Forget riding in a police car with the signal on, taking a hot shower after being in nasty water was the top of best feeling in the world. Fight her on that fact.

The weird doctor was pretty nice. It had been odd at first, being alone with her and the nice police grandpa (he was called Gordon. That’s what she heard the cops call him when they got to the station while he guided her through the halls.). The doctor took care of her head first, putting some stinging spray on the gash to clean any nasty stuff that may have gotten on it. While she continued to check on her body for any other wounds, she asked questions.

Way too many questions. Who knew doctors were this chatty?

When Gordon left to heaven knows where, the doctor seemed to finally relax about the number of questions she threw at her and became quiet.

Which made the ambience awkward.

Which made her start to talk and make it less awkward.

It didn’t work.

Thankfully, the doctor (she grew tired of calling her that so she asked for a name. The woman only looked at her for a bit before saying Rio and go back to write on her file. Such a sociable lady.) didn’t tell her to shut it and just let her talk and talk until she ran out of things to say.

Her skin was vibrating under the still-wet clothes, the uncomfortable sensation making her bounce her legs from her seat on the medical cushioned table. Her fingers were wringing at the white paper beneath her, the crinkling sound breaking goosebumps into her skin.

Then, more personal questions started. But this time, Rio was looking directly at her.

From her full name to where she lived. Even the last thing she remembered before waking up in the nasty pool. It was quite an eye-opening experience, and it left her feeling lost.

Do you know your last name? How old are you? Um, odd. She can’t recall.

What day is your birthday? What does your dad do for a living? …That’s very weird. Birthdays were a funny thing. And her dad was- was a- he was? He was fading, he faded.withthem.he’swiththem.heisgonegonegonegon-

What grade are you in? What is your favorite color?...

Who are your siblings? How many do you have? …justone-

Where is your mother? alivealivealivealivealiVEALIVE-

It was a very tiring experience. Her head was pounding, and she had to close her eyes and lie down for a while. Rio got her some water and pills. Said it was for the headache.

They helped very little. Her fingers continued to tremble around the half-empty plastic cup.

Which was why it was the perfect moment to ask if she could use the showers. Rio blinked at her before rolling her eyes and handing her some sweats and a towel she found in the locker room.

And that’s how she got her very much needed shower.

As soon as she got inside, she beelined towards the benches and put down the new clothes and stripped out of the nasty, ruined uniform. Then she hauled towards the nearest head shower and stood beneath the hot stream for a while.

Rio told her that while the bandage on her head was waterproof, she would have switch it for a new one after she finished. So she didn’t mind wetting her head.

Throughout the whole thing, her hair hadn’t exactly come to her mind. It wasn’t a priority.

Her fingers got stuck in a few knots that would be hard to get rid of without a brush at hand, so she just tried to get out as much of the moldy smell emitting from her with a bar of soap and a small shampoo bottle that Rio got her. It was a bit hard but not impossible, the scent of pomegranate and rosemary soothing and washing away the nasty gunk of her hair.

She hadn’t realized that she was calm enough to close her eyes and enjoy being clean after all of that fiasco.

A new plan had to be made. Not having a single clue of where she was and only her name and Billy’s was not working in her favor. After this, she had no idea where she could go or turn to. She needed guidance, someone to turn to and tell her what-

This is not her hair.

All of her thoughts came to a full stop. She had looked down to take the strands of hair that got tangled on her fingers. Just a simple action. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But the strands were wrong. It wasn’t her hair.

Black, long strands of hair were going between her fingers. They were forming different shapes and lines on her skin, which led to another thought.

This is not her skin. Those are not her fingers.

The water suddenly felt too heavy on her. She switched it off and ran off, almost slipping on the floor until she reached her towel and wrapped it around her.

This is not her hair. This is not her skin. These were not her fingers.

She gripped the towel, her gaze still focused on the hair strands on her hands. A ringing sound started to sound around her ears—a very far-off sound.

This is not her hair. This is not her skin. These are not her fingers.

She lifted the hand closer, looking at the black hairs while a shuddering breath left her lips. The ringing grew closer and louder. Goosebumps broke out on the skin, and her stomach fell down in a very uncomfortable sensation.

This is not her hair. This is not her skin. These are not her fingers.

One strand of hair was rubbed between the fingertips. Tiny water drops dripped down from it, revealing the natural pattern of the hair. Pin straight. The ringing was just by her ear, not registering any other noise. Her chest was heaving rapidly, heart at her throat, and a cold sweat was going down her spine.

Not her hair. Not her skin. Not her fingers.

…What else wasn’t hers?

A mirror. She needed a mirror. Right now.

Her head moved around in circles, the ends of the wet hair wiping against her back and making a sick feeling go through her body. She took a few steps backward, looking for any type of thing that had a reflection on it.

It felt too long. Her hair was never this long. She was sure of it.

‘There! Corner!’ her mind supplied when a glint of light caught her attention by the corner of her eye.

At one moment, she was by the benches, clothes folded or thrown on the floor and forgotten. At the next, she was standing right in front of the mirror, body trembling as she finally made eye contact with her reflection.

Not even the noise of lockers slamming open by a gust of fast wind snapped her out of her trance.

The facial structure was sharp. Cheekbones specifically. A very distinctive mole stood on the left side of her face, just above the start of the cheekbone. Skin looked pale, almost translucent due to the lack of sunlight. She could see the blue lines of the veins underneath her skin thanks to the white lights of the bathroom.

She looked sick. Very sick. Her mouth was suddenly very dry, making her swallow hard and feeling all senses of wrongness in her chest to the ends of her fingertips.

This was wrong. She was all wrong.

She took a few shaky steps closer to the mirror. Close enough to have hands against the cold surface. Fingers trembling, making a tapping motion as her gaze wandered around the reflection.

Straight black hair, some heavy knots visibly sticking out around it. It reached halfway down her back. Water stopped dripping down the ends since she made her way to the mirror. The bandage gauze was still attached to the side of her head, no signs of blood on sight, but the material looked a bit inflated due to being soaked.

And her eyes… she only saw a glimpse of cold grey before she slammed her lids shut. Scrunching them hardly until the only thing she could see was white spots around the darkness.

The tapping increased. It moved the glass beneath her fingers.

It was all wrong. She wasn’t supposed to look like this. That wasn’t her. It couldn’t be. She is supposed to look like Billy. She doesn’t have black hair. She doesn’t have long hair. She is not this pale. She is not sick.

The mirror trembled under her fingers.

She is not this tall. She is supposed to be shorter. She doesn’t have these awkward limbs. She looks like-

…Who was she supposed to look like?

Her mind supplies images, but they are all missing something. Like a magazine that has stuff cut out or ripped away. She sees a house, but the people are gone. She sees a front yard, but the neighbors are gone. A Halloween party, but nobody is on the streets. A children's room, but the beds are empty.

The mirror shakes under the pressure.

An empty house office. A dog bowl with no food. A messy kitchen with no kids. A dinner set at the table with nobody to eat it. A garden with gardening tools lying around. A red sky is coming closer and closer.

A framed picture with a family whose faces are scratched out.

She screams as the mirror explodes under her tapping fingers.

The shards flew around the place, but not a single one touched her. Some landed on other mirrors, the impact making them shatter.

She jumped back and landed sitting on the floor, head and heart pounding, as officers entered the place with all the commotion. Someone tried to grab at her, but she flinched and scrambled back until she made contact with the cold wall.

Her ears were ringing. Vision blurry. All she could see were blobs moving around, some farther and others closer. The voices were muffled. Her knees were brought up to her chest, hugging them tightly. Waiting for whatever was happening to pass.

Time was weird. Everything moved either too fast or too slow. Was this what a panic attack was, or was this something else entirely? Either way, she hated it. Hopefully, she would never have to go through it again.

It was then that Rio’s face came into view. The first person her mind managed to register.

She didn’t touch her. She was talking, but the ringing was still going on strong. Rio began to talk to the other people around the room. It actually looked like yelling, but it wasn’t at her, so she was not going to say anything about it.

Then a warm touch came to her shoulder.

This time, she didn’t flinch. It was weird. Her body leaned against it before she turned her head to the side to see who it was. And why she felt so safe and calm out of the sudden.

An old man. Dressed sharply, like that butler in the sitcom about a nanny. Gray hair and a concerned expression on his face. A classic mustache that brought some tears to her eyes, along with a warm feeling that spread from deep in her chest.

“(Y/N), can you hear me?” his accented voice registered through the fading ringing.

Before he could say anything else, she dove into his arms, forgetting that she was only covered by a towel. Sobs and tears stained his clothes. But before any apologies could come out, the man wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly as he talked to her soothingly. Caressing her head while she continued to cry.

A whisper went on the back of her mind. It was quick and gone in an instant. But she still heard it.

‘Alfred. Safe. Trust him. Only him. Not the family.’

‘Never the family’

“Alfred,” she whispered out loud. The man, Alfred, sighed in relief at hearing her respond.

“It’s alright. You can rest now, my dear. I’ll take care of it.”

She sighed shakily at his words. Eyes slid close. Not to sleep, just calm down for a bit. There was no way she could sleep with all that had transpired in the past few hours.

But I have someone now. I’m not as alone as I thought.

And that was enough for now.

Author's Note: This chapter was a beast to write. It will probably be the only long chapter for a while. I was even thinking of dividing it in two parts but I decided against it. Next chapter we are finally going to see the dynamic with the Wayne, so excited for it because it will be hilarious. Maximoff is about to enter like a tornado through the manor lol. Let me know what you all think, what theories and your favorite part of this chapter you all liked!! Happy early chapter and sending hugs, GG✨

Tag List: @bat1212 @kneelforloki @1abi @galaxypurplerose @yhin-gg @cxcilla @momentomoribitch @stargirl404 @initial-ari @welpthisisboring @icefox8155 @bunniotomia @alittlelostmoonchild

Bonus Memes:

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mountainsandmayhem · 5 months ago

Text

Merry Christmas, Little Dove

18+. Minors, Do Not Interact

Summary: You and Joel celebrate your Christmas tradition. OR Joel fucks you in front of the Christmas tree.

WC: 3.7k of straight filth

AN: this is not proofread or beta read, so just take it like the good girl you are 😉 Headers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

TW: multiple orgasms, dirty talk, pet names, unprotected P-in-V (relax they’re both in their 40’s and in a long term relationship), one single slap, two drops of spit, oral (both ways), mentions of alcohol consumption

Main Masterlist || More of Joel & Little Dove

You watch the way his soft, dark green t-shirt stretches against his muscle-lined back as he places the gifts under the tree. The house is quiet, and both your daughters are asleep in their childhood bedrooms. The living room is basked in the warm glow of only the tree and electric fireplace. Joel is meticulously putting presents out, completely focused on his role as Santa Claus. This is one of the things you love most about your partner. He might have this tough, grumpy exterior, but he’s never been afraid to exude the Christmas spirit. When Ellie and Sarah were young, he would spend hours driving from store to store to find exactly what they wanted. He’d stayed up all night once building Sarah’s Barbie dream house and Ellie’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pizza parlour so they’d be surprised in the morning.

You smile to yourself over the years and years of memories in this room, and the smile is bigger knowing your college-aged daughters still want to come home for Christmas with mom and dad. You tiptoe over to the record player, putting on Joel’s favourite Frank Sinatra Christmas vinyl. As the soft tones of ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas’ filter from the speakers Joel stands and turns to face you.

“Hi, baby. Where’s the girls?”

“I think someone got a little heavy-handed with the whiskey in the hot toddies,” you say with a raise of an eyebrow. He smirks, closing the distance between the two of you as he pulls you in to slow dance with him. “You might have two hungover daughters tomorrow morning.”

Your body meets his and need floods your system almost immediately. He smells like cedar and whiskey, his large palm rests on your lower back and you sway along with him.

“I’ll make them an Irish coffee tomorrow and they’ll be good as new. Besides, you and I wouldn’t be able to do our Christmas tradition if they were awake.”

“Joel Miller,” you say with a shocked laugh. “Did you do this on purpose?”

“Perhaps,” he smirks down at you, his dimple on full display as his eyes darken with arousal.

“Devious,” you whisper before his lips sponge against yours. Truthfully, it’s been years since the two of you did your actual Christmas tradition. When the girls were younger, after all the gifts were under the tree and the cookies were eaten, Joel would turn out all the lights and then strip you bare in front of the tree and fuck you softly. But when the girls became teens it was too risky to just fuck out in the open like that.

Joel’s hands come to your waist pulling at the black shirt you have tucked into your high-waisted jeans. You squeak as he pulls. “What kind of witchcraft is this?” He jokes between kisses when the shirt doesn’t come out.

You giggle against his mouth, “It’s a bodysuit.”

“Mmm, with the little snaps where my Christmas present is?” His voice is lower and more seductive now.

“Yes, sir.” You say, the shift in the air between you two makes it hard to breathe.

Joel makes slow work of the button and the zipper on your jeans before lowering you to the ground. The slow sounds of Frank Sinatra are somewhere in the background, but at this moment all you can see, hear and feel is your beautiful partner above you, kissing anywhere he can reach.

He raises on his knees and tugs your jeans off, guiding your feet to fall on each side of him, then pulls his shirt over his head. The glow of the tree turns his body into a work of art. The dips of his muscles along his chest and shoulders are darker, making him look bigger than he is. Your hands reach towards the button of his jeans but he grabs your wrists to stop you.

“Not yet, little dove,” Joel’s voice is a scratchy whisper as he leans forward, pinning your hands above your head. “Stay like this for me, ok?”

You nod and hum out an agreeable sound before he sits back up, his warm, rough fingers trailing along your covered arms, breasts, and stomach as he comes to rest on his heels. Your breaths quicken at the sight of him and then stop altogether as he runs a finger along the gusset of your body suit.

“Gods you’re so beautiful, baby.” He whispers it like a hymn like you’re the deity he prays to, and you know you’re about to be worshipped.

“I need you,” you moan, clenching your fists to stay in his desired position.

“Do ya now?” Joel smiles softly, his finger grazing at your clit through your clothing. “Tell me what you want.”

“Take the rest of my clothes off and fuck me all slow and gentle until I come and then fill me up.” It’s a whispered request.

His finger hooks through the bodysuit and you gasp, then grind your hips to try to get him to touch you where you need it most. His eyes widen and the feel of your soaked pussy along the back of his knuckle. “Did you attend our wholesome Christmas Eve family dinner without any panties on, little dove?”

You bite down on your bottom lip as your cheeks flush pink. “Yes.”

With the flick of his finger the snaps on your bodysuit open. “Naughty girl.”

You lift your hips so he can slide the body suit up, which he does until your lacy red bra is exposed, but he’s much too preoccupied looking at your completely bare pussy. “Something looks different here,” he says with an eyebrow raised.

You feel shy all of a sudden, butterflies bursting in your stomach. When the two of you were in your twenties this was standard, but as you both got older you started leaving more hair. Joel never complained, now you’re worried he doesn’t like it.

“I got it waxed for you.”

He licks his lips before looking up at you. “Little dove, you know you don’t have to do that, right? I love your pussy just as much when it isn’t shaved.”

“I know,” you say, bringing your knees together nervously.

“Whoa, not so fast,” his hands come to your knees, pressing them apart. “I just want you to know that before I go down and don’t come up. Because this was my plan either way. I’m going to lick your perfect pussy until you pry me off. And then I’m going to fuck you so slowly, and only when you’re begging for it am I going slam into you until you come.”

The silence between you is thick with arousal before you croak, “Colour system?”

Joel lowers his body to the ground. His warm breath hits your soaked cunt as he speaks. “Yes, little dove. What do you say if you want to stop?”

“Red,” your hips lift closer to his mouth, and he presses down against your hips with one of his forearms and tuts at you.

“And if you need a break or for me to slow down?”

“Yellow,” you whine.

He slides his forearm to the side, placing his warm hand on your mount and pulls back slightly to expose your clit. “Look at you, little dove. So wet and perfect. Give me a colour.”

Goosebumps break out across your skin and you sink into the floor, wholly submitting to Joel as you whisper, “Green.”

Joel’s lips come to your center kissing your clit lightly before he dives in. Licking long hot lines from the bottom of your pussy to the top. Your hands fly to hair, carding through the girls and he groans at the slight pain in his scalp as you tug.

“Oh god, fuckfuck,” you chant out along with his name as he pulls a quick orgasm out of you almost immediately.

“Already, little dove?” He asks, smirking between licks.

“You feel so good. Joel.”

He continues to taste you, now focusing just on your clit with the flat of his tongue. He applies just the right amount of pressure and circles your sensitive bud slowly. You arch your back off the floor as a tingling pleasure starts to build.

“I’m gonna come again, baby.” You gasp, keeping your voice low even though you want to scream.

He keeps doing exactly as he has been, knowing you’re loving it and soon you fall apart for him again. The waves of this orgasm are stronger and you try to squirm out of his grasp as you come down from high.

“Too much. S’too much,” it’s almost a cry.

Joel pins your hips down again, and with his broad shoulders between your legs you can’t close them. “One more, little dove. You can give me one more.”

“No, please. Fuck me now. I can’t.” You’re practically panting and the mixture of the pleasure and the hot totty from earlier has your skin on fire.

His free hand comes between your legs. He gathers your arousal with his ring and middle fingers, effectively turning you into a writhing, moaning mess before slipping his fingers deep inside you and sucking your puffy clit between his lips.

You slide your feet closer to your body and try to squeeze your thigh shut. It’s no use, you could clamp Joel’s head between them like an MMA fighter but that wouldn’t stop him and you know it.

“Relax,” he murmurs before suckling on your clit again.

“Fuck me, god. So good.” You’re sure that’s what you say but at this point, you can barely form a thought.

He taps his finger along the front wall a few times before hooking them forward. Pleasure overwhelms you and you go boneless. Your knees fall open, your hands all from his hair and your eyes shut. This is how Joel likes you. Pliable. Agreeable. Completely his.

“There’s my pretty little dove,” he admires and flicks his wrist up and down to taunt your g spot while sucking harder on your clit.

Pressure builds at the base of your spine and you mumble how good it feels. It takes all the strength you can muster but you get yourself up on your elbows to push Joel’s finger in deeper and within seconds the pressure snaps and every fiber of your being is lit ablaze as you come for a third.

“Joel, fuuuuuck. Yes, mmmmm, oh god.”

He lets out a quiet, devious laugh and it vibrates against your pussy, causing another strong wave of your orgasm to flood your system. You need him to stop but never want him to stop at the same time. Your hips grind on their own as you come down. Joel knows your body better than anyone so he stops moving; just keeps his finger crooked forward and his tongue pressed to your clit and lets you take what you need.

The whimper that leaves your lips as you slow your hips is his cue to stop teasing your clit. He pulls back and whispers up at you.

“You’re so beautiful when you fall apart like that. My naughty little dove. Right in front of Santa Claus and everything, hmm?”

“Fuck me, Joel. Please. I need to feel you inside me.”

He slips his fingers out slowly as he crawls up your body. His wet fingers come to your lips.

“Suck,” he commands, “But don’t swallow.”

Eagerly you suck his fingers into your mouth, lapping up your heady sweetness and letting it rest on your tongue. Joel slips his fingers from your lips and kisses you, ducking your tongue into his mouth and swallowing your arousal. You both moan in tandem, and as if his kiss has put you under some sort of spell you’re on the verge of coming again at just the feel of his strong body on top of yours. He breaks the kiss and then winces.

You stifle a laugh, “I guess we aren’t in our twenties anymore, are we?”

“No,” he huffs. “But that’s not going to stop me from fucking you on the floor tonight.”

You scratch your fingers through his soft, short beard. Admiring the way it’s more grey than just a few months ago.

“Why don’t you let me get on top, sir.” You soften your expression and bat your eyelashes, knowing he’s usually powerless under your puppy dog eyes.

He shifts his weight above you to his other knee; the left one, and you know that because it’s the one that bothers him less.

“You gonna listen when you’re up there?” His eyes darken as he says it. You aren’t sure what kind of punishment he could come up with the girls being home for the next two weeks, but you aren’t about to find out.

“Yes, sir,” you say with your voice full of sweetness. He rolls the two of you and you land on top of him with a quiet squeak. His legs part to make room for you between them. You already know what’s coming next.

“Take my cock out, little dove.” His voice a husky growl.

You sit up between his thighs, resting on your heels. Before following his demands, you reach for your bodysuit and slowly peel it off your body and over your head. He presses his lips together to stop the smile.

“No panties and that see-through red bra I love so much? Was someone planning to get fucked tonight?”

You trail your fingers along the cups of your bra, your nipples hardening at attention through the fabric. “Maybe,” you wink.

Joel sits up so quickly that it startles you, the strong muscles behind his soft tummy rippling as he does it. His hands wrap around your wrists and through gritted teeth he commands, “Then take out my fucking cock, little dove. Get it nice and wet. Then, when I tell you to, sit on it and stay still like a good little girl until I tell you what to do.”

You go to kiss him but he lays back down with his hands behind his head and a cock smile on his face. You’re panting, you’re not sure when that happened. You lick your lips and your hands fly to the button of his jeans. Undoing it with shaky hands and then pull at the zipper. He’s rock-hard behind his black boxers. He shifts his hips so you can tug the jeans and his underwear down to sit just below his ass. His cock springs free and you don’t waste a single second, grabbing it by the base and lowering your face towards him. He watches you intensely.

“That’s it. Get it nice and wet, baby. Gotta make sure he can slide into that tight, little pussy of yours.”

You stop your lips mere inches from the tip of his leaking cock and look up at him. Without breaking eye contact you let saliva fall from your mouth and land on his cock. You clock the way his breathing halts as he watches it fall from your velvety lips to his aching cock, and the way he shudders an exhale as it runs down his shaft to your hand. You do it again, this time smiling up at him and then biting your bottom lip and the spit makes its sensual trail from his tip to your hand.

“Suck my cock, little dove. Now.”

Your lips are around his cock in an instant, sliding down as deep as you can go and holding it there. You breathe through your nose and let saliva pool in your cheeks before sliding up to the tip, coating his shaft with your spit. When you reach the top, you flick your tongue along the bottom ridge.

Joel groans, “Such a good listener.”

The praise washes over you, encouraging you to repeat your previous motion. You press him deeper this time, stopping when you feel him at the back of your throat.

“Fuck, little dove.” Joel’s voice is rough but full of admiration.

As your saliva starts to leak from your lips you pull back slowly, swirling your tongue along every ridge and vein that line the bottom of his cock. Your eyes meet his again as your tongue rounds the tip of his dick, the salty tang of his pre cum floods your system like a drug.

“Sit,” he accentuates the T and you scramble to straddle him.

You put your right knee on the floor, bending your left leg up so you can put your foot on the floor. This position saves one of your knees and you can usually get better leverage in a half squat versus a straddle. One of his hands comes to your right hip, the other wraps around his cock, holding it steady as you line yourself up.

The thick head prods at your entrance and you moan as you slide down the first few inches. “So good, Joel.”

“Mm-hmm, you have been good. Keep going, baby.” He releases his grip from his cock so you can take more of him. “That’s my girl. Taking it so well.”

You breathe through the stretch as your hips settle against his, then lean back to rest your hands on his muscle-packed thighs.

“Little dove, tell me how it feels.”

“Mmmm, so full,” you half whine, half pant.

He flexes his hips forward slightly at the neediness in your tone. “Gotta relax for me before you can move.”

His thumb comes to brush your clit. A small sob escapes your throat, “M’trying to.”

“I know, baby,” he coos, his thumb barely touching you as he circles it along your swollen clit. “You’re doin’ so good. Just breathe, little dove. Make room for my cock in that pretty little pussy of yours.”

You make a conscious effort to relax; unclenching your jaw and then letting your shoulders fall. Your head lulls back, the star on top of the tree and the smell of pine needles surrounds you. A fresh wave of arousal floods between your thighs and the pinch of him turns to pleasure.

“Good job, little dove. Are you ready to move?”

“Please. Oh gods. Please!”

“Sshhh, you’re ok. Nice and slow, honey.” His hand on your hip guides you back and forth. The motion is almost infinitesimal, but the forward rocking puts pressure on your g-spot and the thumb that still hovers about your clit. “Eyes on me now, baby.”

You tilt your chin down until your sparkling eyes meet his dark ones. He continues, “Can you do as you're told?”

You nod as a breathy plea leaves your lips, “Yes, sir. I will. Please, it feels so good.”

“I want you to ride me until you’re right on the edge of coming and then stop. Can you do that?”

“No,” you whine. “Why? I wanna come. Please.”

“You will. If you listen like the good little girl I know you can be, I’ll let you come. But first, you have to earn it.” He squeezes at your hip, his short nails digging into the skin.

You stick out your bottom lip and say a sad, “Okay.”

“Give me your hand.” You move one of his hands from his thighs. He guides your hand to your clit and then wraps his hand around your left ankle. “Show me, little dove.”

You take the reins, rubbing tight circles along your clit as you grind back and forth. Your orgasm builds in an instant.

“Shit can feel how close you are already,” Joel grits out.

“Please let me come. I’ll do anything.” You change to a circular motion, shifting your weight to the left, using the squat position for more friction.

“Don’t you dare! You said you can do as you're told,” he reminds you roughly, then uses the hand that was clamped on your right hip to slap your inner left thigh. “Don’t make me punish you.”

The pain from his strike sends warmth right to your core and you stop before you come. You let out a sad whine and fall forward, hands landing on either side of your head as you catch your breath.

“Please!” You murmur.

“God, little dove. You have no idea what it does to me when you listen like that. Such a good little submissive, aren’t you?” His hand runs from your right hip up your back, finger flicking the clasp of your bra open. “Sit back up. You earned it, little dove. Use my cock. Make us come.”

The lacy red bra slides down your arms as you sit up and you toss it towards the tree before riding him like it’s the last time. Your hands fly to your breast, rolling your nipples between your fingers in time with your hips. Nothing compares to the feeling of Joel's thick cock filling you. It’s indescribable and so fucking addicting even after almost fifteen years together.

The rough pad of his thumb loves back to your clit and you gasp. “Please don’t make me stop again, Joel. I’m so close.”

“I know, baby. I won’t. Fucking Christ, squeezin me so tight. I’m not gonna last.” The last part is a whimper.

“I’m gonna come,” you moan.

“Me too, little dove. Let go, fuuuck, let go for me.”

The sparks behind your clit turn into a fire, scalding every nerve ending as it spreads throughout your body. You bite down on your hand to stop from screaming as you twitch on his cock. Your pussy clenches tightly around him a few times before you feel him burst inside of you. His grip on your hip tightens again as he whines softly. Your eyes lock on his, the veins in his neck popping as he whispers your name and praises how good you feel wrapped around him.

Your highs seem to last forever before he reaches up to pull you down on top of him. Helping you shift your weight so you straddle him fully. He plasters you to his chest, the thin layer of both of your sweat mixing. Your heart races behind your ribs as you catch your breath, an occasional after-shock causing your pussy to flutter gently on his slowly softening cock.

“Oh my god,” you say, relaxing into his warmth.

“You ok, baby?” He sponges a kiss to your hairline.

“Mm-hmm. So good. Sleepy, but amazing.” Your mumble, kissing his chest.

His hands run along the lines of your back. “Good. Merry Christmas, little dove.”

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller tlou #pedro pascal #joel the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel miller fic #joel x f!reader #joel x female reader #joel miller x f!oc #joel miller x female oc #joel miller x female reader #joel miller the last of us #joel miller au #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you

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mariasont · 11 months ago

Note

Could you do a story where Y/N Is taken in a hostage situation and we see more of a dark hotch? like that early episode where hotch and reid are hostages in the hospital?

TOO EMOTIONAL - A.H

a/n: thank you so much for requestin <3 i hope this is what you were wanting!

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

warnings: honestly yall i feel like this is way darker than anything i've written so far, not sure if its good or not but alas, mentions of blood, violence, unsub threatens reader with a knife and a lighter, mentions of sexual assualt (it doesnt happen just mentions of it), unsub cuts open readers shirt, hotch is a dick for a plot, hurt/comfort

wc: 1.4k

Your vision was blurred, you fought to focus as dried blood flaked from your lashes with each heavy blink. You swallowed a cough, the floor's cold concrete punishing your knees. The ties around your wrists and ankles were merciless, digging into your flesh. You tried to focus on the sounds around you — the drip-drop of water, the soft wail of distant sirens.

You caught glimpses of Hotch, his distinct cologne mingling with the warehouse's musty air. He was agonizingly close yet not close enough to touch. The unsub's footsteps were barely audible over the pounding of your heart. Only three cases in, and it seemed the universe was conspiring to reroute your career choice.

Frantically, you attempted to wipe your face on your shirt as the footsteps ceased before you and Hotch. The man was a ghastly figure, burns cutting from one side of his face to the other. You couldn't breathe.

"What a day to have feds come knocking." His voice was hoarse, fingers absently playing with a lighter.

"You know, they say the most intelligent criminals are the ones who don't get caught, yet here we are," Hotch said, his chin defiantly up, words sharp and calculated.

Suddenly, the unsub was right there, his disfigured face uncomfortably close, the heat from the lighter singeing your skin. His breath was a hot, sticky assault, and you fought the instinct to flinch.

"Smart men don't leave witnesses, and I intend to be very smart about this."

The foundations of your training flitted across your consciousness, the methodologies for keeping control of the situation, but they sifted through your fingers like said, rendering you paralyzed.

"Take her then. She's new, inexperienced. Probably more trouble than she's worth." Hotch's voice was cold, jarring like a slap to the face, his expression empty of emotion.

You strained to keep your face impassive, your eyes darting to Hotch, pleading for his attention. Your breaths were shallow, scarcely there. He had to be bluffing. You felt sick. The unsub shifted his weight, scrutinizing you both, edging closer to hotch, no doubt with suspicion.

The unsub laughed, a cold and calculating sound as he circled around Hotch. "You expect me to believe you'd turn on your own that quickly? I'm not a fool."

"Look at her and tell me what her worth is to me." Hotch's voice was even, almost bored. "She's a liability. Too emotional, too soft."

His words were flung carelessly, yet they landed with precision, straight into your chest. Your teeth punished the inside of your cheek.

The remarks were like sharp barbs to your chest, instilling a hollow feeling as you attempted to convince yourself that the wetness on your lashes was anything but tears. His assessment was not unfounded. Your empathy, your sensitivity, traits deemed too tender for the harsher realities of your job, were now being used against you. Hotch had always been an exception, until now.

"Well, I could see her worth in other ways." The man's words oozed contempt, his gaze crawling over you in a way that threatened to turn your stomach. "I bet that's how she got the job in the first place, huh?"

"What do you think?" Hotch's laugh was a sinister match to the unsub's. He tilted his head in your direction. "Look at her. That's all she's been good for."

Your breath caught in your throat, your body turning as much as the ties would permit in Hotch's direction. You could almost hear your heart shattering, could feel it in Hotch's inability to face you. Was this a plan or had he truly discarded you?

You never deluded yourself into thinking you were Hotch's favorite, his reserved interactions with you made that abundantly clear. In fact, you were probably his least favorite. He had kept you at an arm's length, while seemingly forging bonds with the others that didn't seem to extend to you.

This was all within reason, given your inexperience and younger age, but the disdain lacing his words was unexpected, shredding through any pretense of professional detachment.

Hotch had never wanted you on the team, it was Rossi who had vouched for you. And now, look where that got you both.

Maybe this was all deserved.

"Then you won't mind if I try her out for myself?" The unsub's insinuation felt like a perverse validation of Hotch's doubts.

A low hum escaped the unsub as he closed the distance, his gaze predatory. You stilled, breath caught as he produced a knife from his pocket, skimming your cheek just shy of cutting. You were scared and you were scared to show it. Desperately, you looked to Hotch, the blade now hovering precariously close to your sternum.

Hotch wouldn't look at you. You wanted to scream, to cry, to throw something, but that was all shoved to the bottom of your throat as the unsub sliced down the middle of your shirt, exposing your chest and compelling your gaze to it. Tears of humiliation prickled your eyes. How could Hotch let this happen to you?

The unsub's clammy grip clung to your waist, your lips trembling as you prepared for the worst. You closed your eyes, escaping to your house in your mind — tea brewing, fireplace going — anywhere but here.

A sudden splatter to your face jolted you back, eyes opening in alarm you saw Hotch's eyes, not the unsub's.

"You're okay, you're okay," Hotch murmurs.

The words did little to comfort you, his hands moving blindly to release the binds at your wrist and ankles. Looking down, you see the unsub, knife through his back, blood pooling around him. Hotch's hands are on your wrists, his thumbs massaging away the sting.

When your hand touches your face, you feel the splatter from earlier, coming back away with a smear of blood on your fingertips.

Your voice felt like it was a prisoner inside yourself, words and sounds slipping past you like ghosts. A persistent ringing in your ears muffled all but the pungent scent of the warehouse, which clawed at your senses.

You felt the jostle of hands, the motion of being lifted, a sensation so distant it barely registered. The world was a smear of lights and faces — the team showing up, the paramedics — until it slowly came into focus.

You barely registered that Hotch was speaking to you, his words indistinct and muffled.

"What?" you asked, your speech slow to form and blurred at the edges.

You had a jacket over the front of you, his jacket, covering your exposed chest.

Hotch's eyes were pools of worry as he grasped at your hand. It was weird, the feeling of his hand in yours. You realized that was the first time you had felt it.

"More water?"

You could only nod, and he promptly fetched a bottle, twisting it open and placing it in your hand. You took a small sip.

"It's too loud," you mumbled, you were aware you weren't making sense. You shifted to face him, your knee grazing his thigh. "Did you mean those things you said?"

"Of course I didn't mean it," Hotch replied quickly, his gaze intense. "You thought I meant that?"

Your gaze dropped to your lap, voice faltering. "I don't know... I wasn't sure, I mean, no, but I just... I don't feel very useful, and this whole mess, it's because of me and I —,"

Tears interrupted you, your hands fumbling to hide them. Hotch reached out, gently turning your face to his, thumb brushing away the tears.

"Hey, look at me. Don't say that. This isn't your fault. Nothing I said back there was true. I needed to distract him, had to make him concentrate on you."

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm crying like this," you stammered between sobs.

"You don't have to apologize. You're crying because you've been through a lot. Just breathe, take your time."

You managed a wobbly smile. "You hit the nail on the head with the too emotional part," you sniffled.

Hotch gave a small chuckle. "Your compassion, your sensitivity, it's what sets you apart as an agent, in fact, it makes you an outstanding one."

You were close now, your gaze inadvertently drawn to his lips. You could kiss him if you wanted. Not that you were in the right headspace or that it was appropriate. But you could've.

"Oh, my goodness, I'm so glad you're okay!" You were barreled into a hug, the familiar voice and blur of color of Penelope enveloping your senses.

Hotch cautioned, "Watch her head."

With Penelope's hands around you, you found yourself looking over her shoulder, locking eyes with Hotch. His gaze held a new light, a recognition that maybe, just maybe you weren't Hotch's least favorite agent after all.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @crouchingapple @navia3000 @aaronlovesava @bakugocanstompme

join my taglist here!

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner hurt/comfort #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #criminal minds angst

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rafesplaymate · 4 months ago

Text

Off to the Races

Chapter iv- Date Night (part 1)

Older!Rafe Cameron x Stepdaughter!reader.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ navigation. ੈ✩‧₊˚ masterlist. ੈ✩‧₊˚ series masterlist.

warnings: infidelity (emotional / physical). pseudo / stepcest. dom / sub dynamics. dd / lg dynamics. man-handling. groping. dark themes / adult content.

a/n: finally updating. date will be broken into two parts to build up tension for storyline. enjoy!

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

By the time Rafe is finished getting dressed, putting the finishing touches on himself —the sun is barely settling. Pouring out a beautiful orange haze over Kildare that makes the environment feel all too dreamy. Making him all the more excited for his night alone with his girl, the knowledge that his wife was out of the house satisfying his desire to be alone with his darling girl. He spritzes a couple sprays of colonge over himself before securing his black ‘rolex’ and the gold chain his wife bought him as a wedding gift. A nice gold cuban link that cost her a pretty penny. The memory of receiving it ingrained in his head; reminding him he married her almost 6 months ago and how in fourth months their marriage has changed so drastically.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The night she gifted him the chain —they’d be in an ambiance of passion. Newlywed, honeymooning in Bora Bora for 2 weeks. Days of passionate sex and meaningful conversations. Strengthening their bond and pushing it over the line of surfaced attraction and reasonings for union. They’d been eating dinner when she presented him it to him, smiling with red painted lips as she watched him open the red velvet box. His eyes widening with intrigue at the opulent piece of jewelry, while she uttered a, “I know how you like chains.” He looked at her with a side smile and grabbed her by the face. Pressing a long and soft kiss to her lips while they smiled into each other —whispering a sweet thank you.

In the moment he’d felt like he was actually sure this was true love. Taking her on their hotel bed, his body laid on top of hers as he buried his face in her neck all night. It wasn’t crazy or intense, but it was satisfying. And it fulfilled him in the moment. His mind pensive with the thought that his days of passionate love-making was over. But he could handle that, because the long-term end goal was something he was willing to build and sacrifice for. Or so he thought at the time.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Now almost 4 months later everything has changed. A complete 180° over taking Tannyhill the moment y/n came bounding into his life. The day his body, heart and soul burned ablaze —her the flame. She completely and irrevocably changed his life, in so many ways. Leaving an indelible mark on his heart. The love he once felt for his wife dissipating by the day as the love he has for his darling girl builds like an uncontrollable flame every, single day. Leaving him feeling subdued and put out whenever she’s not near him —needing her presence like a fish needs water. His mood soured and snappy whenever she’s not hanging off his arm or napping on his office couch while he works.

His stepdaughter is the the most valuable treasure he’s ever found —even more valuable than the royal merchant everyone’s constantly chased around Kildare. Him included at one point. The high of needing that fortune now replaced with something he cherishes way more. Something he wants to keep locked away in his home and near him for the rest of his life; feeling that her beauty and presence alone was too priceless for the leering looks of everyone on the island.

So now as he finally finishes, adjusting his sleek black blazer. Running a hand over his shaved head as he opens the bedroom door. He shuts it behind him, shuffling softly to stand right in front of his stepdaughter’s bedroom door. Listening intently against it and smiling softly to himself as he heard her melodic voice softly singing along to music. What he assumes is makeup products clacking around as she gets ready. He taps a bent index finger two times on the door, leaving small but loud enough knocks. Listening as the music lowered slightly and her sweet voice letting out an inquisitive, “who is it?" Rafe replies almost immediately with a, “you good, princess?” He waited for a response, nothing coming out for a second and his mouth was already opening to ask again —when the door opened. In that moment, Rafe’s blazing body reignited with an intensity —his stomach and chest burning with a potency that almost felt like it hurt.

There she was. His beautiful, little stepdaughter —the apple of his eye. Wearing nothing but a ‘Victoria’s Secret’ robe, the middle undone and exposing the expanse of her body. Yet, covering the parts he was dying to get a glimpse of. Cursing himself for leering on his darling girl but how could he not? She stood there with her pretty eyes already on him, makeup done flawlessly. Their eyes holding onto each other’s for a second as tension noticeably built —once more. His eyes darkening with indisputable lust as he stares into her decorated ones. Hers echoing his as she took him in as well. He held her eyes for a good second, before they began wandering down. First falling on her glossy, pale-pink lips that look every bit as bite-able as they do in his daydreams. His eyes trailing lightly over the soft skin of her delicate neck that makes him want to sink his teeth in. The chain of the white-gold, diamond encrusted initial necklace he bought her sitting wrapped around it. But it’s when his eyes began following it down, did his jaw tick and a harsh breath left him.

There sat the diamond initial between her perky breast, gleaming against her smooth skin that sparkled with body glitter. His eyes moving to both sides of it slowly as he took in the peaks hidden behind the satin layer of robe. Lingering on them as he took in her nipples just barely covered by the ends of the robe. Fuck. They sat there so enticingly; the rationality in his brain fighting with him that he was leering at his stepdaughter. Overpowered by his lustful need as his chest sucked in with a harsh breath and his eyes continued their journey over the flawless architecture of her body. A temple he fought with the desire to defile.

He shakily breathed out as his eyes then wandered down her beautiful torso that was sexily decorated with silver body glitter, each ridge of it looking so alluring —valleys he wanted to explore with the tips of his fingers. His eyes wandering to the peak between her soft thighs decorated with white, lace that did almost nothing to cover it. Her thighs glistening with some kind of oil and glitter; that made him want to grip them in his hands and dig in until grape-sized bruises the shape of his fingertips were engraved in her skin. His eyes falling lower till they landed on her pretty french-tipped toes; her right ankle decorated with her preferred white-gold anklet. The same toes he wants to kiss presses to every time she walks around barefoot or has them decorated with rings.

His lips pursed in a soft, low whistle as he finally broke the long —suffocating silence that overtook them. Cobalt eyes snapping back to hers with a lustful glare. Watching as she bit her lip and her turned in knee swayed, her pretty eyes returning his same lustful glare as the corner of her plump lips quirked in a devious smile. “Hi daddy,” she finally breathed out, her soft voice full of seductive undertone. Her head tilting to the side as she pushed her chest out; nipples threatening to expose as the fabric moved along with her movements. Heat built in-between her thighs after taking in her stepfather the same way he did her.

Rafe’s pink lips quirked into a satisfied smirk at her acknowledgment and the title she’s so rightfully granted him. Bringing a ringed hand to scratch his chin as his bottom lip curling over his bottom teeth; a small scoff leaving him. He walked closer to her, reaching his arms out quickly and wrapping them around her. Holding eye contact as his left hand wrapped around her lower back. Landing on top of her perky butt, and digging his tips in as he pulled to his chest roughly. A small gasp falling from her sparkly lips as he pressed her tightly against him. Her robe falling open with his movements and pressing against the fabric of his shirt. Moaning as her sensitive nipples brushed against the fabric of his black button up. Internally satisfied with the reaction he’s given her.

While his right hand dug into her hair, gripping at her scalp tightly as he pulled her head back and her hair cascaded over his arm. Another gasp falling from her lips, this time pained as he shuffled them forward into her bedroom. His eyes holding hers as he man-handled her forward. Walking her until she was in front of her vanity, hand now gripping her ass and giving it a harsh squeeze before he roughly turns her around. Her robe flailing open with his movements as he faces her to the large mirror of her vanity that shined with led lights on the edges. His hands sat where her waist pinched in, squeezing roughly and feeling the soft grip of skin under his palm. His fingers digging in roughly.

He then moves his right hand back into her hair, forcing her to look into the mirror at herself. His large frame towering over her smaller body as he lowered his head to her left, to level their eye contact. Running the tip of his nose over her silky hair and taking in the sweet smell of her vanilla shampoo —shutting his eyes in satisfaction. Running it all the way down to her temple and then down her cheek with his eyes closed, tugging her head to the right harshly as she let out another soft, pained gasp. His nose then running over her jawline before finally finding its way down her neck; pressing in deeply and sniffing before letting out a harsh purr that vibrated in his chest. Her expensive perfume enticing him, but it was her natural scent that overtook him so much more.

He stayed there for a cool second as she watched him in the mirror, watching as he nuzzled his face into her. His hand on her waist reaching around and covering her stomach to press her right against him —into his erection. Her face contorted in pleasure as she reached her left hand back to cradle his head against her, scratching his scalp with her nails affectionately —while reaching her right hand back and digging into his thigh. Pressing herself against the rock-solid erection pressed right in between her ass. Eyes fluttering shut as she let out a soft moan. The sound causing him to let out a soft groan of his own as his lips then brushed over the expanse of her neck all the way to her shoulder.

He brought his left hand to grip her bare breast, harshly fondling it as he pressed a kiss to her smooth shoulder. Eyes opening and glaring at her lustfully through his eyebrows, watching as she writhed against him with pleasure. His grip on her hair tightened even more and tugged her head back, whispering a gruff “look at me.” That went ignored, she was too caught up in the feeling of his large hands fondling her. Something that not only delighted Rafe but frustrated him all the same, that she didn’t listen to him the first time. She always does.

“I fuckin’ said-“ his large ringed-hand that was fondling her body came to grip her neck; wrapping round it harshly —the desire to grip her face overcome by the knowledge that she will whine at him for ruining her makeup. “Look. at. me.” Squeezing the sides as she gasped louder and her eyes finally fluttered back open, faux lashes making them look oh-so-enticing. Slight tears building up from his handling and the heat of the moment. That’s when they finally made eye contact in her vanity mirror. And the sight in front of them was something that teetered their relationship further over the line of boundaries they loved to push.

Sure, she’d press her lips to his cheeks —as well as her tits to his chest every time he came home. Hard nipples poking against him as she lips a sloppy kiss on his cheek that leaves a glittery mark. Sure, maybe Rafe would meticulously rub sunscreen and tanning oil over her skin while she sat laid in front of him in the luxurious backyard of their home. His large hands leaving no inch unchecked under the guise of being thorough —long fingers daringly ghosting over her breast and the peak between her inner thighs so lightly it almost wasn’t there. And sure, they’ve definitely been tangled in his arms one too many times while he soothes her to sleep or cradles her while she cries about her mom. It’s nothing new for them to share affectionate caresses … but this.

This was something entirely different, and they both knew it. This wasn’t excessive affection under the guise of fatherly / daughterly love —no. This was primal impulse. The suffocating tension that constantly surrounds them being slightly cut into —just enough. The unspoken desire between them disguised by actions of parental affection. It was almost freudian. Yet, neither of them seemed to care. Not even a bit, not even at all. It was a blazing act of paroxysm that pushed them further to teetering off the cliff of their natural inclination toward each other. It felt like it was meant to be and it burned so deeply in both of them they would be branded for life.

After a long moment of unspoken words being exchanged through fiery glances; harsh breathes coming from both of them. Rafe finally let her throat go, his fist in her hair loosening at the same time. Pushing his body slightly back, pushing his erection away from her. He brought both hands to her waist; groping affectionately as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head. Their eyes still on each other, the heat in the room almost unbearable. Rafe then grabbed both sides of her robe, bringing them to overlap one another as he tied it back up for her gently. Pressing a couple more soft kisses to her head before finally turning her around to face him. Her eyes now softening and looking up at him with unadulterated adoration —his gazing into hers with the exact same earnest.

He cupped her face softly in his large hands; careful not to mess with her meticulously done makeup. Pressing the tip of his nose against hers lightly before nudging it slightly; turning their heads to the side as he pressed a soft lingering kiss to her pretty lips. Their eyes falling shut and a harsh breath leaving both of them. After a moment, he pulled back and smoothed his hand over the top of her head to fix her mused hair; giving her a soft smile and pinching her chin. His once lustful gaze now replaced with the same adoration he adorns for her everyday.

“The sun’s setting”, he finally spoke once more. His voice calm and in a low drawl, as if he hadn’t just spoken in her ear with a lustful grit mere moments before. He continued to stroke her chin with his thumb as she gave him her entire regard; hanging onto every movement and drawl from his lips. Her brain going fuzzy and shutting off as she lets her stepfather take reign of her entire being once more. “Should start getting dressed, princess.” He pressed a soft kiss to her lips once more, “tonight’s going to be all about you.” He whispered lowly against her lips, brushing them against hers as they let out harsh breathes into each other. Her hands coming to grip the lapels of his blazer as she whined softly and pressed her self into him. Eyes fluttering shut as she sought out for more kisses. Falling completely into the man who consumed her entire being once more.

Rafe quirked an open mouth smile at her reaction to him, satisfaction settling in his chest with the knowledge that she’s just as whipped for him as he is her. Chuckling lowkey before stopping her movements, and pulling his head back. Watching as her beautiful eyes fluttered back open, another whine falling from her lips as her grip on his jacket tightened —confusion plastered along her gorgeous features. He just smirked down at her with a patronizing quirk of his lips, tapping her right cheek with his left hand a couple times lightly before turning her around once more. Smacking her on her ass lightly, but with a prominent clap as her pushed her toward her closet. Urging her to get dressed as he began strutting his way out of the room. Leaving her mind hazy and not completely there.

“Now, hurry up.” he called behind him as he walked out of her bedroom. His voice growing louder as he descended down the stairs. Shouting out one final, “you know dad doesn’t like waiting long. I have plans for us tonight, princess.” The promise of the night being all about them —about her driving her body into action. Quickly bouncing into her large closest with a pep in her step to get dressed, daydreaming briefly about a life where her and her stepfather were more than the title that was granted them for right now. Her music still playing lowly in the background.

“My old man is a bad man

But I can't deny, the way he holds my hand

And he grabs me, he has me by my heart…”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

a/n: phew! i am so sorry this took so long i lowkey lost motivation, but we’re so back baby. i hope yall aren’t too made i broke this up into two parts. yes the series is based off “off to the races” by lana. i wanted to build up tension. as always any feedback is always deeply appreciated. much love.

taglist: @xcinnamonmalfoyx @iknowdatsrightbih @inthelibrarybtw @pretty-pink-princess @enjoymyloves @stoned-writer @rafesfuckdoll @unrealmirrorball @khaibdl @idksmtms @queenvane64 @xoxohoneymoongirl @vogueprincess @loonysbarn @heartsforrafecam @cl4uus @spideysimpossiblegirl @littlelamy @sunset-euphoria @slut-4-gojo @katekells @theater-bitch @faephoria @slutforlanadelslay @matthewswifeyy @pillowprincess4him @drewsphwife @rafeysangelbaby @wearemadeofstardust0 @inthelibrarybtw @adrianalovesevispresley @theeternaloptimistt

if i’m missing anyone pls lmk >.<

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captain-huggy-bear · 5 months ago

Text

Scratchy

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: MDNI 18+, smut - lil' spicy, lil' racy, lil' bit of Lottie is feeling touch starved and it shows 😅 Not for the kiddos at all! Get off my lawn!

Summary: Quinn will do most things to make you laugh, his favourite thing about growing out his beard is the fact that it's a weapon of mass destruction when breaking that laugh out of you. It also makes you a little weak at the knees and hot behind the collar too which is a bonus.

Notes: I haven't kissed someone in 3 years, okay? I miss the scratch of a beard and Quinn has such a good beard at the moment, leave me alone! Don't judge me, just enjoy the fruits of my imagination.

Also Merry Xmas/Happy Holidays for tomorrow, this is my present to you all :) xx

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

It's a still sort of evening, the sort of dim, cozy quiet that only ever seems to happen when the night is dark, and you've made your way back to Quinn's apartment after a date to the silence of his apartment.

The lights are low, but warm because Quinn had changed all the bulbs to a soft amber after you expressed how much you missed the warm glow of the old street lights from your childhood. You're curled up underneath Quinn's arm on his white sofa, both of you pretending you're watching Home Alone but really it's just white noise as the two of you cuddle up together. The TV taking a background role to the two of you, the main actors in this play.

Technically, you should consider getting your shoes on, grabbing your jacket and going back to your apartment, the clock ticking closer and closer to 11pm, but you both know that's not going to happen. It's a Saturday and Sunday means no work for you, Quinn has a bit of a gap before he has another game, and there's absolutely zero urgency or desire from you to leave the spot you're in. You've never been more comfortable.

Every date night goes the same way. Quinn picks you up from your apartment, bringing flowers to the door and wowing over your outfit. Looking at you like it's the first time as he calls you beautiful or pretty or any other compliment he can think of, before taking you to dinner somewhere the two of you have been wanting to try. Dinner is always fun, the two of you bantering back and forth, feet hooking together under the table, and hands twisted together on the tablecloth whenever you're not eating. Then Quinn always asks if you want to come back to his for a movie, every single time you say yes as he helps you into your coat and into his car. Like clockwork you always end up curled up together on the sofa, something playing in the background that neither of you are really paying attention to and like always you end up staying the night, the spare toothbrush now not spare, but yours, and a couple of drawers holding your essentials for the inevitable sleepover. Sometimes Quinn jokes that you might as well move in, except it's not really a joke and you both know that the minute your lease is up you'll do just that.

Quinn's cheek is pressed into the crown of your head as you lay back together across the sofa, your legs are tangled like tree roots, one of his hands resting on your thigh that's slung over his lap, the other wrapped around your shoulders, fingers brushing soothing circles into your upper arm. Your eyes feel heavy in that soft, comfortable sort of way, not sleepy but relaxed as you lean into the crook of his neck, pressing the odd kiss to his shoulder every so often - lazy, content, sweet.

He loves moments like this, where he's not captain, just Quinn, just your boyfriend. Where he can watch the way your shoulders relax around him, feel the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips, the press of your lips to his shoulder. It's that sort of slow intimacy that has him tilting your head towards him, hand cupping your cheek as you rearrange yourselves to face each other.

"You're so pretty, baby..." It's a mumble, soft and sweet, his bottom lip poking out just ahead of his top. You're tempted to catch it between your own but don't get a chance before he's pressing his lips to your forehead, dragging them down across your temple and cheek.

The scratch of his beard tickles slightly and it has you twitching and pursing your lips to contain a giggle. That little shake of your shoulders as you try to hide it has Quinn stopping just shy of your lips, hovering in place with that delectable smirk of his that he gets from time to time (but not often enough).

"Does my beard scratch, baby?"

"Nooo..." You deny it even as he teasingly brushes his cheek against yours, purposefully brushing the bristles of his beard against your skin until you squirm in his lap, twisting yourself up and above him to avoid it. Your hands planted firmly on his chest as if that will keep him away from you and keep your skin free of beard burn. As if you're strong enough to stop him if he truly wants something.

It's not a sensation you actually dislike despite the way you scurry out of his reach, in fact, he knows you love when he grows out his beard. The scratch of it always sends little shivers down your spine, but it sets your nerve endings off in a way that always makes you giggle like a little kid. It's cute, has been since the first time he kissed you and you pulled away laughing in such an endearing way he couldn't even be offended.

Quinn doesn't let you scurry away for long, flipping the two of you until you're on your back underneath him, he shifts a pillow under your neck as he does so. A small gesture but one that speaks volumes about his priority of making sure you're always comfortable. His hands bracket your head, nose brushing against yours as he stares down at you under his lashes, big eyes softening at the corners. He's so beautiful that you think you might combust in that moment, having all his attention on you like that makes you squirm.

"You're such a liar. This doesn't scratch? At all?" He doesn't give you much time to answer. Long fingers and wide palm of his hand gently encircling your neck, thumb hitting just underneath your jaw, holding you in place as he scrapes his face against yours roughly, the scratch of his beard across your cheek forcing a giggle from your throat that has him stopping briefly just to savour it. It's one of his favourite sounds.

The reprieve doesn't last long, Quinn moves, rubbing his cheek down from your own to the sensitive skin of your neck. Your legs kicking out at the sensation, fingers grasping the back of his shirt as you laugh harder, despite all protests you lean your head away to give him more room.

"Oh, yeah, this totally doesn't scratch! Not a tickle, huh? Such a liar, pretty girl." He rubs his beard across your neck and shoulder, the sensation has your toes curling, a hand sliding up his neck and into his hair, fingers gripping tight to silky brunet strands.

"Quinn!" You laugh it out, but there's a hint of desire riding your tone, eyelids fluttering closed. The scratch of his beard, one of your guilty pleasures, a secret you think you have kept well, but that Quinn knows all about. Has ever since the first time he shaved and your eyes held nothing but disappointment that you tried your best to hide, same way he knows you love when he keeps his hair a little longer. You're terrible at poker.

"Nuh, this is your punishment for lying to me!" He stops briefly to press a kiss into the underside of your jaw, even then his beard scratches as he does it, an inescapable sensation that has your fingers tightening in his hair, "Not really a punishment though is it, baby?"

"Shut up..." You mumble it out, embarrassment riding your tone even as your toes curl and your back arches into him, a leg rising to wrap around his and pull him closer.

"Oh, what? Cause you're embarrassed? My pretty girl's embarrassed that she likes my beard?" He brushes his cheek back against yours again for emphasis, nose trailing across your cheek.

"Quuiiinnnn..."It's an embarrassed sort of whine you let out as you turn your head into the pillow behind you, cheeks warm as a squirm out of embarrassment and something like desire winds its way to your stomach.

His fingers grip your jaw, turning your face back towards him, not allowing you more than a moment to hide away from him. Quinn's lips find their way to yours, open mouthed and soft as he captures your bottom lip between his. He lowers himself down to you, body squishing yours into the sofa, hips rocking against yours in a targeted fashion. You pull at his hair as you writhe beneath him, legs trying to pull him closer, a sigh breathed against his mouth like a prayer.

"You were saying?"

"Shut up..." It's an absent sort of mumble, unable to really think of anything else to say when he's this close to you, this warm, when all you really want is for him to kiss you again.

"Is that the only thing your pretty little head can come up with right now?" He's being mean as he squishes your cheeks together, lips a breath from yours as he mimicks you, "'Quinn!' 'Shut up!'"

"You're being mean..." You pout even as the familiar burning twisting sensation stirs in your gut, even as you struggle not to wiggle your hips against him and pull him in for a kiss.

"I guess I should get off you then, since I'm so mean?" He starts to move away, your head shaking vehemently no at the illusion of distance, "Oh, no? Thought I was mean?" Quinn attempts to push off and move away from you, arms defined and strong, straightened up next your head as he pretends to pull off you.

"Stay, please?" Your legs lock around him like a vice as he attempts to back up and put distance between you under the pretence of leaving, teasing you even as he has absolutely no intention of actually going anywhere.

"Is that all you want, sweet girl? Just me to stay right," he punctuates the end of his sentence with a roll of his hips back between yours "here?" He's rock hard against you, but he doesn't really care, this isn't really about him, it's about you and all he wants is to get you off. He could care less if he cums tonight. Not when you're whining into his neck and looking up at him like you might cry if he pulls away from you right now. Clingy and needy, desperate for him in a way that has his heart. He loves the idea that its him you want, only him, that no one else can fill that space.

Your neck almost cracks with how rapidly you shake your head, because as much as you want him to stay pressed against you, warm and heavy and delicious, you're not sure if that's enough anymore. Not when Quinn's commanding your attention, domineering over you like the captain he is.

"Use your words, baby, 'm not a mind reader, can't read that pretty little brain of yours." It's breathed out against the shell of your ear, the first stop before his lips trail down the side of your neck. This time the scratch of his beard is anything but funny, a little whimper leaving your throat as he sucks a hickey into your neck, one he's determined to make stay for at least a week, next to the beard burn you're definitely going to have as well.

"Want you, Quinny" Your fingers make their way back to his hair, its grown out so far in the season, long enough for you to tug on it when his own long fingers slide between you and tap your sternum.

"I'm right here, baby." It's frustrating and even more so as you squirm because you can feel his smirk against your neck, know he's purposefully acting like he doesn't know that you want his fingers in you.

"No, want you." you try to emphasis the point without words, too shy, always too shy to say what you're actually thinking and wanting and it always gets to Quinn. God, you're so fucking cute, how you refuse to tell him even while you're rutting against him and tugging on his hair.

"Here?" His fingers slip further down, hand pressed against your belly before slipping around to your waist, grip tight but not enough to leave marks.

You shake your head again, frustration building as you try to wiggle his hand lower.

"No? Mmm.." A kiss lands on the front of your throat and down to the dip where your sternum starts, while his hand moves again this time to your outer thigh, pulling you leg tighter against his hip, "Here?"

"Baby..." your voice actually cracks and breaks and when he pulls back to look at you there are tears in your eyes, frustrated tears that get to him and make him more than a little weak for you. He loves you too much to keep teasing you, pressing a kiss to your lips before mumbling against them.

"Oh, I see, you want me here instead, huh?" Quinn presses his thigh up between your legs, pressing firm against your cunt. You really can’t help it as you roll your hips against the intrusion, the fabric of your underwear brushing against your sensitive clit with each roll. It's an attempt, an effort to find some sort of friction, some sort of relief from the desire that burns in your belly and has your panties slick.

"Sweet girl wants to ride my fingers till she gets off? I got you, baby, don't worry." He doesn't expect a response and he doesn't get one, not really, just a babbling mess of words that broadens his smirk because you’re so pretty rutting against his thigh as you lie underneath him. You tug at his hair so hard he nearly hisses, but he's taken worse hits in a game before and he'd let you pull all his hair out to hear the way you whine under him.

Quinn's mouth covers yours at the same time as his hand slides up your thigh, long fingers pushing your panties to the slide quickly. Even quicker is the way he slides one finger into you, thumb seeking your clit in double time, as you moan into his mouth, hips wriggling against his hand.

"You're so fucking wet, baby, this all for me?" He murmurs it against your lips, thumb circling your clit as he presses a second finger into you, curling them until he finds that spongy little spot inside you, the spot that has you crying out his name and gasping for air, back arching off of the sofa and towards him.

There's not much mercy from Quinn as he thrusts his fingers into you, each time determined to curl against that same spot, his lips kissing from your mouth to behind your ear, sucking and licking hickies into your skin like your his own personal Monet painting.

It’s a third finger stretching you open, eased by the sheer amount of wetness that you drip with, and the way his beard scratches at the delicate skin of your neck, creating a shivery sort of delight through you, that has you cumming so hard and so fast that you think he might have broken a world record. You're gripping so tight around Quinn's fingers that he worries he might lose circulation in them.

You whine and moan his name so loud that he’s grateful he lives alone, no roommates, no brothers, no parents. Your body shivers and rolls, tensing and relaxing as your orgasm rolls through you in waves, as Quinn works you through it, thumb rubbing your clit and fingers still working against you but more gently this time, careful of your overstimulated nerves. “Fuck, there we go, I got you, baby...look at you, so fucking pretty."

Your hips jerk away from his touch, overstimulated and overly sensitive, Quinn lets you push his hand away, drags it out of your panties and catches your eye as he slips his fingers into his mouth, sucking you from his skin. He hums like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted and in his opinion you might just be.

His hand, still wet from his spit, cups your cheek gently. You press your cheek into it, eyes blinking up slowly at him as he rubs soft circles there. Soft and tender as he waits for you to catch your breath and come back down from it all, as his eyes watch you for any ounce of discomfort.

“You okay, baby?”

"Mmm...?" Quinn can't help but chuckle at the way you look up at him a little dumb smile on your face, eyes half-lidded and hazy. He’d be worried if I hadn’t seen that look on your face before.

"That good, huh? Got you a little stupid, baby?"

"Mmmm..." Quinn presses soft kisses across your face. Hitting the high points of your cheeks, the top of your forehead, the tip of your nose and the end of your chin. Careful as he helps you come down from it all, you start coming too a little, worried as you call out that he hasn't cum yet and he just shushes you. Tells you this wasn't about him, that he's fine and really, he is. He's happy just servicing you tonight, he knows he'll get his reward in the morning, the soft sort of sex that's all tender and sweet, the best kind.

He eases himself off you, even as you whine about it, hands and fingers grabbing at him, trying to pull him close again, always clingy after you cum.

“Need to get you cleaned up and ready for bed, baby...'m not goin' anywhere, don't worry.” Quinn's hands find yours, pulling you up with him as he stands from the sofa.

He's gentle as he guides you and your wobbly legs to the bathroom, as he helps you undress fully and stand under the warmth of the shower. His hands soft as he washes between your legs and over your sweat soaked skin, pressing soft soothing kisses into the beard burn and hickeys across your neck, even as he smirks proud of himself, of the marks he's left on your skin, claiming you as his for anyone to see.

He's careful as he washes your hair and helps you remove your makeup that has smudged. He's steady and sure as he helps you into one of 'your' favourite t-shirts, one you stole from him and claimed months ago.

You breathe out a soft sigh when you finally curl up under the covers with him, his body engulfing yours in his arms, pulling you back tight against him. You feel safe, so utterly at peace that it doesn't take long for you to fall asleep in Quinn's arms, even as he keeps his eyes on you with a soft smile, more than happy to stay awake just a little longer, just to capture this moment for a little while.

#18+ mdni #huggy bear writes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes/reader #nhl imagine

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