#preferably from rem

[wiidoodles]

birfday boyz.......

[suffarustuffaru]

Not meaning to throw any shade at Rem, but I hate how her character ended up being restricted to only loving Subaru. It became her personality and her reason to exist

Meanwhile my man Otto has layers and fun dynamics with everyone WHILE also being codependent and hopelessly in love to Subaru (in my point of view)

I hope that now Tappei will be able to balance Rem's character and give her another personality trait besides her love for Subaru

ok so if anyone else is seeing this, this is referring to a poll i made a few days ago pitting rem and otto against each other bc theyre both the resident codependent subaru devotees and they do parallel/contrast each other a bit 👍

but yeah anon… not to affect the poll results or anything wkdndnd but i agree a lot with you!! i have mixed feelings on rem bc i do love her a lot—im halfway through her and ram’s prequel novel and im enjoying it a lot, and also i liked her the moment i watched season 1 of the anime for the first time. shes an intriguing character with a well written backstory and her own set of flaws and traits. but i think the big thing is her and ottos relationships with subaru, while subaru is first place in both of their hearts and subaru comes first before anyone else at this point, rem and ottos flavors of Dependency are different?

like with rem, i think its the point that her whole being ends up revolving around subaru. not that otto isnt like that either, of course, but otto has Way More of a life outside of subaru. otto has a whole group of people from the emilia camp to marone and his family that he cares about other than subaru, and on top of that, ottos job in the emilia camp is to communicate with others both within and outside of his camp. then theres his dp, which is also dependent and ABOUT communication. when it comes to rem and otto, theres absolutely no competing on this, otto is the one with more of. a Life. not that rem doesnt have other people she cares about and other people she talks with and other people she likes (and also rem was unfortunately Gluttonyed), but the top two closest people in her life were always ram then subaru. otto got lucky with his loving family, bc rems Entire Life has molded her into being dependent on others. shes told by her family that the only reason shes alive is bc ram saved her. ram is the only person who loves her. she envies ram and then she feels so guilty after her village is destroyed and rams horn is gone (especially when rem is initially. kind of Glad that rams horn is gone). so rem places her worth on serving the people she loves—ram and subaru. rem has spent her WHOLE LIFE like this. remsuba as a relationship has its ups and downs but arc 3 rem is, while sweet and well meaning, shes not the healthiest. remsuba isnt the healthiest. and then arc 7-8 comes in and yeah while rems pov of subaru and the whole situation is Understandable from what little she knows, yeah its not the healthiest either (and also i dont forgive her for being mean about natsumi wkfndnd).

not that ottosuba is the Healthiest given they seem like theyre going to become. a bit Toxic in arc 8 if they keep being stubborn, but the big difference is in how otto and rem devote themselves. bc rems problem (in arc 3) is that she enables subaru a little too much. i mean sloth if exists for a reason, she ran away with subaru and RAM AND EVERYONE ELSE DIED. ottos problem is that hes 1. obsessed with opposing subaru and 2. not straightforward with his feelings the way arc 3 rem is. bc at least pre gluttony rem is gonna straightforwardly be like “id do anything for you” and “i love you” etc etc. like yeah ottos like “youre my friend!!” but hes also gonna complain nonstop about subaru to his face and say shit like “ill leave at the first sight of danger!!” RIGHT AFTER RISKING HIS LIFE FOR SUBARU. and also even then arc 8 rems siding with subaru on louis so shes enabling him in that respect too (even though arc 8 rem is different from arc 3 rem of course). ergo, rem is the one who wants to support subaru Unconditionally. even if its not what youd consider the right decision. otto tries to help subaru get what he wants, but if otto doesnt agree he starts getting aggressive. rem makes herself pliable and into a bit of a doormat for subaru, otto starts getting out the pitchforks and tries to control things bc he thinks his way his best for subaru in the end. that, and while subaru does go first in ottos heart, hes STILL loyal to the entire emilia camp as a whole (minus roswaal). thats why he wanted to leave vollachia, he wanted to save the ENTIRE emilia camp.

but like you said anon—while the point is that rem ends up centering her whole life around subaru, i feel that tappei handles otto (who has SIMILAR PLOT BEATS) with far more nuance. like while otto will literally do anything else besides actually say “i love you” or “id do anything for you”, his arc is more straightforward and consistent than rems. again, rem got gluttonyed and a bunch of different stuff have happened with her so of course her arc has been more Dramatic in its changes, but with otto he grows and changes but at the same time he doesnt change At All. his arc 8 self is doing stuff hes been capable of this whole time, vollachia and subaru just bring out his more hidden traits. the narrative is just way more consistent with emphasizing that while otto thinks hes in the right, hes also Wrong in a lot of ways. his mindset rn is Not Healthy and i feel that the narrative shows that more with him than it does rem a lot. like the writing literally goes out of its way to shit on otto a bit for being a little messed up in the head, while you have to read more into rems plot and then some audiences just completely miss the point of her character. that and—yeah, rems reasons are all very understandable, but i feel that tappei romanticizes her a bit too much. all you have to do is look at sloth if bc sloth if seems a Bit too fluffy to me despite the absolute Dark Backdrop. like yeah. subaru rbds back to arc 3 at the end. but i feel like sloth if just sweeps a lot of the dark underbelly under the rug. ottosuba as a dynamic to me just feels more Equal than remsuba does, which is probably a bit strange HAH bc ottosuba as a dynamic is based on Conflict (especially when you remember ottosuba across the ifs too) and their power dynamics in arc 8 are likely going to get crazy at some point.

plus its like—the way the whole louis situation has been handled made me think that tappei wouldnt even bother examining the Problems with louis and subaru + rems relationships with louis, but luckily arc 8 has been getting into that more. so like i dont completely trust tappei with female characters (he has a habit of. fumbling the bag a bit with them sometimes, imo. he gets out such great complex main female characters then he starts messing up with their writing like halfway through). but like you anon, i hope that rem gets far more character development. the poor girl has spent her whole life basing her worth on others….

and well. again, i think the difference in how the writing treats otto vs rem is probably also bc ottos a boy and rems a girl. so of course otto consistently gets a bit more nuance, and of course certain parts of the audience just see rem and think “waifu who would do anything for you” rather than “this is a traumatized girl who means well but has poor boundaries and Codependency Issues”, and some people see otto and think “he doesnt love subaru that much lol” and sweep his own codependency and Issues under the rug. and then you look at the narrative and, like you said anon, otto is allowed to have fun dynamics with everyone while still being Fixated on subaru. rem hasnt had much of a chance in that category yet.

[x-i-l-verify]

Part 1 of 2 of sketches I made for @breezy-cheezy's and my Trigun role swap AU. Meet Nai the Avalanche, aka Truth Coming Out Of His Well To Shame Mankind with a cup of sickeningly sweet coffee in one hand, a handful of custom knives in the other, and a stack of psychology books under each arm, who somehow keeps collecting lost, traumatized children like ducklings.

I'm very fond of him. 💖

[wingsmadeforflying]

Reg gets caffeine heart rate spikes from coffee. They make him feel like he's going to explode, so he hates it. He's a tea girlie.

However he'll drink 20 Monsters in a day. Sirius is appalled. Reg says it tastes better and actually keeps him awake.

[inkdrinkerworld]

Okay but imagine Soft!dom Remus where he just makes life simpler when you go out or are at home bat work you’re type a on top of ur shit but w Remus you can just be and not have to think 😫

No one would believe their eyes if they could see you right now.

No one would ever believe that you, with your quick wit, smart mount, sarcastic drawl and 'take no shit' attitude is currently whining at your husband.

“Remmy, I can't do it." You're out for dinner, at a pretty restaurant that required you both to dress up a little. You'd ordered steak and passed Remus your plate as soon as it had been set before you.

"I know, dove. Give me two seconds." He was making space on his side of the table to pull your plate in front of him.

"In thin strips, please." Remus rolls his eyes- he doesn't need to be reminded of any of your preferences.

Your friends and co-workers would be in disbelief at your behaviour right now and you find that you don't care if any of them would find out- Remus takes good care of you, always has and always will.

"Taste, baby. Let me know if you want more salt." he feeds you a piece and you smile.

"It's perfect, thanks Rem." he nods, passing the plate back to you and pulling his back in front of him.

Remus ordered pasta, knowing that you'd want some and he doesn't hesitate to load a bite on his fork for you. "Here," his other hand cups under the fork, ready to catch any fall off as he feeds you.

"That's good, baby." he smiles, already knowing you're going to want the last bite of his dinner and knowing that he'd love nothing more than to give it to you.

"What do they have for dessert tonight?" you ask as you eat, sipping your wine every couple of bites.

"I already told them cheesecake dovey," he reaches across the table to wipe a bit of wine from your lips. "They also had that chocolate cake you liked so I got two slices. I've got you all set baby."

Like you'd ever have to worry.

[astraystayyh]

please fall before i fall

jeongin x reader. best friends to lovers. they think it's unrequited love so a bit of angst. but they're just idiots. happy ending :))

summary : 3 times you saved jeongin's ass and the 1 time he saved yours (and ended up confessing along the way). holidays themed.

winter falls masterlist.

a.n. : i am very happy to finally post my first fic for the winter falls collab with my author xi hehehehhe i hope you'll enjoy this one <333 it's very light and fluffy she's the cute one!! oh and my song rec is i bet on losing dogs by mitski

One. 

Jeongin’s thumb hovers over your contact name, his rosy lip pulled tightly between his teeth. He hesitates for a few seconds before finally dialing your number. 

“What do you want?” you start which makes an incredulous snort escape his lips, a gust of powdery air materializing before his mouth from the cold. 

“How much do I have to pay you for you to come over?” 

“Ten thousand dollars. Cash,” you precise as he mouths along to what you say, already guessing what your next words would be. 

He's come to know you at an abhorrent speed these past few months; since you sat right next to him in your biology class, head buried in an oversized navy hoodie. Your perfume knocked into him like a gentle breeze— Sicilian lemon and white bouquet notes, nostalgic summer amid an unforgiven autumn. Memories of sticky fingers from molten ice cream and feet soles meeting the warm sand wafted in the air, alluring him to the kindness of a long-gone summer, you. 

That is why he talked to you at first, because you smelled nice, incredibly so. He tells you it's because he liked the pair of shoes you were wearing. 

“What if I brought you your favorite coffee?”

“Are you outside my dorm?” you squeal and he imagines you must be scrambling to get up, opening the curtains. He knows he's right as your figure materializes behind the window. “Hi,” you wave, a small giggle escaping your lips. He can't help the fond smile that draws upon his lips. 

He thinks he likes you a little. 

“Hey, please help me wrap my family’s gifts,” he pouts, waving the coffee in the air. Your order that he memorized by heart, not even meaning to, it was just natural for him to order you coffee every day, to remember your preferences as if they were his own. 

“Why are you here if we're going to your dorm anyways?” you laugh, leaning against the window. 

“Because I know I need to bribe you,” he sighs, angling his head to the side. “Are you not going to hang up and come downstairs? The coffee will grow cold.”

“I’m coming!”

An hour later, four gifts are resting beside Jeongin's figure, perfectly wrapped thanks to your skilled hands. He's lying on the warmed tiles, and you're right beside him, so close your knee brushes against his thigh now and then. 

He is keeping count, well, more so his heart, constricting in his lungs each time you touch. 

He's so aware of you, so much he's sure you’ve crawled into his skin, morphing him into nothing but a shell of you. 

Perhaps he likes you a lot. 

“You're an insane man. Who leaves gift wrapping to the last minute?”

“You're best friends with said insane man.” 

“Remind me how did that happen again?” you ask, propping your head on your elbow, and turning to the side to look at him. Jeongin has to pretend that the sight of you hovering over him doesn't affect him. That his eyes aren't drawn to your lips, heart dissolving at your feet, hoping to brush against your own. 

Please fall before I fall, he nearly pleads.

“Why are you so close,” he feigns disgust, pushing your face away with his pointer finger. 

“What? Does that fluster you?” you question, amused, bringing your face even closer to his. He scrambles away before a blush sprouts on his face, one he wouldn't be able to justify to your scrutinizing gaze. 

“As if. You're ugly,” his eyes squint, lips thinning into that particular smile he knows annoys you. He moves to the side swiftly, anticipating the shoe you throw at him.

“You're literally— remind me to never help you again, asshole.”

“I'm kidding. Thank you for today, seriously. I didn't know wrapping gifts could be this hard.” He falls back to the floor dramatically, banging his head against the tiles in the process.

“Well deserved,” you whisper. 

“I heard that.”

“Good,” you giggle, before gently massaging the spot where he has bumped his head. He purses his lips against one another, afraid of what words might escape the confines of his throat, vocal cords moving to the gentle rhythm of your touch. 

“Will you keep on being this clumsy, Innie? mm?” you muse, tone quieter. 

The nickname makes his insides churn, it is always so tender when it falls from your lips. No one has ever called him this softly before. No one has ever called his heart before you. 

He shouldn't be this clumsy with it. It is a fragile organ, akin to glass, easily breakable, so translucent— it'd be easy for anyone to peer inside and find you in it. 

“Yeah, I probably will.”

He'll stop liking you next year. He hopes. He'll try. 

Two.

Next year has come, familiar frigid winds pulling you to Jeongin’s heart, perhaps even more so than before, cementing your being into the nooks and crannies of his soul, perfectly so, as if it was destined for you alone to fill the emptiness inside him. 

Seasons have changed and yet summer remains, its essence stored safely within the notes of your perfume, it tickles his nose as you're seated on the countertop, legs swinging lazily while he scouts through his fridge. 

“Remind me why we're doing this again?”

“Because I made a bet with Yoon.”

“Your sixteen years old brother?”

“Yes.”

“You are in college.”

“I know.”

“Why are you taking it to heart?” 

“Because I have my pride,” he says solemnly, hand on his heart and you roll your eyes. 

“You literally begged at my feet fifteen minutes ago to help you.”

A year later, Jeongin stood beneath your window once again, phone brought up to his ear, hand hidden behind his back. You pick up on the first ring. 

“Look out the window,” he quickly says before you can even speak. 

“Hello, Y/n, how are you, Y/n, are you surviving with the cold—” you say sarcastically as you pull the curtains, the words dissolving in your tongue as he brings a single flower before him— you recognize its pink petals easily, Camellia, the rose of winter.

“I did not have time for coffee, but I plucked this off the sidewalk,” he offers, an amused grin on his face. “Help me bake cookies, pretty please, I'll be forever indebted to you. Forever and ever and ever and ever—”

“This is such a poor rendition of Romeo and Juliet, I'm afraid Shakespeare is suffering in his grave right now.”

“Do you think he knows of every theater play that was done to his story?” Jeongin muses.

“That's a good question actually. I hope he didn't see mine,” you shudder before your face pales. 

“You did not tell me you ever did that!”

“I'll bake your cookies and you'll never bring this up again.”

“Deal. My Juliet,” he smirks and you throw a middle finger aggressively to his face before hanging up. He shouldn't find it as endearing as he does.

“Because, my dear Y/n, this is my holiday reputation at stake. I kind of raised the bar last year with my gift wrapping.”

“You did?” you raise an eyebrow promptly at his words and he sighs, taking out the butter before leaning against the fridge.

“We did. Which is exactly why I need your help again. Imagine how embarrassing it would be if Yoon wins,” he shudders and a giggle finally escapes your lips.

The kitchen warms up at the sight of your smile.

“It's cute when you need me once in a while,” you say nonchalantly, hopping off the counter and moving to wash your hands. Jeongin freezes in his place.

“I always need you though,” he confesses quickly, swallowing the words, hoping that this way you wouldn't be able to taste the sincerity coating them, sticky honey dripping from his tongue whenever it speaks of you.

“Good thing you'll always have me then,” you beam, your words hanging into the air, oxygen suddenly harder to inhale.

“Gross,” he fakes a shiver, as his heart drops in his chest, breaks, and twists at the weight your words carry.

He'll always have you, but not in the way he wants to, your eyes would never soften at the mere mention of his name, and you won't think that a season blooms into every room he is in. He has you, but just a fragment of you, not how you have him, as a whole, heart, body, and soul. 

He's already fallen, a terrible, terrible fall.

“Will you help me or just stare off into the distance?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He smiles bashfully, rolling his sleeves and sidling by your side to mix in the eggs, one by one, per your instructions. 

It smells nice in the kitchen, the caramelized fragrance of browned butter, sweetened by the sugar dissolving into the warm liquid. Tentative sunlight streams through the window, and it falls perfectly on Jeongin's face, highlighting his sharp features. 

Not that jeongin needs any additional light, he reminds you of spring, a flower blooming on his face each time he smiles, his dimples two youthful fountains the roots strive from, brightening his face even more. 

He tentatively glances at you as he adds the chocolate chips to the mix, only to find you staring forward. He misses the fond look on your face by a few seconds, the tinting of your features with soft hues of pink, of spring, of him. He always misses it, always misses you. 

Three.

"I can't believe you have 37 pairs of shoes but not one nice shirt.”

“It's 36, please count correctly,” Jeongin retaliates and you snort, flopping around in bed till you land on your stomach, chin propped up by your hand. Jeongin is still rummaging through his closet, head almost disappearing into the dark void of his wardrobe. 

“What do you need this for anyway?” you question, as you scroll through your phone mindlessly. Jeongin’s eerie silence causes you to look up. 

“Um. I have a date tonight.”

“Oh.” 

His words hang over the room like a heavy cloak soaked with rain, the oxygen sucked out of your lungs and ensnared within that singular gasp.

Jeongin swiftly turns around, before kneeling beside the bed, eyes brimming with a hopeless search— you are too focused on steadying your breathing to notice.

“Should I go?”

“I mean… Why are you asking me?”

“If you don't want me to, I won't,” he speaks in an overflowing sincerity, as though he'd willingly surrender the reins of his life for you to guide, should you only dare to ask. 

A breath, a pause, and he adds, “In case you'll be lonely tonight.” Your hope deflates in an instant, akin to a birthday balloon tossed into the careless hands of children. 

Pity, that's what he feels for someone who hasn't had a date in a year while he went on ones regularly. Although they never transcended beyond that first meeting, always a first date, never a second. He says none of the people he meets are his type. 

“I have a date too.” It was the truth, Suhoo had told you to meet him at the ice rink. You said you'd think about it. You knew deep down that your answer would be no, solely because he isn't Jeongin.

Perhaps it is too late for him to fall for you.  

“Really?” 

“Yeah, with Suhoo, you know, the guy in our Economics class.”

“He's nice.”

“Mm.” 

Could you lose something you never had in the first place?

“You should wear Seungmin’s white shirt.” 

“Yeah. That's what I thought too.”

“And bring them flowers. The rose of winter, maybe.” 

You had preserved the plucked flower he gave you in a vase. The pink of the petals liquefying and bleeding into the blush on Jeongin’s cheeks once he noticed. 

“That one's just for you.” 

Four. 

You're alone on the ice rink, the frigid winds assail your form, fingers numb from winter's cruel grasp. Suhoo didn't come after all, perhaps he was offended by you calling him at the last minute to confirm your date.

The chill of disappointment is more biting than the frost— you want to melt off the ice, you want your spring. You want your Jeongin. 

But he isn't yours, perhaps he will never be. He is too sought after, too captivated by the fleeting chase of someone new to spare a glance at you. 

But in this instant, you need him. You need him to hold your hands in his larger, warmer ones and get you off the ice rink. You need the sight of his familiar dimples and blooming smile. 

So, you call him. He picks up on the first ring. 

“Are you that bored on your date?” He playfully taunts, and his voice becomes a gentle breeze that stirs the emotions you struggle to contain. Tears cascade down your cheeks in an achingly familiar path. 

“I-Innie,” you hiccup, and you’re instantly met with the sound of scraping chairs against the floor, the hastening cadence of footsteps hurrying out into the street. 

“Did he do something to you?” He speaks so coldly, a tone so foreign to the warmth of your Jeongin. He shouldn't be tainted with winter too. 

“He didn't come. Can you p-please pick me up?” 

“I will. I'm coming in a bit, okay?” 

He finds you rather quickly on the ice rink, a sore thumb unmoving between the gliding bodies. He skates over to you, almost falling twice in the process. 

“You're so clumsy,” you snort as he stands before you, sobs racking through your body once more at the sight of him.

You weren't mad at Suhoo. You were heartbroken over Jeongin.

“I'll beat him up for you. I'll tell Changbin to help me too,” he smiles, hands fidgeting as they land upon your cheeks, trying their best to wipe away your tears.

“Please don't cry. I hate seeing you cry, Y/n, I really can't bear it." The tears only fall harder at his words, as if he's stringing them forth with each touch of his.

“Did he do something to you?” an unknown voice startles you and you turn to your right to find a girl looking at you then at Jeongin, a frown etched on her eyebrows.

“No, I'm her friend I didn't-”

“I wasn't talking to you,” the girl cuts him off and you laugh despite you, as Jeongin’s jaw hangs open, before closing once more.

“It's not him, thank you so much though,” you smile gratefully and she nods, eyes wary as she glares at Jeongin one last time, before skating away.

“I can't believe that just happened,” He exhales, a breath tinged with bewilderment, before he delicately encircles a hand around your back. Gently, he guides your head to rest against the comforting refuge of his chest.

“What are you doing?” you mumble against his navy hoodie, the one he borrowed from you. You can still smell your perfume on him. 

“I'm comforting you.” 

“You don't like hugs.” 

“It's different when it comes to you.”

You close your eyes, allowing the tide of his warmth to envelop you like a cascade of spring petals.

“Where is your date?”

“I didn't go.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I love you. I'm tired of looking for you in other people,” he quickly says and you peel yourself away from him, feeling as if his clothes were suddenly made of fire. 

“What?” you whisper, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I love you,” he repeats, each word drawn out, much slower this time, his hands cradling your face, tenderly, as though holding the sun between his delicate fingers. “I'm tired of pretending you're not my summer.”

“Don't say things you don't mean,” your voice wavers. 

“I mean it. I've always loved you. You complete me in ways I didn't know were possible, and I know you only see me as a friend but-”

Your lips press against his, a culmination of aching desires that have lingered for two years. Distant laughter echoes in the background, ice cream melting onto your fingers, a soft breeze ruffling your hair, flowers blooming under the soft caress of the sun— two seasons melting sweetly into the kiss.

“You're literally so blind,” you giggle against his lips, and his smile widens, your noses brushing against one another. “I love you too, idiot.”

“You love me?”

“You're my favorite season.” 

“Don't steal my lines.”

“Hey—” he kisses you this time, the winter is long forgotten. 

Was it ever a fall if you caught him in the end?

[slickchickchocolatier]

Baby Fever

Warnings: breeding kink, rough smut implied, smut-ish stuff, some minor choking, smut talk (breeding smut talk...if yk...yk). MDNI this is only for the grownups (18+).

Authors note: this drabble is canon to the HHP storyline > : ) I had this in mind for a few days and wanted to quickly draft it for yall to hold you guys off until the treat comes out this weekend 😉

What a gorgeous morning it was; the sun beaming brightly and the fresh, crisp Spring air filled with the chirping of birds, and the newborn flowers blooming in greeting. You woke up alone, figuring Heeseung was downstairs in the kitchen, considering the minor commotion you overheard from the bedroom. You got up and figured that on the first day of Spring, what better way to greet your lover than to wear the dress that he absolutely loved seeing you in. It was a purple mini floral, rather form fitting despite the subtle empire waist line, which gently showed a hint of your curves. The front had a stringed, lace front that tied the scoop neck line together, cradling your breasts and proposing the faint curves of your cleavage. It was both sexy, and pretty, especially when paired with sheer, black, thigh-high stockings, edged with a beautifully elegant damask pattern that subtly hid beneath the hem of your short dress. Your hair was left freely down, since that was the way he always preferred you wore it. He loved your hair.

Every single night, he would run his fingers through your strands, rubbing them together to savor the silkiness of the texture. He never cared to use a brush because it took away the pleasure of feeling that softness of your locks. The way he would drape the length of your strands over his knuckles and rub it against his cheek, inhaling the floral scent of your shampoo, which always ended with him leaning in to suck on the back of your neck. If anyone should think that his behavior with your hair is absurd, you wonder what they would think when he looks into your eyes, or take his time to feel your skin...guess that will be saved for another story.

After conducting your morning hygiene, you walk down the stairs. Gripping on the ball tip of the large banister, you playfully swung your way around to face the open view of the kitchen and dining area, immediately making eye contact with Heeseung.

He smiles as he stands on the opposite end of the large kitchen island, with his palms plastered on the surface top and leaned over just slightly over a mug, more than likely containing his favorite coffee drink. He was dressed all in black, a black fitted tee, lightly tucked in black fashionable fitted cargo pants, with a black hat. The lines located at the corner of his lips was all that the bill of his headpiece would allow you to see as he smirks upon seeing you enter the kitchen.

"Oh, y/n! It's so good to see you."

Shocked by the voice from the side, you turn to view over shoulder and saw Steve, one of the frat tenants that lived with Heeseung and the other roommates.

"Hi Steve. When did you come back from vacation?" you ask with a delicate smile as you greet him, when a young woman appears from behind him with a small bundle locked in her arms. "I got back last night, it was so late and I didn't want to wake anyone so I stayed at a hotel. But, let me introduce my sister, she just had a baby two months ago and was in town so I decided to bring her over to meet everyone."

You smile gleefully as you greeted Steve's sister. "Oh nice to meet you." you delicately spoke as she does the same. "It's nice to meet you, your y/n, right? Steve was just introducing me to Ethan and mentioned you, it's so good to meet you."

Your peripherals caught on to Heeseung remaining stagnant in his stance, eyeballing you, Steve, and his sister, Lauren. He takes a sip out of his cup, his eyes never breaking away from you.

"How far along in college are you?" Lauren asks, in which you respond sweetly as you both continue talking about college life. Heeseung remained as he always did when around other people, a bit standoffish and quiet, glaring over and keeping an eye on you. At least he was being a bit more pleasant since he knew Steve, being roommates under the same roof for years now. It was typical, everyone, including the frat tenants, all knew that Heeseung "Ethan" became a walking malice since he began dating you, and it was evident that he cared for no one or anything other than you...you wonder what they would think if they ever knew that there indeed, was an "Ethan" entity that was more than just an english version of his birth name.

"Would you like to hold the baby?" Lauren gains your attention back as she presents her bundle of joy. "Oh...um sure." Cradling the small child, you held him tightly as you cupped him against your bosom. "Wow, you're so good with him." she remarks surprisingly as she straightens her dress and heads to the bathroom to freshen up.

That was to be expected. With all the time spent babysitting for your neighbors while in high school, you were quite used to holding and handling a newborn baby. You sat down on the dining chair and laid the baby against your chest, gently patting and rubbing his back, all the while he drifted off with his head nestled against the crevice of your cleavage.

"Looks like you're ready to be a mom." Steve joked aloud, meanwhile Heeseung kept sipping on his coffee, occasionally eyeing you from the corner of his sharp gaze.

"Noooo." you chuckled out. "I used to babysit for my neighbors, they had a baby that I would look after often." You explained, keeping eye contact on the baby's soft head as you gently palmed the back of it, rubbing the tip of your nose against it.

After some time went by, Steve and Lauren departed to spend a day in the old town, leaving you and Heeseung alone in the frat house. With all the other tenants away to enjoy the ongoing Spring festivals, the house was completely empty, and would be that way for the entire day.

"Can we go out for a walk?" you ask as Steve and Lauren walked out the door. Heeseung gently sets down his cup and issues a subtle nod. "Okay, I'm going to get my phone." you smiled out as you walked up the stairs, with him slowly following close by. Guess he needed to get something from upstairs as well.

He opens the door for you, a traditional habit, and allows you to walk in first. Halfway in the room, you barely caught your breath as you felt a sudden shift in motion with a firm lock around your waist. Nearly levitating you from off the ground, Heeseung swooped, and flung you on his bed, following suit and hovering over your body as you turn to face him. You stutter out a gasp from shock as your hair lays in a massive spread, with a few delicate strands across your face. There, you were met face to face with the devil.

His eyes dark, and his smirk was devious, but you could tell by the minor shine in his iris, he didn't swap over to his other side. The bill of his hat kept the shadow to grace over his face as he stares down. With one hand gripping your shoulder, the other reaches up and starts to pull the string tie at the front of your dress. He pulls, dreadfully slow as you feel the flap of your scoop neckline coming undone; one by one, he pulls each string until the opening was completely loosened. Your nipples peek from beneath the expanded laced string as your dress holds its remaining form. The hem was rolled slightly up from the swing of his strength when he threw you on the bed, exposing those thigh high stockings in full. Chuckling deeply, he pulls the last string on your dress as he spoke out in a shallow tone. "Does my girl want to be a mommy?"

You shook your head subtly. You were just being helpful, there was no way you thought about having children, besides, it was far too early considering you were still in your first year of college, not to mention you were still on birth control.

"N-no..."

"Mm...I think you do." he responds in an antagonizing manner and gently shifts the pieces of hair away from your face. He props himself steady with his palm plastered on your collarbone, and raising his body to rests on his knee caps. There, he takes advantage of your already spread thighs, and reaches in under your dress to scoot your lace panties off to the side. Once you were completely exposed to the cool air, he reaches in and with flickering fingertips, he tickles the sensitive flesh in between your plush folds. You gasp and moan out soft giggles, as did he. With a dark chuckle and biting down his lip, he remains propped to display the full sight of his abdominal region, where you admired the view of his hand reaching down, gently unzipping his black trousers, and his strong veiny hands fishing out the massive and swollen muscle that caused you to gasp at the mere sight of it. You reached up, grabbing onto his forearm as he remained on your collarbone, feeling his thumb swiping over the contours of the bone. Anticipating for what he was going to do, you felt yourself riddling with a burning sense of desire and passion.

You watched as the girth of his shaft and the bulbous tip disappear under the material of your dress as he leans in, and feeds it through, piercing your fleshy barrier until it finally makes its way in. He buries his face into the crook of your neck and speaks against your skin, "no more taking birth control."

"Uh...uh huh...."

"I wanna hear you say it."

"I-I'll get....get off it..."

"Let me take care of you....let me fuck you."

"Mm...mmhmm..."

He raises his form and once more, he props himself up by the extension of his forearm and palm planted beside your head on the bedspread. With his strong hand, he raises it as the tips of his fingers drag along your skin. Gently, with his fingers gracefully wrapping around your throat, he gives a faint squeeze, just enough to make you gasp a separate moan. With a dark and devilishly handsome smile, he gleams under the shadow of his hat; there it was...that eerie and rather handsome smile of malice and passion formulates on that face of his.

"Ready?"

You nod somewhat hesitantly. Bracing for intense pleasure, you knew all too well what was about to come, especially when feeling the throbbing sense of his tip as it barely lies inside you. "Y-yes...yes daddy..." you whispered, grabbing hold of his wrist as you prepare for a momentum that is unlike anything this world could replicate.

"Yeah?...come here, let’s do this, mommy."

> : )

[daenysx]

hellooo i just saw open where the reader is shy and it was so sweet but can you write the same context with a more confident reader like she wakes up sees rem and is like 'oh hey its my husband'

hi, i hope you like this!! in this one they have a more established relationship than the shy!reader one <333

remus lupin x fem!reader, fluff

remus likes how your apartment smells.

it's so you. it's like a physical proof of your existence, and remus is grateful for it. he lets himself in quietly, you gave him a spare key weeks ago. he doesn't prefer using it when you can open the door, it's always a delight to see you welcoming him but this time he has to take care of himself. you're sleeping.

he hopes he won't freak you out, he knows you don't have a problem with him coming unannounced and it's a relief even though he always texts you before. he puts the grocery bags on kitchen counter quietly. trying to control where he steps, he comes to your room without making the floor creaking.

your room is not too messy. you always try to convince remus the things are organized in their way, just because they seem messy it doesn't mean they are baby, and remus believes you. you're sleeping soundly in your bed on your right side. you're hugging your pillow, your head on the soft material and your arm on the side.

remus approaches carefully. he sits on the closest empty spot on bed without disturbing you. he doesn't know how to wake you up now, you look so peaceful and honestly, he wants you to get some rest. he rubs a faint finger on your cheek, your eyelashes flutter. blinking your eyes open so slowly, you see remus.

"remus?" you ask, as if you've been dreaming about him and can't believe he's real.

"good morning, pretty." he smiles. "you can keep sleeping, i just wanted to let you know i'm here."

you give him a big big smile and stretch your muscles with a poor attempt. "it's so nice to see you first thing in the morning." you say, leaning on your elbow to kiss his cheek.

"yeah?" remus asks, fixing your bed hair.

"mm-hmm." you nod. "can you do it every day?"

he laughs. "if that's what you want, i can."

you pull him towards you gently, throwing the pillow in the way, and letting remus keep you on his chest. "maybe i should just keep you here." you mumble against him softly.

remus kisses your forehead fondly. you're being too sweet on him and it's so early. he rubs a gentle hand on your back, you should sleep a bit more, or he won't know how to handle your cuteness.

"what time is it?" you ask.

"almost 9 i think." remus answers. "are you tired?"

you snuggle closer. "a little. do you wanna sleep some more? are you hungry?"

remus can sleep with you anytime you want actually. that's like the canon truth of his reality now, you're so warm under the covers and so soft against him. you like waking up before him to kiss his entire face and remus loves opening his eyes to your shameless kisses. he wraps his arm tighter around your body.

"let's sleep, angel." he whispers. "gonna make you pancakes for breakfast."

"we don't have any fruit." you say, sadly.

remus kisses your pout off quickly. "i got you your favorites from the store."

your pout turns into a smile in 2 seconds and you press yourself closer to his neck. "my hero." you say against his ear before kissing the soft skin beneath it. "thank you."

remus adjusts the covers, he kisses you as an answer. your bed is too comfy, he practically melts against you and it's so nice. so nice to have you in his arms first thing in the morning, so nice to have you kiss him sweetly, so nice to be accepted like he belongs here.

he falls asleep before you and you kiss his chin with your eyes closed.

[nvuy]

hands on — sunday

summary. sunday feels eyes on him from everywhere, yet he still seeks your gaze despite how much he loses himself in your eyes.

notes. wrowwww confit part 2 is here i DID post it on ao3 like 5 mins ago but i think ao3 died in my country for the 74th time this year soooorrrrr hello tumblr!!!!!!

i'd strongly suggest you read confiteor here (or on ao3) before reading this one, otherwise this entire fic just sounds like an acid trip.

warnings. mdni, 18+, gn reader but you have fem anatomy, long ass 12k post, mild degradation, little bit of horror themes if you squint?, alternative summary: sunday receives head and has an existential crisis, sunday literally loses his mind (in a sexy way), religious guilt, religious themes & symbolism, sunday needs therapy, you're a weirdo (in a sexy way), y'all get it on in a church.

The church had always been beautiful. A place of worship, fairness, mutual happiness. It’s partly the reason Sunday was always so enamoured with its pieces on the walls; Robin used to trace her hands over the paintings, and he was sure he could spot her fingerprints from when the paint was still drying.

Sunday had never felt so disgusted with himself.

The murals watched him, one thousand unblinking eyes following him as he walked down the aisle, with muted clicks from his shoes against the red carpet with gold trimming. 

He was so angry. 

He’d trudged home the night prior seething, and Robin had rested a hand on his shoulder and whispered to him until he gathered himself. He hated to present himself in such a way to her, and although she begged for him to shed a light on his problems, she was met with silence. 

He was so angry at his traitorous hands when they wandered below the waistband of his pants. He’d been trying to sleep, tossing and turning for hours, desperate for some sort of distraction. He’d retrieved a glass of water, he’d stayed up to read, and nothing was helping. Nothing soothed the ache between his thighs; the thought in the back of his mind that you were in that same rut. 

He felt awful feeling himself up again, this time alone, and he was so ashamed when he muffled his cries and came into his hand. 

Vile. 

There’s a statue in the church. One erected from only the most exquisite sculptors of the era, crafted meticulously over gruelling hours to perfect the shape of THEM. Xipe stands behind the pulpit, larger than anything in the church, and silent. THEIR arms remain still, outstretched and gestured towards the empty pews. THEIR eyes are not open, but there is a gentle smile carved onto a perfectly whimsical face. 

It is a beautiful statue, sure, but Sunday would have preferred another God to watch over instead.

Perhaps it was for the best. 

In the preparation of the morning service, Sunday was unusually quiet. Staff piled in silently, bidding their greetings, and even Robin—and, bless her gentle heart—was reticent, her lips pulled together into a thin line. The choir practised, and it was the only sounds he heard that morning. 

The wine the church offered was of pure grapes. The chalice the sacramental wine rested in was golden with a thin stem and a wide base. A single golden spoon laid within the red. 

It’s supposed to be blood. It feels dastardly eerie to offer a piece of THEM to those undeserving of such. 

Instinctively, when his gaze met the statue’s, his gloved hand raised and clasped the golden charm at his chest tightly. 

Sunday felt a tap on his shoulder. 

“The congregation is prepared,” Robin said to him. She tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “As per usual.” 

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of the statue. “Good.” 

“And there are people coming in now,” she continued, nodding towards the door that led out to the lectern. “It’s almost eight.” 

“Thank you.”

She stopped, eyeing him warily. 

“There’s something bothering you,” she commented quietly. “You’ve been on edge since last night. Did something happen?” 

Sunday finally turned to look her in the eye. His face remained expressionless, though his tone held a hint of warning. “I’m fine, Robin. Please. Don’t worry about me.”  

“Brother–” 

“Robin.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, though that smile he always pulled onto his lips when he was trying to deter her mind from him. His heart was pounding in his chest. “Please. Enough.” 

Defeatedly, her shoulders sagged. She wanted to tell him, as she had so many times before—so many times—that she was there for him. She’s always been there for him. 

Robin’s lips twitched into a soft, but crushed smile. “Okay.” She stared down at her shoes. They were slightly scuffed at the sides. “Okay, I… I’ll get the choir started.” 

Sunday had turned back towards the statue with an approving, idle hum. His shoulders had stiffened as he watched THEM closely, fingers interlocked in front of his stomach. It was a nervous habit Robin recognised all too well.

His hand was bleeding around the golden charm now. 

She said nothing. 

ೃ༄

When Sunday sang prayers into the microphone with a bandaged hand beneath his gloves, he wondered if he was ever truly a good person. Was he… ever fit to see the Heavens once he passed? It was all down to the judgement of one final being; unbiased, unjudged, honest. 

He always valued honesty. 

“Grace be to thee, and to your kinship.” The sunlight was burning into the back of his halo. “And, weary sinners, hold your heads, as THEY will shine light down upon you, and forgive all of your transgressions.” 

The chalice filled with wine sat idly on the table. There was an embroidered white table runner draped over the top to cover the chipped and old wood. 

The pattern was eerily similar to the stockings you wore that night. 

He dreamed of you. 

How could he? To betray himself, The Family, his own flesh and blood. He felt repulsive, like swallowing strong liquor. His saliva was thick in his throat as he spoke, hands pulled tight around the edge of the pulpit, mere inches away from shedding the program that rested in the centre. The wood creaked beneath the pressure. 

He remembered your voice as if you were truly whispering in your ear at that moment. 

You’re haunting him. He hears your heels in the hallway at home; he can smell your perfume when he passes down the aisle every morning. The script in his hands has tears from how firm he’s been gripping the paper. 

He had to remind himself he is good. He is good, and loved, and obedient, and his God is so benevolent and thoughtful to watch over someone as pathetically weak as he is. THEY will forgive him. 

He knows, he told himself. He knows what he did all those nights ago. 

Sunday felt unworthy to hold the golden chalice in his hands. The other staff had positioned themselves ready for the wine service. One had stopped to look strangely at the man. Sunday’s hands were trembling around the handles. 

“Reverend Sunday?” one of the priests asked gently. “Are you alright?” 

Briskly, he nodded his head once and pulled as much of a reassuring smile on his lips as he could. Then, he turned, careful not to spill the wine in the chalice and moved forward. 

There was already a line forming down the aisle. 

He is loved. 

“Go…” He hoped his voice was steady. It should be, for he’s said these exact words everyday for almost a year now. “Eat your food with gladness.” 

He is good.

The spoon shook in his hands as he offered it to one of the churchgoers. 

The next person stepped up. The priest on the right grasped their chin gently with the red cloth. Sunday offered another spoonful of wine. 

They were replaced with the next person. 

He is loyal.

“…And drink your wine with a joyful heart.” 

The next. And the next. And the next. 

Routine. Stagnant, maddening, routine. 

He glanced down to dip the spoon back into the wine again. The chalice was half full now, and the line was beginning to dwindle. He could see the end of it now. 

He is faithful. 

“…For THEY have already–” 

His heart faltered when he looked up again. 

The wine spilled from the spoon. He almost dropped the gold onto the floor. 

The breath that escaped his lips was shaky. 

It seemed that everyone in the church was transfixed with the smile you directed at the Head Reverend. Even the priests to his left and right had stopped. 

The choir had paused. A quick glance to the right would reveal Robin with her lips slightly parted. The organ player had pressed the wrong key and had halted the singing. 

When you shifted, he was reminded that you were not a perfect statue carved from the Gods hands. Not like the statue of Xipe that stood behind him. Your eyes flitted downwards, and he noticed your fists clenched at your sides. Discomfort pulled across your face like ink bleeding onto a canvas. 

Perhaps it was the distasteful attire you’d chosen for the ceremony that had garnered the staring. 

Maybe it was the unearthly beauty that sculpted your face, as if you were a being that had been picked from an inch of the Gods skin and blood, and brought to life on land, so full of love and saccharine bittersweetness. 

He could taste it on his tongue. 

Sunday quickly dipped the spoon back in the wine when one of the priests moved to hold the red cloth beneath your chin. 

He swallowed. “–Have already approved of what you do.” 

The spoon slipped between your parted lips. 

The other priest wiped your mouth with the cloth. It was like velvet on your lips. 

Hesitantly, out of time with the conductor, the church organ continued where the player had paused.

You pulled away from the cloth before the priest could remove his hand himself, and you offered one more warm smile—and sharp canines poked over your bottom lip—before you moved to let the next person replace you.

As you left, Sunday promptly ignored your hand that traced the leather of his belt beneath his coat. 

His heart was racing beneath his chest, like a bird hitting its wings against the confines of its cage. 

Heat clammered and sweltered up his neck. He ignored that, too. 

ೃ༄

He can’t. 

When Sunday stepped out of the confessional booth and locked the door with the key, he leaned against the door and shut his eyes tight. 

He felt too big for his clothes. His skin doesn’t feel like it’s his. It’s hot. It’s just so hot and his skin felt as though it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. His breathing was shaky and uneven. 

He cannot bear to look at the images and murals plastered over the walls. If they had a choice, the unstaring eyes would, too, look away in shame. The statue is still. 

Sometimes, he was convinced it moved when no one was looking. 

Maybe that’s just paranoia. It all is, isn’t it? He’s always been scared of little things. Things with eyes, like dolls, and portraits, and people, and Gods. Not THEM. Never THEM—deep down, he did fear THEM. But he knows he is loved. Otherwise, he would have been abandoned. 

The murals are watching him. 

The walls are warping the longer he stares. The halos behind the figures’ heads are fading. He feels his own doing the same. He is unworthy of it. It is more like a weight of lead, than a ring of light. 

He’s still thinking of you. 

It’s horrible. It’s wrong. His eyes sting, though he’s not sure if it is exhaustion, or if he will cry again. But he can’t cry. He had wept silently in his bed the night prior because he couldn’t sleep. And it’s hard to sleep when the house is silent, but there’s a distant clicking of your heels down the hallway outside of his room.

It does not stop, nor does it draw closer or further away. It is a rhythmic click click click, and it is suffocating. It’s even worse when he feels you breathe into his ear and urge his hand between his legs. He feels your hands trace over his shoulders to his chest from behind—and of course you’re behind, because if he were to turn around, he’d see something ugly. 

He’d see nothing. 

It’s all in his head. 

But it feels real. How hot your breath is against his neck, how your lips follow the throbbing veins in his throat, how your fingers wrap around his wrist and guide his hand between his legs. 

The feeling weighs on his chest like gold. 

He draws close to pulling off his clothes when he is in bed. He fights his will, because it is you in his ear whispering that he is most beautiful in his rawest form. And he believes you, but the idea of ruining himself any further makes him feel sick. 

And one night, with what he feels are your teeth buried in his throat, he sings that he loves you, and he grows cold. 

He cannot sleep, and when he can sleep he dreams of you. And even as he lays wide awake in his bed, his hands wander, and he can feel your skin on his. 

He can’t love you. 

It’s not love. Love is warm, unfamiliar, and new, and he hears tales of how comfortable it is. 

It’s wrong to feel this way. 

He removed himself from the confessional. His legs felt weak when a hesitant breath left his lips.

“It’s like a weight… isn’t it?” 

Sunday froze. He’d never felt so cold before. His spine snapped straight like it’s was crafted of metal, and something horrible hooked within his stomach, hard and aching, like he’d swallowed lead. 

He heard you swallow. 

He didn’t dare turn around, fingers trapped on the pages of printed hymns he was about to put away. 

“It’s persistent.” He heard the telltale sign of your clothes moving. “You feel it, too.” 

He was afraid of what he would see when he turned around. 

He does. “I don’t know what you speak of.” He then turned, eyes glaring and face alight with anger. “If you know well, you will turn and leave. Don’t come back here.” 

His shaky inhale gives himself away. 

He isn’t sure if you’re real. For his sake, he hoped you weren’t. 

Sunday held the key tight in his bandaged hand. 

“You should feel guilty.” 

His heart stopped. The teeth of the key were digging into the hole in his palm. The bandages strain against his flesh, and he bites his tongue before he can let out a bark of disdain at you. 

Ungrateful. 

He won’t voice it. He will say nothing. This is not his fault; it can’t be his fault. 

And he still feels it is his fault. But this all happened because of you. And he’s been trapped inside his head for all these nights because of you. It’s all you. 

“Should I?” he asked quietly. He watched your face twist. “Or should you?” 

“Is it not your job to help people like me?” you tried. You felt blood rise up your neck and settle in your face. You weren’t sure whether it was because he was still the most beautiful man you’d ever seen, or if your frustration was climbing further and further towards your heart. “I thought you could help me.”

You had promised to fix him as well.

If anything, he felt even more broken than he had ever been. 

Sunday breathed out shakily. 

The bandages around his hand were beginning to dye a dark red like the wine he had fed you. 

He swallowed hard. You saw his throat move. 

“Fix this, Reverend. Fix me.” 

His voice faltered when he whispered, “I cannot fix what is beyond repair. I cannot give you anything more than I already have.” 

“Then take me.” 

There was silence.

He felt his heart drop into his stomach. 

Sunday glanced towards the door of the church and tried to control his breathing. “I can’t.” He shook his head slowly. He can’t bring himself to look into your eyes. “We can’t do this again. It will fix nothing. It will make everything worse.” 

Your legs trembled. You felt your heart stop in your chest, and it hurt. 

And you were so angry. 

So, so angry. You wanted to spit in his face, or maybe you wanted to fall to your knees and kiss his shoes and beg for forgiveness. 

Whatever you felt for this man, love, attachment, some sort of long winded delusion that he could be yours if you tried hard enough, surged inside of your head. 

You wanted to touch him. You wanted to feel his skin on your hands, and you wanted to hear him again. 

You swallowed your pride, and then you uttered, “please, sir.” 

Sunday exhaled sharply through gritted teeth. 

“Not only are your hands sullied with filth, but you are also disobedient.” He still cannot bring himself to look at you. He didn’t want to. He was afraid he’d succumb to your whims if he did. His hands were trembling, fingers weak and almost as if they would snap off from the knuckles. “I told you to never come back here.” 

You almost looked offended. 

“I don’t come here willingly–” 

“I know what you are.” 

Sunday’s fists clenched by his sides. The wings beneath his ears had stiffened, feathers bristling like cacti. 

“I know what you do.” 

You said nothing. If anything, your eyes were transfixed on the statue behind him. 

“You find reverent men, and you ruin them.” He turned, then, but his eyes didn't meet yours. “Tell me: are you proud of yourself?” 

“Never proud, sire,” you admitted. Then, you bowed your head. “Though I will say, I do hope you enjoyed yourself last night.” 

He inhaled sharply, and the corners of his lips twitched upwards. 

There, you dared to reach forward and trace your thumb along the bandages of his wounded hand. 

And he let you. 

He did not flinch away, nor did he tell you to leave again. 

He simply stared down at your fingers as they smoothed along the expanse of the scratchy material along his palm. Your fingers slotted between his. 

Sunday sighed, defeated. 

Your hand was so warm. And despite the disgust and the swamp he felt bubbling in his guts, he felt as if he’d known you his entire life. 

There was something so foreign in your skin, and yet he wanted nothing more than to melt into you like a burning flame upon a candlestick. 

Sunday, at that moment, felt no shame in what he had done to himself that same night. 

If anything, it pleased you, and that lit his skin on fire. A nice warmth buried itself in his stomach. 

“How dare you come back here.” The whisper was without malice, though he wished it did hold some sort of bite. Instead, he sounded pathetic, and lost, and he felt only you could help him. 

You don’t seem the slightest bit apologetic. 

Instead, your lips stretch into a small smile. 

“I blame you,” you said to him. Your lashes fluttered against his cheek. You didn't dare let your hand wander. Cautiously, you squeezed his fingers around yours, and silently prayed that he could let you indulge one last time. 

He blamed himself, too. 

His heart raced in his chest when your lips pressed to his. The poor muscle bashed helplessly against his ribs, like a small defenceless bird trying to free itself of its enclosure. Perhaps his heart knew better and attempted to leap from his throat.

You were gentle. So gentle he was convinced you were a different person; a different being to what he initially presumed you were. And it hurt. His chest hurt, like one thousand feathers weighed down upon his bones. Your lips were soft, and his own trembled against yours. 

Sunday’s other hand was still curled by his side, shaking with the urge to touch the expanse of your skin, and to also remain glued to his thighs at the same time. 

One of the wings beneath his ear tickled your jaw. The feathers trembled against your skin. You pressed deeper into hus mouth, so much so he almost startled back when your chest pressed against his. 

Sunday could feel your heart clammer against his own, and he felt as though you couldn’t have been any closer to him. 

A tick in time, a short moment of weakness, and one he’ll regret when he goes home and struggles to sleep again, but his hand abandons your grip. He tries his hardest to resist. He shouldn’t have ever let this happen again.  

Your arms daringly swung around his neck, one hand holding his cheek gently to keep his lips on yours. You could feel his hesitation, but something wrong urged you forward; urged you to ruin him even further. 

His hands rested on your hips. They did not move. They did not wander. They were frozen on your skin like ice. 

You tasted of the wine he’d given you.

It was strange, sweet, and it made his face flush the same colour as the blood on his hand. 

“Blessed Reverend,” you whispered against his lips. “How will you sleep tonight?” 

Your nose brushed against his. His feathers rustled when your breath and the scent of wine curled around his cheek. 

“I won’t,” he admitted. It’s quiet. You barely heard it. “I will toss and turn.” 

You fluttered your lashes at his answer. He felt your lips stretch into a smile. 

His heart frantically raced in his chest when your lips touched his again, and he stiffened when he stepped backwards with you and his back pressed against the pulpit. 

The hand on his cheek traced down the throbbing veins of his neck, and he had half a mind to pull away from you. His own hands held firmer against your hips.

He was growing dizzy. 

When he fluttered his eyes open, sick from the taste of wine on his lips, he saw one thousand eyes staring down at him. 

On the walls, on the ceiling, from the stained glass windows. His heart hurt in his chest, the thudding so loud he could barely hear anything else as it echoed in his ears. The swarm of guilt, still, was not enough to tear him off of you. 

The statue behind him, however, burned holes in the back of his head. He knew the sculpture was carved with its eyes shut, but he felt it he turned around, he’d notice the crack of a pupil beneath the stone eyelids. 

Your hand was on his stomach now, thumb following the central curve of his belly down beneath his navel. 

When your thumb hooked beneath his belt, his fingers wrapped around your wrist before you could dip any lower towards his thighs. 

“Not here,” he pleaded softly against your lips. 

He swallowed hard. 

“Where do you suggest we go?” you asked. He almost didn’t hear you. There was implication in your voice. 

He hated how warm he grew in his chest, but he knew it was wrong. So wrong, and it’s horrible. 

“You will not clamber into my bed tonight,” he whispered to you. That he knew for sure. 

You shook your head slowly. “I want you to take me here.” 

His stomach churned. It was as if he’d swallowed unjust liquor in one giant gulp. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think as he did. His mouth tried to form words, some type of rejection, or some form of a nicely worded insult, but nothing came out. 

Instead, he stupidly gaped at you. 

His eyes flitted up to the statue of Xipe. THEIR eyes remained closed, all six of them, and the expressions held still. 

Sometimes, he was convinced the statue was alive. 

Perhaps that was just paranoia. 

He found it fitting to pull you towards the hall and down a flight of steps. He held onto you tight by your arms, afraid you’d disappear, as he once again, grew uncomfortable in his own skin and clothes.

Fitting to be furthest away from the sunlight. 

As his fingers fumbled with the keys to the cellar, your hands wandered around his waist. and your warm lips pressed to the back of his wings. The feathers twitched and flinched. 

Sunday’s breathing grew heavy as the door unlocked and creaked open. 

The cellar was… just that. A cellar. There were an abundance of barrels laid down beneath the benches on either side of the room. They were most likely full of wine for the services. There wasn’t much out on display. 

Fittingly so, it was dark, and there were no windows. 

Your shoes clicked against the tiled floor. 

It’s dark. So dark you can barely see him, but he keeps a firm grasp on your wrist as you step into the room. It’s not too cold, surprisingly. It does not smell of mould or abandonment; perhaps they take good care of this place. 

You almost knocked into a table in the centre of the room. The glass sitting on top clattered and shook as you startled back into him. 

“It is safer here,” Sunday whispered in your ear. You knew he locked the door. His hands squeezed your shoulders. 

“I believe you,” you told him. 

Sunday hummed at your words, and his lips brushed against the side of your neck. His breathing remained unsteady. 

You turned around to feel blindly for his waist. It was probably best that it was dark down here. It was appropriate for the both of you, and so far away from the sky, and the leering eyes of the murals painted onto the walls. 

His body is warm against yours. 

He finds it in himself, wherever he hides himself away, to kiss you then. Maybe because it’s dark. You can just make out the outline of him, and whatever light creeps through the bottom of the door is enough. 

“I came for you, sire,” you said. “Use me as you wish.” 

Sunday’s lips bumped against your neck. “You cannot whisper depravity into my ears.” 

“You brought me down here for a reason,” you answered him. Your fingers slid down his throat and you thumbed over the top button of his shirt. “I say what I want.” 

“You are filthy.” And he kissed you again. Fury flared in his stomach like fire. 

You freed the first two buttons of his shirt, and while you were busied following the smooth skin of his neck, he pushed off your coat. 

You managed to pull the white blazer off of his shoulders, and though he couldn’t see it, he heard the heavy fabric crumple to the floor by his feet. He internally cringed; the wrinkles he would have to iron out would be too telling. 

You hummed pleasantly as you drew him back against your lips. 

The wings around his waist were a nice surprise. You hadn’t expected them to be any larger than your arm with the way he tucked them beneath his coat, but although the feathers were flattened from the material, they stretched out wide in relief. 

He knew the blackened feathers were ugly and uneven and clipped to the very edge, but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, your fingers flitted over the base gently, a soft caress of your hand that made the feathers bristle. 

Your lips were so soft. Despite wandering hands, you were so gentle. It made his stomach churn, but his heart stammered in his chest. 

The feathers rustled. You heard them. They reminded you of a pigeon shaking out its wings. 

The table was just next to your hip. 

You moved away from his lips for just a moment. 

And then, you reached forward blindly and swiped the glass off of the table. Jars and glasses and bottles of wine smashed onto the tiles, and Sunday’s grip tightens on your hips. 

“What are you doing?!” He asked with horror strewn about his face, though you couldn’t directly see it. It was very well and obvious in his voice. “Why would you–”

You silenced him with your fingers pressed to the cupid’s bow of his lips. “Lay on the table, Reverend.” 

“Are you–” 

“Lay down.” You guided his hips softly, cautious of the poor and frantically beating heart in his chest, until the bones bumped into the edge of the wood. 

Sunday’s breathing shook with disdain. The table pressed against his back, and he could feel your hands sliding up his chest to push him backwards. The exposed skin of his chest met the slight chill of the air. Your thumb moved along the line of buttons before it raised again to push at his jugular until he was forced back onto the table. 

Sunday trembled for a moment. 

It almost hurt how quickly the guilt in his stomach vanished when you crawled up on the table next to him. His vision, although useless in the lowlights of the cellar, fogged over with heat and the thick air that filled his lungs. 

His skin prickled when your lips grazed his neck.

This is wrong. So wrong, and–

His fists clenched by his sides when your lips drag down his chest, following the buttons on his shirt. The plastic was cool, and it collided with your teeth as you travelled lower and lower. 

All the while, anxiety stirred in his stomach like some roaring beast. This was wrong, to be beneath you like this, where he’s not taking what he wants, where he’s not in control. This is wrong, wrong, wrong– 

Where his shirt pulled untucked from his pants exposed a lining of skin and his stomach, and he felt teeth set into his flesh. The skin below his navel stirred a bright red, and his veins were set ablaze. 

He stiffened, and his hand instinctively came forward to pull his skin free from your teeth. 

He felt his eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness. So, so slowly. 

Sunday inhaled, and his voice trembled, so he kept his lips shut. 

You spoke, “don’t resist. Enjoy it.” 

He felt the telltale tug of his belt, and the jingle of the buckle as it finally loosened. He sighed in relief from the feeling. Still, his hands curled even tighter by his sides. “How can I–” 

Your fingers ventured beneath his unbuckled belt. You then firmly rubbed your thumb up and down and up down his side of his cock twitching in his pants and Sunday had half a mind to squirm on the table. 

“Do I make you anxious?” He heard you giggle close to his ear, and your lips smoothed over the base of one of his wings. 

He wanted to say you did, and you made him shake, and you made him dream about you, and you made him touch himself when he couldn’t sleep, and– 

Nothing but a moan pulled from his lips when your hand finally freed his cock from his pants. 

His chest heaved in disgust and pleasure and everything for that was your sullied and dirtied skin touching him. That was you, and those terrible shameful words that spilled from your tongue that made him shudder and caused his heart to quicken. 

His face grew impossibly hotter than before. 

You hooked your legs around his thigh, pressing your knee between his legs firm enough to still him. The dryness of your hand tugging the warmish pulled skin of his cock sent his mind into a haze. 

The horrible rhythm of your hand against his was so good, and he wished he could just disappear right then and there. 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he was so relieved there were no eyes watching him here. He was so relieved the cellar only had one door locked now. He made sure of it. 

If you commanded him to take, then he would ensure you wouldn’t leave this very room until you’d given him everything you had to offer. 

Heat sweltered between his legs, surging like flames licking up his skin. 

He wanted to speak. He wanted to order; he wanted to bend you over the table and take what was his. 

His ankles weakened when your fingers slipped over the head of his cock. Just at the thought of ruining you, a drop of cum squeezed from his slit, and your thumb smeared it all over him as best it could. 

His stomach heaved, basically convulsed, as you stroked him firmer and firmer until his limbs grew weak and burned from squirming and wriggling beneath you. He gave up barely minutes after you’d started, and now he only found it in himself to moan and moan over and over again beneath your hand like some dog. 

Wrong. 

He felt your lips trail down his neck. 

Oh. His hand rested behind your head and he tilted his head so your lips could drag against his flesh. It was awful. So, so awful his jaw clenched and his fingers twisted into your hair. 

Your teeth pulled at the taught skin below his jaw. 

“Don’t leave marks,” he breathed. He swallowed, and you followed the shape of his jugular with a graze of your teeth. 

This is awful,

His stomach churned. He feared he’d throw up with shame. 

Sunday was panting now, nails digging into your scalp. His teeth gritted and grinded behind his lips. He can’t do this. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t– 

Sunday managed to sit up shakily. 

“Put–” Another moan escaped his lips, followed by a trail of laughter at how ridiculous this was. “Put your mouth on me.” 

“Is that what the High Priest wishes?” Your lips followed along the soft skin above his collarbone. “He wants his dick sucked by a ‘whore’ on the streets? Will that satisfy you, Reverend?” 

Anger flared in his chest. His hand moved from behind your scalp to grasp your chin firmly. “You will do well to remember you are here to please me.”

And you would.

A dreamy sigh escaped your lips as he gripped your face hard enough to almost hurt. His nails dug into your cheek. “Of course, Reverend. Thank you.” 

 He let go of you. 

As obscene as it was, his hand twisted into your hair again and pushed your face towards his lap. 

This was only slightly better. How he could pull and tug you where he wanted. He was here to take; isn’t that what you said? 

Still, it was obscene. Grotesque. Disgusting and muddied and it’s so, so hot down here. For a moment, he feared Hell, for maybe the world below the soil had risen to take him and you into the earth. 

It would be what you both deserved. 

He felt your tongue first. Awful thing, your tongue. If he’d had it his way, it would have been torn from your mouth the second you stepped into his church this morning. 

It didn’t feel as awful as he knew it was when the wet muscle dragged along the head of his cock. The tip of your tongue nestled upon his slit, and it was so hot, and he almost lost his mind trying to remove what was left of his clothes on his person. 

He did not. 

Though it was dark, and he could see the outline of you clearly, he refused to let him feel more of your skin on his. 

Your lips pressed a dainty kiss to the tip of his cock before they then wrapped around the head. 

Hot. That’s what it was. Sweltering, sweaty, sickening humidity crawling up his neck, like one thousand bugs twitching and writhing upon his skin. 

His stomach stuttered, and he felt your palms rest on his hips as you positioned yourself more comfortably to the side of him. You draped your stomach over his soft thigh to splay your hands over his torso. 

Sunday raised his fingers to bite down on the side of his hand to silence himself. There was no coming back from this. Exiting the confessional yesterday with filthy hands already destroyed him, and now something sour was pooling at the back of his throat at the idea of unlocking the cellar door and leaving. 

He couldn’t imagine how dishevelled and improper he looked. 

His wings fluttered when your mouth lowered further on him, and one of your hands abandoned his stuttering hips to thumb along the sensitive skin beneath his cock. 

You were consistent, licking up and down with your tongue in wet passes. It drove him mad. He preferred it that way, floating out of his mind, as your warm tongue covered the skin of his cock in your saliva. 

You tasted salt as his slit dripped pathetically, but you kept your lips zipped at teasing him any further. You could hear him above you, a panting mess, breathing all slow and heavy, of whatever he was an hour ago with a tight and twitch grip in your hair, so much so his nails had embedded themselves into your scalp. 

His hips stuttered forward when you pushed your mouth further down his cock.

You drooled around the skin, slicking his thighs with spit and his own cum, as you willed your breathing through your nose. Surprisingly, instead of what any vile man would do and move his hips forward and fuck the back of your throat without a care in the world of your ability to breathe, Sunday waited. 

He waited patiently. Perhaps he was searching for signs of discomfort, or maybe he was adjusting to the heat of your mouth and your tongue stretching past your lips to run along the swollen veins of his cock, but either way he waited. 

He was more or less hesitating. 

He felt so disgusting and hot, but your mouth was so warm and his breathing shook more and more and the air felt trapped inside of his lungs. 

It’s so hot. 

Your tongue dragged up a swollen vein alongside his cock again and Sunday hissed, holding your hair tight as a warning. Watch yourself. He was afraid of how difficult it was to allow your mouth to do its own thing; how desperately he wanted to feel the back of your throat. 

You would let him. You had promised him you’d let him take and take and take until there was nothing left of you. 

The hand in your hair served more as a gentle encouragement than a forcing manoeuvre. He was swollen. He could feel himself bursting at the seams. 

Instead, he searched for a distraction. “Come–” His breathing stuttered. “Come here.” 

You pulled off of his cock. 

You hummed curiously. 

One of his hands was following the gentle curve of your spine, dipping lower and lower towards the back of your thighs. Instinctively, you moved closer towards him. 

But still, you managed, “you don’t have to touch me, sire.” 

“I want to hear you,” he whispered. 

His hand snaked around your front and steadily undid the button at your waistband. The zipper followed next before his gloved fingers disappeared beneath your underwear and delved between your thighs. 

He wouldn’t take the gloves off. He couldn’t. 

The feeling of the scratchy cotton against your clit sends you into overdrive. 

You part your thighs to allow his fingers to tease up and down your slit as you trace the underside of his cock with your tongue. 

His hips remained still. 

You felt he wanted to. How he desperately wanted to grab your face through how his hips tremored and twitched around your mouth. How he wanted so badly to bury his cock in your throat and feel you choke and splutter around him. 

You moaned around him, and Sunday hissed again, this time lower, and it almost served as a warning. Your pleasure, for this moment, would come after his. 

Still, you grinded down on his fingers as he rubbed your clit in quick and light circles. Your breathing stuttered, and he dared to guide your head just an inch lower around his cock. 

His thighs began twitching. 

“Oh…” It’s breathy and light and warm, what spilled from his mouth. His fingers pushed back what strands of hair had fallen in your face. “You–” Words didn’t escape his lips properly, and all that tore from his throat was a dreary and miserable whine. 

You keened over his fingers. The cotton was good, though now his palm was soaked. 

You whined stupidly when his hand abandoned your clit, before your muffled disappointment was replaced by a pleased hum when he pushed a finger inside of you. The glove slid in with embarrassing ease, and Sunday flushed at the feeling. 

You squeezed around his finger, drawing him in further. 

Your lips were growing desperate around his cock, tongue flitting out again and again to taste the cum that streamed from his slit. 

“I–” Oh, God. The room was spinning. “I can’t–” His stomach heaved when your tongue grazed along the swollen vein before you drew backwards and licked harshly along his dripping slit. “I can’t–” 

He dragged his cock forward into your mouth again and again. Not enough to touch the back of your throat with the tip, but enough to knock the air from your lungs with every push. 

You learned quickly that Sunday preferred your mouth and tongue remain relatively still and open for him. 

He preferred to control how he fucked into your throat, holding onto the back of your head as gently as he could—you dutifully ignored how his nails stabbed into your scalp. 

It was easier for him now to take what he wanted. 

You’re so wet. He could hear it, even if he hadn’t even bothered to strip you of your pants. It’s obscene, and his cock hardened even more at the sound. 

His rhythm remained the same. He’s quick, much unused to the wet heat soaking around his cock, and more so worried about how the head rubs along your tongue. 

But you’re so obedient like this. So pliant and warm with his hand between your legs teasing that gaping and soaking hole. And it’s so warm and hot and yes, yes, yes, come on–

“This is–” 

Your eyes fluttered open to acknowledge him. 

His thighs twitched around your head. 

He let out a shaky gasp. 

His hand loosened around your skull. You drew back only just and mused a simple, “take what you need.” 

He needed you. 

He smelt wine from how you’d smashed the bottles onto the floor. Sacred, important wine that you’d tossed aside like you’d thrown his blazer to the floor and the golden medallion on his breast. 

It filled his senses, blurred what little he could see, and he slid his cock on the curved line of your tongue again and again and again and again and again. 

Two fingers, soaked in your slick, abandoned in teasing your hole to ghost over your clit again. 

You’re so good. So good to him. So hot and heavy. So pretty. And you sound beautiful. Your muffled groans were like music. Like the music he’d listen to in the privacy of his home. 

He felt bliss. Heavenly bliss. 

His stomach lurched at the debauchery. How awful you were, how you made him feel alive in his own skin. 

And nobody had ever made him feel this way. And he loved it. Every second, even if his flesh warped and his organs twisted in loathing. For himself, for you, and those pretty lips wrapped around his cock. 

His hand carded over your hair with care. 

His fingers teased at your clit in horrible horrible circles that made your hips twitch towards his hand. You were grinding over his palm now in steady back and forth lines. 

So good. 

He couldn’t even think. Nothing but stupid moans pushed past his lips, and he was almost deep enough to reach the back of your throat. So, so close now. 

Your tongue was so hot it almost hurt. The noises, and the dripping of your saliva down to his thighs, made his hips squirm beneath your hands. Filthy. It’s all dirty here. 

He felt after this he’d have to scrub himself until his skin withered and only bone was left. 

You hummed. You pulled off of him again. When he mumbled a string of disappointed gibberish with his eyes squeezed shut in frustration, you whispered, “are you close, Reverend?” 

Heat crept up his thighs and down from his stomach. 

You thumbed the swollen veins and cooed at his slicking cock. “Are you?” 

“Finish this,” he whispered harshly. “Finish me.” He tugged on your hair gently, guiding you down toward his cock once more. 

Excitement bubbled in your stomach. 

Your tongue flattened against the head of his cock. Your spit slid down his skin as you buried him deep in your mouth. Maybe you pushed too far, because you gagged around the skin close to the base. 

Your nose just barely grazed the supple flesh of his lower belly. Your hand wrapped firmly around what skin you couldn’t reach. 

He’s delicious. He was so heavy in your mouth and warm and his cum smeared thickly over your throat. 

Sunday’s hips rocked forward as deep as he could possibly bury himself. You take him in and suck. The wet slurps of your tongue make his skin burn hotter. He feared he’d faint, or melt, soon. Like a candle. Like the votive candles upstairs in the–

His mind kept trapping himself of the main hall upstairs, and the thousands of eyes peering down at him. 

Drool and cum dyed your lips with a shimmer. You were growing more and more desperate and there was a concerning and lonely ache between your legs somewhere deep inside of you. Your lips sucked a tighter seal around his cock while you kept your tongue flat for him to slide his cock over it. 

Sunday’s fingers tightened in your hair. 

“You–!” He tried to tell you you were awful. This was wrong. This was disgusting, and vile, and you were just a wretched streetwalker tempting him for a thrill. 

He said nothing. He couldn’t. 

He stiffened up again, and his thighs locked around your head. 

And then, his cock jerked in your throat, and he came. 

A long and broken sob echoed in your ears. 

You held his hips still as he squirmed and wriggled beneath you, salt coating your throat in streams as his chest and stomach heaved with his heavy quickened breaths. 

His head was swamped with a haze, like a thick foggy mist clouding over his senses. 

His skin almost melted off of the muscle in his body. He felt like the countless votive candles still burning on the floor above, with the statue of Xipe, and the hundreds of eyes painted on the walls– again. His mind reeled back again. 

 Sweat dripped from his flesh like wax. 

Sunday held a vice grip on your hair. His other hand between your legs had stilled for the moment, though he could feel you still grinding onto the soaked material of his glove. 

“Good,” he mumbled. He was petting your hair. He swallowed hard to ignore the ache between his legs. “So good.” His words were slurred, and amidst the darkness, what he could see swirled into a muddied watercolour piece. 

He was drawing in sharp inhales that whistled through his teeth while you cleaned him up. Your tongue traced the angry red flushes and patches along the sensitive skin, following every drop of cum that had fallen past your lips. 

Sunday let go of your hair in favour of feeling his racing heart beneath his chest. It ached and thumped with need. 

He was sensitive. He’d been wriggling the entire time, but now his hips couldn’t keep still, and he couldn’t stop himself from following your tongue with his cock. 

His breathing stuttered loudly as he dragged the skin over your tongue. He wasn’t sure if he wanted you to open your mouth again, but at the same time, he was afraid he’d grow tremendously addicted, and you’d both remain there a lot longer than he would’ve wished. 

So, he pulled away, as difficult as it was. 

Guilt steamed in his stomach like a hot iron sliding over his belly and scorching his flesh. 

He felt you swing over between his thighs as your mouth, sticky with cum and spit, abandoned his cock and trailed kisses up his torso. 

Sunday’s free hand grabbed your chin when your lips bumped up against his jugular, pulling your mouth towards his. 

He tasted himself on your tongue, but he avoided it as best he could. His hand between your legs pressed firmly against your clit, and your body twisted and grinded and squirmed on his gloved palm. 

He almost felt bad. 

Almost.

A string of bubbled gasps and whispers of worship escaped your lips, but they fell on his deaf ears. The smell of wine was stronger here with your heart pressed to his. His thumb teased your clit as best it could with how you moved against him, and his glove was soaked in your slick. 

He was furious with himself, and yet he also found himself not caring as he did. Maybe it was you; maybe you were muddying his senses. Maybe he’d go home tonight and stab a blade through his chest and ruin the awful guilt-stricken beating muscle beneath his ribs. 

For now, as you had wished him to, he’d indulge. 

He’d take. 

Your fingers tightened their grip when they flew to his shoulders. The linen of his loosened shirt crumpled and wrinkled beneath your hands. There was a strain behind his arms as you pulled harder on him, pleading beneath your breath. 

“Was that enough for you, Reverend?” you whispered to him. Your lips were pressed against his. That same squelching sound between your legs, and Sunday could feel his cock hardening as it did the night prior. 

He said nothing. The air was thick with the scent of his skin, and yours. 

You felt the flutter of feathers brush along your cheek. 

“I’m–” 

Sunday swallowed when he felt your stomach jolt against him. “I know.” 

“I want your devotion, Reverend,” you admitted. How debauched to whisper things like that against his lips. He knew you wrong, and yet his heart raced at the thought. At the idea of disobedience. “I need you.” 

It was very well possible down here. No prying eyes, no other members of the church. 

Just you, and him, in the mellow darkness, rocking against each other. 

His fingers quickened and you almost cried. 

He feared then, and now, that you did receive devotion. 

Instead, to hide the burning shame in his stomach, which only grew between his legs, he rested his forehead against yours and sighed shakily. For a moment, there was the faint glow of his halo, and the distant sound of a bell toll. You just saw the outline of his hair. 

Your fingers brushed past his wings blindly.

They passed through the ring of light behind his head. You felt nothing but warmth on the pads of your fingers. 

“Go on,” he breathed. “Let go.” 

And you did. 

Your stomach pressed to his in a harsh arch and your nails raked upon and wrinkled the back of his dark shirt even further as you came. 

Bliss and sugar clouded your head like fog. 

His wings fluttered behind him in a panic when one of your hands hooked around the base of the clipped wing of the pair. You whispered his name like a prayer, and it hurt when he kissed you. It burned on his lips like flames, and he loved it. 

Too much. 

And yet not enough. 

Sunday felt you weakly try to crawl on top of him, but he pushed on your shoulders gently until you rocked backwards. He held you up as best he could on shaky legs as you both rose from the table. 

The wood was covered in sweat and condensation and heat, and Sunday couldn’t bring himself to tear his mouth off of you. Wine. Wine on your tongue like blood, and he couldn’t stop himself. 

Heat burned in his chest, and his stomach, and it steamed to his head and rushed up his neck in bubbled waves. 

He grabbed you by the collar of your crumpled shirt and pushed you against the table. He felt weak, his bones rattling beneath his skin and his blood boiling, and there was anger there, but also something else and it scared him. 

Perhaps you picked up on it. 

He heard you laugh, even as he forced your stomach further into the edge of the table. 

“Blessed Reverend, did you fall in love?” 

His blood ran cold. 

He couldn’t possibly call it that. He knew it wasn’t true for you, either. The way you looked at him threatened more than love. 

It can’t be love. He’s not allowed to love. 

His heart frantically raced in his chest. His fingers trailed from the back of your collar to the small of your back, and he pushed and pushed until he had easily bent you over the expanse of the table. 

He was panting. You could hear him somewhat close to your ear. 

“No,” he answered, but he sounded unsure. “But you did, didn’t you?” 

Another breathless laugh. You heard the jingle of his belt, and his gloved hands slid up the back of your thighs. He’d managed to wedge one of his legs between yours, but it didn’t nothing to quell your squirming. 

His touch was soft. Too soft to the point it tickled your skin with feather-light strokes against your legs. 

One of his hands wrapped around your front to feel blindly along your cheek. He grabbed your face tight, and he felt your heart thrum in your throat. 

You felt him roughly tug off your pants and they fell to a pathetic heap on the floor. You kicked them away, and they fell into the pile close to his discard clothes.  

“Spread your legs.” 

You were panting, laughing, as he squeezed your spit covered chin in his gloved hand. The soft and soaked cotton was rough, pinching against your flesh. His breath was so hot down your neck.

You let out a droning whine. 

He clicked his tongue, and the firm hand pushing you into the table pinched the back of your thigh. You cried out, and your leg twitched instinctively. 

“I will not ask twice,” he whispered into your ear, lips hot on your skin. 

Weak in the knees, and your stomach pressed hard and flat into the edge of the table, you shakily did as he said, hesitant with the warm hand that remained on the back of your thigh less he reel back and bruise it. 

He did not. 

He seemed pleased, though he did not voice it.

A gloved thumb exposed the sensitive skin between your legs, and you outwardly flinched forward on the table when his finger grazed over your sensitive hole. 

Cold. It’s so cold, and he’s slowly drawing circles around your entrance. 

You could feel yourself clenching, trying to entice him inside again. 

His thumb pushed into your cunt, and you let out a hum. You almost squealed when the tip of his finger brushed against your walls. 

“Is this not what you came here for?” Sunday asked. “To ruin yourself?” 

“I’ve already ruined myself,” you said meekly. His thumb pushed deeper to his knuckle, and you mewled. “Thank you, Reverend.” 

Ever the gracious Bronze Melodia, and despite your willingness to be pliant for him, he still asked for your wellbeing. To seek in your pleasure, because he knew no better. 

“And have you found the relief you’ve sought?” 

You didn’t want him to care, but there was a burning in your heart, because he did. 

You let out a throaty hum. “Almost.” 

You heard his teeth grind behind his lips, and his thumb abandoned your hole, smearing slick along your cunt. The soaked cotton caught on your clit and you moaned. “Filthy.” 

He’s so angry. Heat flared in his chest. 

You felt him burning, his thighs slick and trembling on the back of your legs. 

Impatiently, you canted your hips back into him, and he gasped out of shock and a shameful delight when your slickened cunt dragged against his cock. 

Your hips rocked against his again, skin sticking with sweat to his hip bones and he throbbed. His teeth gritted hard enough to almost crack his teeth. 

His hand moved from your chin to press flat on your stomach. 

It’s so hot. He could feel your skin radiating off of him. And it was overwhelming, like he’d been thrown into a sauna with no water for relief.

He wanted to fill you with cum. 

It hurt to think. He shouldn’t think. All he should do is fuck you until there’s no other man out there for you but him. 

And you can never have him. 

So he can keep you here and watch you pine and chase after him, and he’ll deny you every time. And make you ache and suffer for what you’ve done to him. 

But for now, the aching and twitching in his cock made his head spin every time he slid himself upon your slit. Back and forth and back and forth and–

It’s so hot. 

He felt his mind twisting and melting beneath his skull. 

Desperately, Sunday gripped the base of his cock and shakily guided the tip to your aching hole. His other hand abandoned the warmth of your stomach trapped against the table. 

You mewled when he stretched your hole as wide as he could with splayed fingers. A dribble of slick escaped you, and he could feel you clenching already. 

Your toes curled in your heels. One of your shoes comes off, and he feels the slide of the embroidered stockings against his leg. 

Those same stockings with that pattern he saw in every single embroidered table runner in the church, and at home, and it made his skin crawl. 

“You’ll let me enjoy myself, Reverend?” you whispered behind you. 

Sunday pressed you further into the table and rocked his hips against yours. “You’ll lay here and take me.” His tip kissed the entrance of cunt. And then, with one hard exhale, he slowly canted his hips forward towards your thighs. “That’s what you wanted.” 

You hummed and slackened against the table. 

Hot. He’s so hot inside of you as his twitching, creaming cock splits your hole wider. The veins run along the stretchy walls and slip further inside of you. 

He throbbed when you felt his hips press against your ass. 

Sunday was already panting, holding your hips in a tight grip that loosened as he bottomed out. You felt him bend over you, his stomach jolting against your back as he tried to hold you still. 

He was squirming, wriggling like a fish caught on a hook. You were so warm, and you dripped and squeezed around him, and he couldn’t possibly pull himself any closer to you. He wanted your skin to fuse with his in a tangled mess of grotesquery. He wanted you to assimilate and merge beneath his skin. 

This cannot be love. 

Possession flared inside of his stomach. 

He was trembling. His cock twitched with need inside of you, and you let out a moan.

“I’m–” He shakily exhaled against the nape of your neck. His face was burning with shame. 

You could feel it on your skin. “I’m right here.” 

He pressed inside of you deeper. Deeper, deeper, deeper. He wanted to press all the way to your womb and leave a permanent imprint of his cock that left you with an empty ache for as long as you lived. “This is wrong.” 

You hummed in acknowledgement. “But you love it.” 

And he does. 

Sunday slowly pulled his hips away from your ass. So slowly, and he felt one of his traitorous awful hands reach blindly for yours to hold it. You squeezed his hand in response. He held on tight. 

Then, he slammed back into you. 

He grew breathless almost immediately, and the air was knocked from your lungs. Your hips smashed into the edge of the table. 

The ache was good. 

You murmured praise, and his cock grew impossibly harder as he reeled his hips back and filled you again. 

He’ll take good care of you here. He knows as much. Your skin is so, so hot, and his cock is so warm and snug inside of you, and he felt his mind growing muddy all over again. 

Sunday rocked his hips quicker, his knee almost knocking against the table by your hips. 

So good. 

His bottom lip quivered. One of his hands dragged up from your hip and slid up beneath your ruined shirt. He pressed you down against the table as flat as he could. 

So wrong. 

He’s wrong. You’re wrong. You’re both sick, and ungodly, and corrupt. And you both belong to each other. He belongs to you. As depraved as you are, he feels he is worse. He wants to drag you to his bed and satisfy himself again and again, but he knows he can’t. 

So he takes you here, again and again and again. 

His cock buried itself impossibly deeper with every imprint he left inside of you. His tip kissed as far against your walls as it could, and his hips tremored with every grind of his hips against your ass.

He felt like a dog. Like some pathetic mutt mounting its mate. 

But that’s what he felt he was in that moment: pathetic, weak, and some mindless man with his brain in his cock. 

The bones of your hips were aching, snapping back and forth into the edge of the table, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care for the fire surging in your veins. 

Your body felt numb, like you’d been burned one thousand times over, and then had ice poured over you. 

It’s awful, and yet you felt so alive. 

Your hand was shaking in his when you murmured, “let go. Let me touch myself, sir.” 

His cock squeezed against a particular spot inside of you, and you couldn’t see straight. 

Your ears were ringing a tune you couldn’t place your finger on, and your clit throbbed with every brush of his cock against your walls.

In response, he held that hand he held still against your back. He silently allowed you the reprieve of his touch when your fingers curled around his thumb, and he did not pull away. 

The scratch of his shirt against what parts of your spine peaked through your pulled shirt. 

You shivered, even more so when his lips delicately lingered beneath your ear, and his hot breath fanned over your cheek. 

This is wrong. It’s wrong how good he feels. 

It’s wrong how you clenched around him, sucking him in impossibly deeper to the curl of your warmth around his cock. 

He fucked into you again. 

His tip was burning with need, and his stomach twisted and turned at the thought of it. Wrong, and filthy, and–

You let out another plea. “Le’ me touch myself, Reverend.” To hammer the nail in the coffin, you then murmured, “oh God.” 

It’s the need that made him crack. It’s the idea of just how tight you could be if you were to cum all over him. How he could watch that gorgeous spine unfurl in front of him, how a melody would spill from your lips only for him to hear. 

The sounds are disgusting, but somehow so invigorating. Wet and loud and so grotesque. 

Sunday breathed out, and he sounded excited. 

“You sought relief in me, you wretch.” he breathed into the nape of your neck. Sweat dyed his lips with salt. “Do it, then.” 

When he removed his hand from your wrist, he felt your knees buckle. He pushed your hips further upwards into the table, for if you both fell any closer to the floor, away from the sky, he was sure he’d never wake from this horrible dream ever again. 

Your hand slipped down your front towards your swollen clit. 

His cock fucked into you harder, chasing the feeling of your cunt squeezing around the sensitive flesh, struggling to pull tighter. So filling. It’s so good. It’s so good it’s shameful, and he understood in that moment why sinners confess to him in the booth, go home and use their wives, and then repeat this endless cycle of debauchery. 

As guilty as he felt, he sank his teeth into the exposed skin of your shoulder where your shirt fell. 

You’re so beautiful like this. 

Moaning and begging for more of him and covered in sweat. 

His halo was glowing. 

He swallowed the saliva building in his mouth when he pulled his teeth away from your skin. “You’re disgusting.” It’s weak, it’s pathetic, it doesn’t even sound like he believes it. 

Because you’re not. You’re like an angel, laid flat on the table, offering your very being to him. 

All you were missing was a halo—distantly, he knows you’d never receive one. 

You let out a squeak of laughter, breathless. Your hand stirs between your legs. You manage to crane your neck and make eye contact with him. His halo lit up his pretty, flushed face in a shimmer of gold. “Are you close?” 

His feathers fluttered at the question. His face grew brighter. 

Your cunt squeezed around him again, and he let out a gasp at the tightness. “Very.” He was embarrassingly close, and all you’d done was squish him tight inside of you. 

Your cunt squelched around his skin, and Sunday whimpered. 

You squelched against his cock as he drove in further, desperately chasing that heat the coiled tighter and tighter in his guts. 

He was afraid he would grow addicted to this. He was already growing addicted. He squeezed his eyes shut, and he gripped your hips tighter. 

Sweat stained his neck, and heat trapped beneath his ruined shirt. He’d have to burn his clothes. Plead for a new uniform entirely, and perhaps for salvation. 

If anyone found out about this. 

His stomach turned. 

His cock slipped out of you and he grunted. Sunday fumbled with himself trying to slot back into your twitching hole. “Stop wriggling.” 

Your cunt trembled as he stretched past your walls again. Your fingers tremored over your sensitive clit. “Haha. Of course, sir.” Breathless, slurred, beautiful. 

He could listen to you moan in his ear all day. 

His skin stuck to yours like glue, sweat and slick soaking his thighs as he pushed into your guts as deep as he could. 

As dangerous as the thought was, he wanted to fill your womb with his cum. His cock throbbed and throbbed and as he drew closer and closer to the edge, he fucked you harder and harder. 

He felt the heel of your shoe slide up against his thigh soaked in sweat. It was exciting how you treated him like a prince, and also like the dirt you stepped in with these expensive shoes. 

Sunday shivered behind you, his hands trailing over the curve of your ass up to the base of your spine. Pretty, pretty skin. So soft and dainty, and so warm and supple beneath his fingers. 

He didn’t deserve to feel like this.

He buried his lips into the nape of your neck again, gently brushing kisses along your sweaty skin. His tongue pushed past his lips, and he tasted salt and the lingering scent of your perfume. 

Sunday slammed his hips against your skin again. And again– and he felt he was losing his mind. His hands gripped your hips so tight you were excited to see the bruises he left on you in the morning. 

You were moaning and moaning against the table. 

One of your hands had balled into a fist and viciously smashed against the table. “Harder, priest. Make me yours.” 

“You are mine,” he reminded you coldly in your ear. Still, his hips made a resounding smack against your ass. 

Sunday moaned when he felt your walls twitch around him, so tight he felt as though his blood circulation was being cut. It made his head swim. He pawed at your back desperately. 

So close. 

You purred praises again as his cock head kissed that sweet spot inside of you, and your fingers drew sloppily around your clit. “Just like that, Reverend.” 

Sunday’s halo almost blinded you with how bright it was glowing. 

He wanted to mumble that he loved you. He wasn’t sure if it was the true, or if he was stumbling over his tongue with these disgusting falsities and delusions.

Like the delusions that played in his head of waking up next to you, crawling between your legs and tonguing at your cunt, pleading for relief while his cock stirred in his pants. 

“Let me fill you,” he pleaded quietly. “Please.” His tongue was watering, and he wiped drool off of his lips with his shoulder. 

He heard you sigh dreamily, cut off suddenly with another harsh thrust of his cock inside of you. 

He was twitching. 

So fucking close. 

Come on. 

Shame. Shame poured from every pore in his skin like pus. 

“Of course, sire. I’m yours.” 

In your final confession, Sunday’s chest heaved. His gloved fingers gripped your hips enough to still them entirely, staining the unmarred skin with dark bruises and blood. 

His cock twitched deep inside you, his mind twisted, and he came. 

He filled your womb, just like he wanted to, and he moaned so pathetically against your neck you cried out for him. His breath fanned over your sweaty skin as he trembled above you, hips smacking weakly against your ass as he emptied himself. 

“God.” It spilled from his lips. 

Blasphemous. Awful. He’ll never see the light of day the same again, 

He clawed at your hips, pressing you down into the table. 

His heart lurched when you squeezed around his sensitive, aching cock still buried deep into your cunt, drooling around the skin as you came again. 

He felt slick dribble past the rim of your hole, sticking to the soft supple skin of his thighs as he kept himself snug inside of you. 

Warm. 

He exhaled shakily. 

The praise you had whispered had gotten to his head. Heat swelled in his face, and Sunday swallowed thickly. 

After a moment, you sighed, just as wobbly as he was, and raised a hand to pull his chin down just enough for you to crane your neck to the side and kiss his cheek. 

You could feel his heart bashing against your back as his chest rested on your spine. Truthfully, you could’ve stayed this way with his slowly softening cock deep inside of you. 

He pulled out slowly, almost unwillingly, and he heard you hiss lowly. His cock slipped from your cunt, and his slit was still aching as the remaining cum bubbled and dribbled down the side. 

Sunday did nothing. 

He removed his hands from your hips and you finally pushed yourself up from the table. He heard the creaking of your bones and a sigh of relief as you stretched your skin. 

His heart was still racing. He felt nauseous. 

His gloves were sticky and tacky, but he still refused to touch your properly. 

He heard you shift, sitting up on the table and gliding a gentle, but firm hand up and down the stretch of his spine. His wings fluttered at the attention. 

His halo was still glowing, just enough for you to see that he was masking his guilt and staring far too long at the wall of the cellar. After what seemed like hours, he fumbled to pull his pants back on at the very least and attempted to straighten his rumpled shirt. 

In that time, he’d heard the clicking of your heels as you’d fussed to dress yourself as best you could without moving from the table. 

Devotion. 

Your hand was now soothingly rubbing his shoulder. 

His knees buckled. 

As he slowly lowered himself to the floor, he turned to face you and slotted himself in between your legs. This was devotion, right? His gloved hands slid up your thighs as you watched him curiously. His knees hit the floor first, and his lips trembled when he leaned forward, pried your thighs further apart, and kissed your clothed cunt until your hips twitched and you giggled. 

You playfully shoved his head away with a push to his forehead. 

Sunday rested his head against one of your thighs and continued to tremble. His face was still

coated in sweat. 

When your hand gently reached down to pet his hair, he shakily smiled. 

He’d find later after he finally pulled himself from the cellar and locked it, and trekked back up the stairs to the main hall, that the murals were not looking at him. The statue was still, just as silent as it had always been, with six eyes shut to the world with their unhearing ears and unspeaking mouths. 

All that would watch silently was a bird. A small, deep purple nightingale that watched from afar. 

For now he walked down the aisle after you silently, holding onto his coat and his white overthrow. The golden badge that usually rested on his breast weighed heavy in his hands like led. 

He did not dare to gaze at the walls. He held onto the key for the front door as if it would disappear from his grasp. 

It was cold outside, and the wind blew steadily as he shut the door behind him before securely locking it tight. 

He heard your heels stop. 

“Reverend?”

Sunday wanted to bark at you. What more could you possibly want from him? You’d taken everything, and now he knew he would go home like a ghost trekking a lonely path, fall into bed, and tremble all night as his fingers felt blindly for the waistband of his pants. 

Instead, he only hummed. He kept his hand firm around the giant brass knobs of the church. 

“Don’t fear Hell.” 

The words did not assure him, but for that moment amidst the wind, Sunday listened. 

He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, squeezing the sore muscles tight. 

He stiffened at how warm your skin was. How he desperately, desperately wanted to feel your lips on his again. 

He refrained. 

Sunday barely turned his head to look at you. 

“I will be there with you.” And that, you could promise. 

Daringly, you pressed a chaste kiss to his hair before you let go of his shoulder, and left. 

He only glanced away for a moment, but when he peered back down the street, you had disappeared, along with the faint clicking of your heels. 

Sunday’s shoulder remained warm long after you had let go. 

And that warmth remained present for every day that you did not return to him. 

But, distantly, with every service that he swears he sees your face, or the pattern of your stockings in the embroidery, he knows the fleeting feeling of your warmth is enough.

[whorediaries-09]

I’ve been thinking alotttt about rivals! Remy where him and r have been hooking up but the r starts gaining feelings for rem and distants herself but rem is just like “what the hell?” And then they like admit their feelings when rem corners her one day curious😩

i'm sorry this took so long, but i hope you like this!!

friends;

pairing- remus lupin x reader warning(s)- cigarettes, alludes to sex, hurt/comfort. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- academic rivals to lovers is so precious to me you don't understand.

little train

' girl, I'm not with it, I'm way too far gone i'm not ready, eyes heavy now,'

'i can't believe i've to work with your pathetic ass,' he rolled his eyes, running his fingers through his hair. your eyes wandered over to the burn marks on them, probably from all the joints he smoked. you could hear his friends laughing behind his back. even peter, the quietest and the most tolerable of the lot, was laughing. you scowled, tilting your head to meet his eyes,

'i don't remember you saying that last night. you said i've a perfect ass. maybe you have a problem of short term memory loss?' in an instant, you saw his cheeks reddening and eyes widening comically when he registered your words. his hand slapped upon your mouth, trying to shut you up.

he received a flying paper ball on his head. he turned his head around to find sirius waving his index finger at him

'not in class, moony.' he said, as peter tried not to laugh. he was measuring the ingredients written on the blackboard.

'hello my lovely students!' slughorn's overly cheery voice rang throughout the classroom. the class sang him a dull good morning. it was winter after all, most of the students wanted nothing but to snuggle up in bed within the folds of their cozy blankets drinking hot chocolate. the only energetic person was sirius, and he sang,

'good morning sluggy!' slughorn knitted his eyebrows together at the nickname but didn't say anything.

'good morning, mr. black. i see you've preferred to follow the rules for once and sit on the desk assigned to you.' sirius shrugged his shoulders, batting his eyelashes.

'you and i, we're the best matchmakers, mr. slughorn. we're a team,' what he meant, the saints knew. perhaps that would be taking a step too far, because by the slight smirk on slughorn's face, he knew what sirius meant.

'mr. black, i prefer the student and professor dynamics between us better,' he replied, scratching his eyebrow with his fingernail. sirius groaned mockingly.

'okay class, settle down. we're making amortentia today.' raising your hand, you questioned,

'the love potion?'

'yes, exactly the love potion. of course no magic is as powerful to be able to imitate real love. however, it does create a powerful infatuation, with the person who gave it to the drinker. the scent varies based on what the person likes. it's a very complicated potion to make, but anyone who makes the perf-'

his speech was interrupted by a famished lily evans who was as red as her hair and a grinning james potter. her tie was loose, dangling off her collar and his hair was ruffled. lily's usually nicely ironed uniform was full of wrinkles.

'oh wow! head boy and head girl late to class!' slughorn scowled. by the look on his face, however, he was regretting his choice to let the ever infatuated james potter and the stubborn lily evans sit together.

'just sit down the both of you!' he scolded and they entered the classroom, lily's bag almost spilling parchment and ink bottles. slughorn coughed and continued,

'so as i was saying, who ever makes the perfect love potion gets-' he put his hand into his pocket, pulling out a little bottle full of a clear liquid. '-this. can anyone tell me what this is?'

'felix felicis.' sirius said. further words conversation wasn't recorded by your mind when remus bent down, whispering in your ear,

'do you think they hooked up?' you eyes widened as you looked at him. your eyes unconsciously travelled down to his chapped lips. the taste still remained on your tongue.

'do you like- actually think before speaking? james potter and lily evans hooking up! lily would rather die, he hates the guy.' remus shrugged his shoulder, a small smirk on his lips.

'i mean, look at us, we hate each other but the other day you wouldn't let me stop eating you out-'

'oh please shut up! just get the fucking ingredients!' he smiled, as you try to hide your face with you hair, suddenly very intrigued by your book.

'okay madam,' he said, mock saluting.

*-

after a lot of banter and distractions you ended up with a potion which only looked seconds away from an explosion. there was certainly no 'mother of pearl' sheen or any rising steam in a characteristic spiral. even pearl dust couldn't save the disaster of a potion.

'oh god why did i have to work with you!' you gripped your hair with your fingers, almost pulling them off as you sat down on the chair, chewing on your lip.

'my grades will go down!' you snapped. he turned around, a wince on his face.

'so will mine. this shit is team work and if your grades go down, so will mine.' he stated. you rolled your eyes as he sat down beside you, his palm on your shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze.

'i shouldn't be comforting my academic rival but guess if you low, i go lower.' your ears perked up at the term. 'academic rival.' he didn't even consider you a friend. that's all you were to him, an academic rival, a benchmark to cross, a quick fuck when he was tired. you gulped slowly. suddenly, your throat felt very dry. you stared into his eyes, trying to decipher something, but trust god to give remus lupin the most dead eyes known to mankind.

'ohhh! we have a winner!' slughorn's voice pulled you from your thoughts. your head snapped to the source of commotion, expecting to find lily to be the winner- but it was sirius.

'mr. black, this felix felicis is yours,' he threw a charming grin to all the flushed young ladies and lads as his fingers wrapped around the little bottle. most of the girls and boys almost swooned at his antics, and some could be found a few seconds from fainting when he winked.

'get it padfoot!' james cheered. lily disapprovingly hit james' head with her book. james scowled.

'i want everybody to come and tell me what they smell in here. let's start with mr. black,' he smiled, staring at the eager faces of the young ladies and lads who surrounded him as if he was a trophy.

'i smell petrol, rain and my favorite tea. i can also smell..uh cherry flavored shampoo, and my cologne.' it was nothing very interesting. neither of them used cherry shampoo. and it wasn't just a flying rumor that sirius black rode a motorcycle.

'ah, good, good.' slughorn praised, patting his back. his eyes wandered about in the room before they stopped at your direction.

'okay yes, now you,' he said, instructing you to smell the potion. internally you called him an old cow. externally you smiled, a little more than actually required, and too fake to be a real smile. no comments were passed when you walked up to the front of the classroom, smelling the potion.

'ah- so i smell parchment, ink, coffee, vanilla....cigarettes and dark chocolate.' you stumbled upon your words when you found remus looking at you intently. you tried to ignore the burning gaze and how the blood rushed into your cheeks. slughorn coughed slightly,

'okay, now next student!' he clapped his hands together, trying to cut through the sudden tension in the room. you moved away from the smoking cauldron, walking towards your chair. sitting down, you pondered.

cigarettes? damn you, you hated cigarettes! you'd been reluctant to try one for the first time, but trust remus to roll you the perfect blunt and manipulate you to try it in the best way possible. you remembered coughing up the smoke onto his face.

dark chocolate? sure you enjoyed it here and there but it wasn't certainly something you loved. you wanted to rip out your hair.

the realization had been lingering upon your head from the last few weeks, but you didn't want to act upon it. a lot of people mistake lust for love. you were a teenager high on hormones, hooking up with remus lupin, your biggest academic rival- of course you were bound to mistake lust for life.

perhaps the heated kisses within the shadows of dark nights, the way his hands lingered upon your body, making you feel alive as he touched you down to your core, the heat crawling under your skin, dizzying your mind, the way he begged to touch you, to feel you meant more than just lust. perhaps it was closeted love. but it didn't mean good news. having a crush was fine, but falling for remus john lupin was bad news. it meant heartbreak, a new rumor for the nosy students of hogwarts.

so you did the best thing that came in your mind to maintain your feelings and keep your heart in control. it wouldn't be very effective, considering remus was your partner in potions for the year, but you'd try your best. no hooking up, just necessary conversations. all you had to do was ignore him. the less you saw him, the better.

*-

remus looked up to your face, his sweaty strands of hair sticking onto his forehead. his calloused hands gripped your waist as he thrust his hips upwards. you bent down, brushing his lips against yours. you held down his hands, pinning them above his head. he tried to crane his neck to kiss your lips, but you didn't allow him holding his hands tighter.

slowly, torturously slow you started rotating your hips. he arched his back, moaning your name, his fingers trying to grasp the fabric of the head board.

'god, you feel so fucking good,' he moaned. you smirked, your tongue swiping over your teeth.

'i know,'

suddenly, his face started to distort, and he started laughing at you. weird, that is not how you remembered that night. he was jerking you, before everything went hazy and your vision started blackening and you saw a tunnel of light. you tried to grasp onto the light, escaping the booming sound of his laughter.

it was a fucking dream. you rubbed your eyes, pushing your face into the pillow, silencing your scream, so as to not wake up the others. you hated how pathetic it made you feel. how did it happen?

within the spills of ink on parchment paper and a constant comparison, how could have your feelings changed like this. perhaps you thought of him too much. you were supposed to ignore him. in the typical sense you were, but your mind or heart wasn't ready to go.

you were standing on the edge of a fucking knife, wondering if remus lupin even considered you to be a friend. you hated yourself for falling for him. it wasn't supposed to be more than sex, a quick relief from the constant shambles of your lives, yet here you were, in the middle of the night thinking of the one you were supposed to hate.

slipping your feet into the cozy bunny slippers, you grabbed your thickest jumper. you couldn't sleep, so you might as well take a walk. james and lily were on duty, but you were sure they weren't being as responsible as they were supposed to be.

*-

it was cold. the snow that settled on the grounds was thick and milky white. the cold wind bit your skin, prickling it with goosebumps. you felt a lump in your throat thicken, and your eyes burn. you felt your heart drop. you blamed yourself for the situation you were in. it was your fault, utterly. you weren't supposed to fall for him.

even the stars couldn't calm you down with their serene rays. you dropped your head into your palms, letting the tears fall down your cheeks, sobbing silently.

'talking a walk alone at night now are we?' a voice quietly creeped up behind your back. you wiped your cheeks quickly, mentally preparing yourself to being caught by a prefect and getting your house points deducted. when you turned around, however, you were met with the amber eyes of the one you'd been thinking about. your tongue was tied in knots as you watched him drop james' invisibility cloak on the floor and walk towards you. you backed away, until your back hit the wall and there was nowhere to go.

'r-remus-' he raised an eyebrow, capturing you against the wall, his hand pressed against the wall. he leaned down, his finger crawling under your jaw and tilting your head to meet his burning amber like gaze.

'have you been crying?' he asked. you stared at him, tongue twisted in knots. but you knew it was no use lying to him. he could read you like a book.

'yes,' you nodded. he tilted an eyebrow.

'why?'

'why does it fucking matter remus? leave me alone- i'm not even your fucking friend.'

'then what are we? you've been ignoring me for the past few days, and now you're running away when i've finally got you alone.'

'nice try, lupin. you don't give a shit, so just let me go.'

'oh so you're going to decide whether i give a shit about you or not? what if i tell you i do?'

'you won't mean it.'

'i will. i've never lied to you,' he said. there was a bitter sadness in his eyes. you could see the darkness in his gaze, and even if he naturally had dead eyes, you could see a tiny ray of warmth in his gaze.

'please.' he said, letting you go. 'just tell me what's wrong. tell me what i've done. tell me how i can fix it. just...please don't ignore me.' he begged. slowly gulping, you pondered whether it was the correct moment to speak out your heart. perhaps it wasn't, but he could right through the lies. and while you had a lot of explanations hidden in your head, you could only whisper one line,

'i'm in love with you, remus,' he stared at you intently, letting your words hang before he could act upon them. you expected screaming, cussing...laughter. you didn't expect a soft gaze as he smiled at you. he slipped his finger under you jaw, tilting your head.

'i don't think you ignore the one's you're in love with,' you screwed your eyes shut, biting your lip. the blood warmly travelled to your cheeks,

'you don't feel the same, i was scared.'

'and how exactly do you know that?' you opened your eyes, to find him staring at you in utter glee.

'i've been yours before you touched me. all it took was spilled ink on my essay, sweetheart.'

********************************

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[empress-simps]

Missed Hints

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Fem! Reader CW: Language Genre: Fluff Summary: Remus Lupin wanted to make his feelings known; he is trying numerous ways to tell you, but you are simply quite oblivious to the poor boy’s advances.

Note: Am I a bit too obsessed with Rems? Probably. This one's a bit shorter than the rest. Enjoy reading! Pictures used are from Pinterest, credits to the owners!

Sometimes, all Remus wanted to do was run into a wall to knock himself out.

Maybe it’ll help formulate a reason why you couldn’t pick up his signals and actions that he wants to be more than friends. Please cut this poor boy some slack; he’s literally done everything he could to hint that he likes you.

The problem is that you are quite oblivious- being as dense as the castle walls in Hogwarts. Although this hasn’t stopped Remus from pursuing you after several pitiful (also quite funny) attempts, if anything, it made him work even harder to let you know he fancies you.

“Y/n, wait up!” Remus calls out to you, leaving his mates, who were whispering words of encouragement and ‘good luck’ to him. Hearing your name made you turn around, a book in your hand, as you smiled at the taller boy. “Remus, hi!” He smiled, walking beside you and settling in at the same pace as you. Suddenly, a friend of yours piped up, “Y/n, we have to go get something in the dorms; stay with Remus, yeah?” before you could even reply, they were rushing to leave. Remus could only blush as your friends shot him a thumbs up before escaping the scene, trying to stop the giggles escaping their mouths.

It was all up to him now.

“Erm, so how were the holidays?” he asked, trying to act casually as he placed his hands in his pockets. The question made you hum, your eyes lit up. "Oh, it was wonderful! We spent the holidays in Canada, lots of snow, I made a snow man and visited some parks.” She nods, holding her book closer to her chest, seemingly lost in thought. “It was also freezing.” Remus hums in agreement. “Is that so? I’m glad you had fun.” He smiles, and you both walk towards the great hall to have dinner.

You looked up at him with a bright smile and said, “Tell me about yours, Rems! I’m sure it was also fun.” Remus blushed, hearing his nickname roll off your tongue so casually. Even after all the years you’ve known each other, simply calling him by his nickname that you specially made for him has an effect that never faded away. “Well, it was just simple, really. I just stayed at James’ and had fun.” He shrugged his shoulders, smiling at you. He could care less about his holiday shenanigans, preferring you just talk his ear off about every little thing you did, he will absorb what you say word by word, like a sponge.

 "Well, James is quite an interesting person.” She hummed in agreement, Remus felt his eyebrow twitch, a small twinge similar to jealousy creeping up into him. What about him? Do you think he’s interesting too? Was Remus someone who could be worthy of your time?

 “Yeah, that bloke was conjuring up some pranks to pull this year.”

You let out a small giggle and oh merlin please take the poor boy to Madame Pomfrey because he thinks his poor heart can’t handle all the feelings he has towards you. Remus Lupin is such a simp.

He clears his throat, trying to muster up some courage as he asks you the million-galleon question. “So, are you free tomorrow? It’s Hogsmeade day.” Remus smiles, thankfully, his clammy hands are kept under his pockets, making his nervousness almost unnoticeable. Your eyes lit up “Oh! I forgot, but yes, I am free tomorrow.” Remus saw his chance and took it. “Great, how about we hang out in Three Broomsticks?”

For Merlin’s sake, please make this turn into Lupin’s favor. He’s done too many ways to confess to your clueless self.

“That would be fantastic! I can bring my friends along, and you can bring James, Sirius, and Peter too!” you clapped your hands excitedly, not noticing how the werewolf visibly deflated as you exclaimed. Right, might as well reject him right now on the spot to end his misery.

He could probably shout “I love you” and stare at you directly- but you’ll just think he’s talking to someone behind you. Remus had also tried to pass you a note containing his feelings for you back then. Grabbing it without much of a thought, you passed it to your friend, thinking he wants you to give it to her, who shakes her head and sighs, looking at Remus.

The rest of the Marauders and your friends think Remus’s plans of confessing to you were a lost cause.

“Our poor Moony…” Peter frowns, as James shakes his head. “At this point, Moony should just kiss her.” Sirius sighed, feeling pity for his friend. “She would probably think it was a friendly kiss.” Peter snorts, trying to control his laughter, James glared at Sirius jokingly before pushing him. “Bugger off Pads, Y/N’s just… super innocent? I guess.” They resumed watching the two from a distance, a look of anticipation evident in their faces.

“I was kind of hoping it’ll be just us?” Remus grins nervously, sitting beside you as you reach the Gryffindor table. You took a bite out of the apple pie from your plate before replying, “Sure, it’ll still be fun. You’re a great company, Rems.” She smiles, before resuming on eating the remaining apple pie slice. Little do you know the simple compliment you made had a tremendous effect on Remus.

“Moony, your smile hasn’t left your face ever since Y/n agreed. Stop it, I’m getting scared.” Sirius states, Remus turns to look, a hint of a small dopey smile on his face. “Hm?”

“Oh merlin, Y/n broke him.” Peter blanches. They were smacked upside their heads lightly by James. “Come on now, don’t rain on his parade. Moon’s just… well- over the moon.” James laughs lightly, Sirius snorts while Peter tries to hide his smile. Remus rolled his eyes playfully, opening his trunk to pick out the clothes he’s going to wear tomorrow. “Whatever, now help me decide what to wear, you sods.”

“Rems! Over here!” You exclaimed, standing on your tiptoes, arms up and waving in his directions. Remus smiles, maneuvering through the line of students waiting to get out of Hogwarts and to Hogsmeade. “Y/n! you look… pretty.” He blushes, drinking in the sight of you. Remus could swear on his life that he saw a light shade of pink dust your cheek as you tucked a stray hair behind your ear.

“Thank you, I like your sweater. It suits you.” You said, eyes going over his body and one of Remus’s signature sweaters. You can’t deny it; you like what you see, you were pulled from your thoughts when someone spoke.

“Oi! Get a move on you half-blood and goody-two-shoes! Holding up the bloody line is what you’re doing!” Evan Rosier, a Slytherin student complained a few feet away from you and Remus, Mulciber and Dolohov backs their fellow Slytherin and friend up. He snarls, those blokes, looks like they’ll have a new target for one of their nasty pranks.

“If I were you, I would shut my mouth.” Remus warns, standing in front of you, blocking your frame from their view.

Evan raised one eyebrow, amusement swimming in his eyes. “What are you going to do? Pesky little Gryffindor like you are always running around trying to be brave.” He taunts, moving closer to their direction.

“Rems, I’m fine. Let’s go, yeah?” She gently tugs the sleeve of his sweater, he looks down at you, his expression softening. “Alright then.” He threw one last warning look at Rosier over his shoulder; that punk needs to just wait and see what’s going to come and bite his ass.

The two of you are sitting in the Three Broomsticks, talking about basically anything under the sun. Well, you mostly talked while Remus just listens, humming and sometimes sharing his two cents on the topic you are on.

“Rems, thank you.”

Remus’ eyebrows shot up in confusion, “Thank you? What for?”

“Earlier, Evan Rosier.”

“Ah, that prick. It was nothing, y/n.” He offers a gentle smile; he wants to touch your hand that was directly across his from the table but ultimately deciding against it, the last thing he wants to do is make you feel uncomfortable.

“Thank you for being my friend. You’re an amazing person who deserves the world.” She smiles, slowly taking his hand onto hers and squeezing it tightly.

He felt a crack in his heart. “Yeah, you are too.” He managed to choke out, offering a wry smile.

Friends. Is that it? Is he just one of the many friends you have in your life? Is he a friend that will slowly drift away after you graduate from Hogwarts? Merlin, he would even count himself lucky if you invited him to be at your wedding, and if he wants to push his luck then he might even be the godfather to one of your future kids.

You furrowed your brows, “Is there something wrong, Rems?” He looks at you, quickly shaking his head. “Nothing’s wrong. Why do you ask?” You hummed, “Well, you have this kind of haunted look on you when you’re bothered about something; you’re doing it right now.”

Remus blinks, even he himself wasn’t aware of that. He closed his eyes and sighed; fuck it. He’ll push his luck to the extremes by confessing his love for you. Doesn’t matter if you see him as just a friend, you deserve to know.

“Y/n, I have to tell you something.”

“Of course. What would that be?”

“Well, I don’t know how to tell you this without being upfront about it…” He starts, you urged him to continue; well, here goes nothing.

“Y/n, I-“

“Two butterbeers, correct?”

Remus wants to pull his hair out of frustration as the server walked towards them and set down the butterbeers they ordered, interrupting his speech. You smiled, thanking them before turning to Remus, who was frowning.

“What was it you were trying to say, Rems?” You asked, sipping your butterbeer.

“I like you, a lot. Ever since we met.” He simply blurts out quickly, as if he’s scared someone is going to interrupt again. You blink slowly, setting your butterbeer down gently.

“I like you too, Remus.”

“No- you don’t understand,” He shakes his head as you furrowed your eyebrows, utterly confused.

“I fancy you, love.” He emphasizes, taking both of your hands into his large ones, looking at you straight in the eyes, completely serious. She widens her eyes ever so slightly, her heart rate speeding up a bit.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve always fancied you too, Rems.”

Remus felt as if the time slowed down, his heartbeat pulsing faster, eyes blinking owlishly, his jaw slack in shock.

Did he hear that right? Please tell him that he heard that right.

“I-I… I gave you hints, love!” He sputtered, “But you’ve just ignored them every single time!” She frowns, “I didn’t notice…” Remus agreed, “Forgive me, but you were quite oblivious.” A small smile was on his face.

“You could’ve just said outright that you fancy me, Rems.” She chuckles, a faint blush on her cheeks.

“If you like me too, then why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to force you.” She said, looking at the beverage in her hand. His eyes softened, “Force me? To what, love?”

She sighs, looking up at him. “I didn’t want you to force yourself to try to love me just because I feel that way for you.”  Before Remus could even speak, she opened her mouth again, “I know you, Remus. You would’ve tried either way, that’s just who you are.” She chuckles, sipping butterbeer before continuing.

“You have a heart of gold, Rems. That’s one of the things I love about you.” She rubs her thumb across his scarred knuckles gently. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, the simple and gentle touch made his spine shiver.

If this was some kind of dream, then he would be more than happy to not wake up.

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes out, making you giggle. You stood up from your seat and leaned towards him, you can feel and smell his peppermint toothpaste fanning against your lips, beckoning you closer.

“You don’t even have to ask.” You closed the distance between you and sealed both of your lips with a kiss.

[moonstruckme]

if it’d be ok to ask, would you ever want to write some sweet fluff of remus & a chubby/plus-sized reader?? i’ve been kind of struggling lately, the holidays are a difficult time for me & my body and i just personally love to think about how he’d love a soft figure 🩷

Of course it's okay to ask sweetheart! I'm not sure how this ended up going in a pre-relationship direction but it did, so the adulation isn't quite as overt but I hope it comes across anyway? Hope you're having an easier time my love <33

Remus Lupin x plus size!reader ♡ 872 words

Remus stubs his cigarette out before he reaches the front door, tossing the butt into the grass and telling himself he’ll come back to throw it out later. You don’t like when he brings the smell inside, and he’s not keen on another lecture from James on how he’s shoddily built enough without sabotaging his lungs too. When he opens the door, the apartment smells of cinnamon and sweetness. 

“Fuck, he’s home. We’re doomed now.” Sirius tilts his head back, dark hair streaming over the back of the couch, to send Remus a droll look. 

“No, no, he’ll be a sport.” James turns around beside him. “Rem, we’re trying to decide between playing blackjack”—he infuses the words with a good amount of enthusiasm, eyebrows raising meaningfully—”or doing a puzzle.” His face falls. “Which would you prefer?” 

“I’m sick of blackjack,” you say, coming into the room carrying a plate of cookies. And you’re…wow. You’re wearing a dress Remus hasn’t seen before. It hugs and flutters about your curves prettily, swishing around your hips as you breeze into the living room to set the plate in front of James like a bribe. “And I made snacks, so you’d think I get a bigger say.” 

“Doll, we appreciate you, but you’re just bitter because you lost everything last night,” Sirius says while James munches happily on a cookie. “You don’t want a chance to win some back?” 

You shoot him the sort of deadpan look you’ve only recently worked up the courage to start using on them. “We were playing with gummy bears, Sirius. I’m not too torn up about it.” 

“I’d be alright with a puzzle,” Remus says, settling into his favored armchair.

Sirius sends him a look like Of course you would, you lovesick traitor, but it’s easy to ignore when you’re smiling at him so beautifully. 

“Yes! Knew I could count on you.” The easy words warm his chest more than they have any right to, helped along by your hand on his knee for balance as you lower yourself to the ground by his feet. 

“Fine,” Sirius grouses, standing, “but I’m picking the puzzle.” 

“More than a hundred pieces,” you say as he goes to the shelf. “If we’re done in a half hour, I’m going to petition for starting another.” 

“Wretch.”

You tilt your head back to see Remus, lowering your voice. “You’ve been smoking,” you whisper. 

He grins, caught. “Don’t tell.” 

“I won’t,” you roll your eyes, patting his calf reassuringly, “but don’t get near James, he’ll sniff you out too.” 

“Thanks, love. Is that dress new?” 

You dip your head, one of your shy smiles gracing your lips. “Yeah, I got it a few days ago.” 

“It looks really nice,” he tells you, struggling to keep the reverence from his tone. “You look really nice.” 

“You think so?” You make no effort to hide how pleased you are at the compliment, your eyes wide and sweet as they look up at him. It’s one of the things he really likes about you. “Thanks, Rem. Did you get a cookie?” 

“Not sure there are going to be any left,” he notes, eyes going to where James is wharfing down another, watching the two of you sneakily out of the corner of his eye. 

You laugh, reaching forward to steal a few from the plate. Remus tries not to let his eyes catch too obviously on the backs of your plush thighs as you sit up on your knees to lean over the coffee table. It’s a substantial effort.

He thanks you when you pass him a couple, inspecting the beige and brown swirls on the treat. “What are they?”

“Cinnamon roll cookies,” you say through a bite. “Figured I’d try something new.” 

Remus takes a bite, letting the warm softness meld to the roof of his mouth. “It’s really good.” 

One of your shoulders comes up, a bashful half-shrug. (Remus wants to put his hand over it. Wrap the strap of your pretty dress around his pinkie.) “Thanks,” you breathe, like the word is starting to feel awkward and too-familiar in your mouth. 

James shoots Remus a look. He ignores it pointedly. 

“We have too many difficult ones,” Sirius announces as he flops back onto the couch, unceremoniously depositing a puzzle box on the table. “I found the simplest option I could.” 

You roll your eyes at Sirius’ bellyaching, sliding the plate of cookies closer to him and giving his hand a conciliatory pat. 

The look he fixes on you in return is disgruntlement entirely for show. (He loves you, truly.) “Can we at least have some wine while we work?” 

“I have no intention of ruining your night, Sirius,” you say diplomatically. “Bring it on out.” 

He hops back up, eager to avoid the tiresome work of building the puzzle’s foundation, and aims for the kitchen. 

“Alright, losers,” James says, dumping the pieces on the table, “get us started.” 

You tug on Remus’ wrist, pulling him down from his chair so he’s sitting beside you. One of his knees presses into your thigh. You bump his bony shoulder lightly with your soft one. 

“Help me with the border?” 

He’ll do anything you ask him to.

[heartfullofleeches]

[Request] Reader caring for a sick Remmy [Dollmaker Yan Oc]

Warnings: None.

Words: 1.1k

-

“Remmy isn't home right now…. Please come back later.”

Could this day get any worse?... Weeks, months even, building up the courage to ask you to hang out with him. It wasn't like he asked you out on a date or anything, not yet anyway. He still needed to test the water a little longer, make sure the signals he had picked up from you weren't figments of his imagination. All that time, all those embarrassing hours spent in front of the mirror practicing what to say given any outcome - flushed down the drain in one night. 

Remmy could hardly open his eyes the morning you were intended to meet. You didn't even recognize him over the phone at first. In his heightened state of delirium from the fever racking his weary mind, he hoped the same would happen as you continuously rang his doorbell - demanding in the softest voice you could manage for him to open up.

As if he could be that lucky….

“And where, pray tell, would someone hacking up a lung over the phonean hour ago be right besides the hospital? It's not that far away. I can head over right now and check.” 

….

“Open this door right now, Remiel. You're not going to flake on me twice today.”

Did you have to phrase it like that? Kicking a sick person while he could barely stand was cruel - even if you did come to check up on him. 

“O…okay…. Remmy is- I'm going to unlock the door, just…give me a minute to clean up my room. I have some stuff out I really don't want anyone to see…”

The muffled shuffling of plastic splices between the click of the lock as Remmy unlocks the front door. 

“60.”

“Crap.” 

Hobbling away from the front door, Remmy clings to the hallway walls as he makes a break for his bedroom. The straight path twists and bends as his stress levels skyrocket from the very real fear of you finding out what he had stored. There wasn't enough time for him to hide everything. His top priority were the worst offenders - items he couldn't excuse as being a result of his relatively harmless hobby. Doll clothing fashioned after clothes you'd yet to wear for the public eye. Others you never owned and probably would never wear, unless they were for a partner or to make yourself feel good. Pictures of you hung up on his walls. So much to bury in such little time. 

“They can't see that…That one either. God, they'd kill me if they saw-”

“Saw what?” 

A hoarse yelp claws its way out of Remmy's aching throat. Standing in his doorway, you balance two separate bags in your arms - awaiting his response. Remmy hurriedly pulls the corners of his blankets over the space beneath his bed. 

“I…threw up a bit ago. Guess I'm feeling worse than I thought when we spoke over the phone.” 

In the blink of an eye you're by his side. Remmy flinches as you press the back of your palm against his forehead.

“Oh, Rem….” Concern oozes from your words as you set your bags down, taking hold of his arm. You're burning up. Come on. Let's get you back in bed.”

“You don't have to go through all this for me, Y/n. Really, I'm-” His sentence falls short as you scoop him off the floor, sitting him up on his bed. Were you always this strong - or had he always been this easy to carry? In that moment, Remmy felt just like one of his dolls. His head spins at the very thought. You take the opportunity to gently ease him down against the mattress, rolling the discarded sheets up to his waist. You pick up the plastic bags, setting them on the small table in the center of his room as you rummage through them.

“Got some chicken soup from this dinner down the street. If you can't keep anything down, maybe the broth will be a good place to state. Oh!- picked up some ginger ale too. That might help with your stomach too. Cough drops, cough medicine…. Do you prefer liquid or pills?” 

Remmy turns his head away from you as he coughs into his fist. “...whichever…whichever you brought is fine.”

“Well,I actually bought both, but I can just return the other on my way home later. I'll go grab you a cup real quick.”

Heading for the door, Remmy’s meek voice calls out to you - barely about a whisper. “Y/n?”

Hand on the doorframe, you gaze over your shoulder at him. “What's up? Need something else while I'm in the kitchen?”

“No…” Remmy shakes his head, the pressure of a headache hammering at his skull. “Agh… Remmy… I just wanted to thank you…for this. You really didn't have to come over…” 

A smirk tugs at the corners of your lips. “Don't think I did this for nothing. Gotta make sure you're well enough for our date next weekend. The park is nice and all, but that's where we always go. I expect to be taken somewhere else for our first date.”

“Date?” He couldn't have heard you right. But, you said it - twice. You disappear down the hall before he can properly question you. Was this all a dream? The conjurings of his ill mind as the sickness took hold? This felt better than anything he could imagine- Your hushed voice as you reenter the room confirms it. You wiggle your arm behind his head, helping him sit back up just enough to place the cup to his lips without him choking while swallowing. A part of him wished this was a dream. One that he'd never wake up from if he had the choice. Another dream come true was waiting for him once he got better.

“Remmy?...Rem?”

Soda spills onto your hand as the weight of his head crashes upon your shoulder. Did he…. fall asleep? Just like that? You hadn't even given him his medicine yet. At least the sleep will be good for him. You should probably go put everything else you brought up to pass the time until he wakes up. 

“Mmm…”

Remmy’s face scrunches in discomfort as you part from his side, lowering his head onto the pillows as you stand. Your foot touches something soft beneath his bed. You reach a hand underneath - completely forgetting about his earlier warnings as your fingers wrap around the squishy item. A doll with instantly identifying features stares back up at you as you drag it from its prison. Funny - you don't remember wearing this shirt around Remmy. You only bought it a few days ago. You planned to wear it today before he told you the bad news.

Shrugging, you raise Remmy's arm - tucking the doll against his chest. His face melts into that of peaceful bliss, body curling around the doll as his other hand strokes its face as if on auto-pilot. You press a kiss to his forehead - shutting off the lights in his room as you depart for a second time.

[sun-kissy]

Hello,💚

I was wondering if you’d be willing to write Remus x Fem!Reader who just had surgery of some sort? Preferably some hurt/comfort and fluff, where R is in pain and Remus is sweet about it?

Or if you’re not comfortable with that, any hurt/comfort with Remus would be great :))

(This is my first time requesting, but I really love your works! I just had surgery for my endometriosis, and I haven’t been sleeping much because of pain, so I’ve been up binge reading your works instead 😅)

💚

thank you so much for the request angel! honestly this hit home, because my mum had to have surgery for her endometriosis too, and i just wanted to say that i’m proud of you for being so strong. i hope that the pain has eased now, and you’re getting some well-deserved rest! <3

better | r.l.

tw: mention of surgery, hurt/comfort

remus lupin x reader

Remus rolls over on the bed, feeling around for you until he finds your hand. He takes your fingers in his, lacing them together before giving a soft squeeze.

“Hey sweetheart,” his words are soft and stringed together, as though dipped in honey. Your eyes are wide open as you look at him, the soft moonlight from the window casting shadows across your face. “Hi.”

“Still can’t sleep?” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles gently. His heart aches as he eyes you, curled up in a foetal position with your arms wrapped around your knees. You’ve pressed yourself so tightly together Remus thinks you might squeeze yourself half to death.

“No,” you mumble, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice for his sake. But he can see the slight contortion in your features, and he knows the pain is bothering you.

You’d just gotten surgery for your endometriosis a few days ago, after much convincing from your boyfriend. The pain had been bothering you for months before the surgery and he was convinced that you would feel a lot better once you faced the music. However, these past few days post-surgery weren’t proving to be any better, and he’d often find you in tears from how much everything hurt.

Remus hated that he couldn’t do anything to just take all your pain away and make it alright. But like all good things, it had to get worse before it got better.

He reaches a hand out, cupping your face in the basin of his palm as he silently thumbs your cheek. You relax into his touch, and let your eyes flutter closed.

“Rem,” you whisper.

“Yeah, dove?”

“It really hurts.”

Remus doesn’t miss the crack in your voice, and he feels like his heart is being cleaved in two. A pitiful sound comes from the back of his throat as he extends his other hand to stroke comfortingly at your hairline. “I know, baby. I’m sorry.”

At his sympathy, you curl in on yourself even further as though pained. Hot tears dribble down your cheeks and curve the bridge of your nose, and Remus moves his thumb to swipe at them. You whimper, and it makes him hurt in all the worst ways.

“I’m so tired. And I just want to sleep, but I can’t, and –” you choke pathetically on the lump in your throat. Remus shushes you, unable to stop himself from tugging you closer until your knees are squished between both of your chests. He presses a hand to your back, rubbing up and down your spine in a way he hopes is comforting.

Leaning forward, he presses his lips to your hairline. “I’m so sorry, honey. But you’re going to feel better in a few more days.” He desperately wishes his kiss could convey all the comfort and love you needed right now.

Remus needles an arm between your knees and stomach, pressing the back of his hand to your abdomen. His fingers start to trace a circular motion, knuckles brushing against your stitches in the same way they’ve done countless times before. He feels the muscles underneath his hand relax slightly.

“But what if I don’t feel better?” you warble. “What if I never sleep again?”

Remus could almost laugh at how loopy the meds made you if you didn’t sound so pitiful. More tears wet your eyelashes, and he indulgently kisses them away before smoothing his fingers over your cheeks.

“Then I’ll get you sleeping meds.”

“Really?” you sniffle, and it’s the most hopeful you’ve sounded that whole week. But you both know that Remus wasn’t going to let you ruin your system with more medicines than necessary.

“No,” he whispers bemusedly, almost guilty when he hears the earnest longing in your voice, “but what I can do for you right now is get you the heating pad.”

You don’t even look upset at his words, seemingly expecting the response. Your lip quivers as you draw it in between your teeth guiltily. “I don’t want you to get up, though. You should be getting some rest. I bet you’re exhausted, looking after me all night.”

Remus presses a quick peck to the tender spot beneath your eye as he pushes his elbows into the mattress, hoisting himself up straight. “I’m up, sweetheart.” He pulls his hand away from your abdomen, unable to stop the small smile that forms when you whine in protest.

He bends down to press another kiss to your forehead, and you feel the upward curve of his lips against your skin. “And I don’t mind looking after you. The only thing I’m worried about right now is you not getting enough rest.”

You hum softly in response, and Remus resists the urge to cocoon you in a mountain of blankets and smother your pain away. Instead, he brushes strands of hair back from your face. “Try to sleep, please.”

“After you get me the heating pad.”

He hums indulgently, moving his hand to the nape of your neck and comfortingly brushing over the baby hairs there. “You want anything else? Chocolate, or hot tea, maybe?”

“Chocolate would be nice,” you admit.

“Then chocolate it is,” he smiles as he stands up, rounding the bed.

“Rem?”

“Yeah, dove?”

“Are you sure you can’t get me sleeping pills?”

Remus huffs out a laugh, giving your foot a warning squeeze before leaving the room.

[chaotic-minds-think-alike]

Very lazy but I think the final idea for monsterifying my avatar

Z-643 is a previously assumed humanoid figure obscured by a viscous substance resembling oil. The consistency of the fluids it produces is that of blood and is incredibly toxic when come into contact with, causing fatigue and vertigo. Long term exposure, be more than a minute within contact, can create nausea, loss of balance, and even stronger effects of dizziness, eventually leading to affected individuals to fall unconscious and quickly perish. Autopsy reports show that the blood of these victims is entirely changed into the same substance Z-643 produces, although translucent and lacking any of the more dangerous side effects. Further testing shows that Z-643’s blood also causes intense brain activity similar to that of REM sleep even if the individual is fully conscious, causing them to see vivid hallucinations.

If Z-643 is cornered in any way, it’ll feel threatened and let out a infrasonic scream that gradually becomes audible to any listeners as it rapidly destroys the eardrums and promptly kills them. Interaction with Z-643 must be careful and predictable as it’s sight is incredibly sharp, almost seeming like it can anticipate things before they happen. It will rarely move when observed directly as it assumes anything is a threat until proven otherwise. When not directly observed, Z-643 feels safe enough to slowly trudge its containment cell, stopping to stare at anything that piques its interest.

Z-643 can detect eye contact much more keenly when it is on the move. If it detects it’s being observed while it’s moving, it’ll quickly search for a place to hide, preferably where it has a good view of the area that it’s in. Observation through any other means such as cameras do not stir Z-643.

GRAND ENCOUNTER - “ red light green light “

As the player opens the door to the Fallen Angel encounter, they will hear a ringing and be briefly disoriented

The room is a long heavy containment hallway with scratches and puddles of Z-643’s blood as well as various furniture strewn about

There are marks on the ceiling where Z-643 climbed into its position, causing its blood to drip down and possibly hit (and hurt) the player

Z-643 is in a tired state and thus occasionally will close its eyes, player has to move between these periods and stop when it opens its eyes again

Hazards in the room urge the player to keep moving even when Z-643 is observing, this encounter is a test of nerve and patience

Because of the room’s damaged state, lights will flicker and occasionally go out completely, but because any light sources will alert Z-643 of your presence you are forced to navigate without them

When you reach the end of the encounter, Z-643 will retract away from the doorway but continue to monitor you (it won’t aggro at this point)

[wanderingxiao]

idk if you currently take requests, but I've been digging through all of tumblr for some really good (consensual!) Somnophilia smut with wanderer, him just unable to resist reader when they're asleep (i personally prefer afab reader, but genderneutral is fine too!)

Only if you feel comfy with that of course, thx ♡♡

Late Nights

Wanderer x Reader *NSFW*

Warnings: Somnophilia (sex while reader is asleep), established relationship, cursing, degradation, unprotected sex, creampie, Wanderer being a dominant yet embarrassed cutie

A/N: Sorry for the delay in updates! School started back and my fics are now getting longer again when I want to make them shorter :’)

Wanderer scowled at the sight before him. There you were, lying in his bed without a care in the world that you were intruding! The audacity of a mere mortal to invade the privacy of a former god. Blasphemy! If it were any other human he would have knocked the teeth out of them. You were just so lucky to be his lovely girlfriend. Although that didn’t excuse you from taking up his entire bed after he wanted to rest from a long day of catering to the Traveler’s requests of him.

His indigo eyes focused on the way your chest moved up and down, the duvet haphazardly jumbled near your feet, letting the generous chill of night consume your body. His eyes followed to your breasts, your nipples erect and showing through your shirt at the cool nights air. A flood of heat covered the puppet’s cheeks, his scowl only growing deeper at the hot feeling beginning to engulf his abdomen and groin.

“Tsk… how pathetic.” Whether he was saying that directed at himself or you, it’s a mystery. But it was no mystery the way his fingers descended towards your breasts, ghosting his fingertips over your nipples. The pads of his fingers circled over the raised area of fabric, before flicking his finger up and down against the sensitive bud. He didn’t miss the way your legs squeezed together, rubbing them back and forth in attempts to quell the new heat pooling between your legs at the touch. Your chest arched into his touch, practically encouraging him to do more.

“Fuck… you really are a dirty slut.” An arrogant smirk spread across his lips, his movements becoming more bold. Wanderer slowly climbed into the bed beside you, being careful at the way the mattress dipped and creaked under his weight. He raised your shirt up to your chest, letting your breasts free from the confines of your silly pajamas. Saliva pooled within Wanderer’s mouth, his tongue coming to moisten his lips before he descended upon your chest, kissing up your sternum before coming up your collar bones.

A small whimper echoed within his mechanical ears, spurring his actions into groping at your breasts softly, kneading the doughy flesh in his hands. He adored the way you writhed under him in your sleep, twitching and whining at the pleasure he held over you. With daring fingers, he dipped down to shimmy your shorts and panties down enough so he could trace the rough pads of his fingers over your glistening folds.

“H-Hmm… W-Wanderer…” How cute, you were even calling his name in your sleep. Even in rem you knew who took care of you. Wanderer exhaled against your neck, warm breath fanning over your skin now riddled in goosebumps. His lips ghosted over your pulse point, tongue peeking out to lovingly lick and suck against that point. Your fists began to clutch against the bed sheets, whining at the teasing pleasure of his tongue against your neck and his fingers rubbing so lewdly against your wet folds.

“Such a dirty little bitch… hah, you don’t even deserve my cock for the way you’re behaving.” Wanderer was finding it harder and harder to control himself. He could practically feel your cunt begging to have his fingers inside, almost sucking him in. With slow precision, he embedded his fingers into your drooly pussy. He groaned at the tight feeling around his fingers, pumping them in and out lightly, not missing the quiet lewd squelch that filled the air. “So fucking wet…”

His eyes were glued to your facial expressions, memorizing every scrunch or twitch that spread over your face as his fingers slid in and out. His thumb slid up, finding your puffy clit with ease and rubbing teasing of circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your legs tried to close around him, trying your hardest in your now rousing state of sleep to get the heat to resolve within your loins. Wanderer only increased his motions, biting his lip as a blush spread from the tips of his ears to his cheeks.

His head craned to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking gingerly before swirling his tongue around the bud. At this point your body was coated in a thin layer of sweat. The way his fingers pumped in and out of your pussy, the way his mouth seemed to slobber over your tits, and the sinfully wet noises that only aroused the puppet further. It all felt so good. He soon grew irritant of the strain against his length, his entire body pulling away from you, leaving you whining and squirming beneath him.

“You asked for this, slut. Laying so pretty here on my bed. You’re just begging to have me fuck you dumb.” Wanderer growled out gruffly, his hands undoing his shorts hastily. His kimono top slid off his shoulders and loosely around his forearms, the divine outlines of his inorganic body beginning to glow as his emotions began to consume him. A shaky groan left his mouth, his shoulders slumping as his hard cock was freed. The tip twitched lewdly, an oozy pearl of pre-cum globing at the angry tip. “F-Fuck…”

His slender fingers gripped his firm shaft, positioning himself between your legs. The tip smeared over your folds, soaking his tip in your slick. The small bead of pre-cum stuck to your folds, sharp indigo eyes narrowing in bliss at the lewd display. Wanderer grit his teeth, hips bucking shallowly against your cunt to feel more friction. He checked once more to ensure you were still asleep before biting his lip. Pressure was applied to your twitching hole, and with one languid buck of his hips, the tip was now inside.

Your back arched against Wanderer, moaning softly feeling the tip of his generous length fulfilling the ache to have something inside. Your lover held your hips firmly, watching with a flushed face and glowing outlines how his tip appeared and disappeared inside of you so lewdly. Each slow thrust grew deeper and deeper, your fluids coating his cock in slippery ecstasy. He just couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way your pussy took him so well. His once shallow and slow thrusts began to pick up, careful not to smack his thighs against yours in a pleasured frenzy.

“W… Wan… derer~ ahh, hah…~” You let out a small whimper, your legs beginning to shake beside him. The feeling of being so full was beginning to surface. The pleasure he gave you was like no other. Even in sleep, you knew his body like the back of your hand. You knew his touch, his moans, and his delicious length. Your head turned to the side, whining softly as his pace increased, his pelvis starting to firmly press against yours each time he thrust back inside. Your eyes fluttered slightly, unable to comprehend what was going on until you looked up to see your lover towering over you. “E-Eh?! Wanderer?! H-Hey what’re you- Ahn!”

“Finally awake?” Wanderer growled above you, his face illuminated by the glowing markings over his inorganic body. His body arched over you, smacking his hand beside your head as he slammed his hips against yours in a harsh delicious thrust. Your head threw back into the pillows, crying out his name as electrifying bolts of ecstasy and lust flooded your nerves. “Yeah? F-Fucking like when I fuck you like this? Hah, you dirty little b-bitch! Ngh!”

“M-Mhm! Ahh~” Your vision turned white for a brief moment, seeing sparkling stars as his sticky cock smushed against your sweet spot. He could tell it too, the way you squeezed him so good. His elbow dropped beside you, his face so close to yours you could feel his hot breath. His other hand wrapped around your back, holding you tightly against his body as his pounded his cock into the deepest crevices of your fluttering cunt. Your velvety walls squeezing him so good, the brush of his tip against your sweet spot, the ridges of every vein in his cock throbbing against your shaky walls. It was all too much. “Wanderer! O-Oh fuck! I-I can’t-!”

“Shut your, mmm, pretty mouth a-and take what I give you. U-Ungrateful whore! S-Shit…!” His soft indigo hair tickled your forehead when his lips collided with yours in a sloppy kiss. Teeth clinking lightly, tongues aggressively swirling together as you both fought for dominance over the other. He pulled you back against him, his pelvis smushing against your clit with every lewd buck of his hips. The bed creaked wildly under your shifting weight. Loud and heavy pants littered with desperate moans and shaky grunts filled the air. Your hands roamed his back, clinging onto his body shirt and pulling at the fabric as your climax began to approach. The twitching of his cock and faltering pace told you he was close too. “C-C’mon slut… f-fucking cum for me! Cum a-all fucking over my cock! Agh…!”

“W-Wanderer! W-Wanderer… Wander- Mm! Ahhh!” He stilled above you, hips stuttering as ribbons of his gooey seed filled you up. Every twitch of his cock against your walls with his tip bullied against your sweet spot had you reeling. Your body convulsed under him, gasping for air as your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks. You gushed over him, your slick fluids sticking around the base of his length. He pulled out slowly, only to push back in firmly, flooding your pussy until his cum began to slip out. “Mm! S-So sensitive! Wait!”

Wanderer whimpered softly, pulling his body up and away from you slowly, keeping his creamy cock enclosed by your warm inviting walls. The glow of his body slowly flickered out, his breathing returning to normal after a few more seconds of heavy breaths. He pulled himself out of you, watching with keen eyes the way your hole twitched and shuttered at the empty feeling left. Dribbles of cum oozed from your pussy, causing redness to blossom on his face once more at the lewd display. “Tsk… sorry.” You laid tiredly against the bed, your own breathing slowly coming back as your heart slowed down from its once racing pace.

“N-No need. It’s okay.” You opened your arms weakly to him, a small smile stretching across your face. Wanderer only looked at you and turned his head away, hiding his embarrassed face. All but the tips of his flushed ears. “You started this.” His voice was quiet and accusatory. Not wanting to admit to himself that he was swayed so easily by your body. You rolled your eyes and grabbed his hand gently. “I liked it. I wouldn’t mind waking up like that all the time… would you… be opposed if I came and lived with you?” His eyes widened, turning to you with a flustered expression. You could only giggle in response, squeezing his hand reassuringly.

“Tsk! Do whatever you want… idiot.”

Hope you enjoyed! My “short” fics are getting long again, ack! I’ll try to make them shorter so I can update more frequently :( Have a good day! 💙