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verstappenverse · 6 days ago

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hi! can i request that the reader and max anticipate their first child? he was so worried when the reader had a morning sickness and when the reader was about to deliver the baby? he worried whether he could be a good father or not to their firstborn baby. and how he was so protective, care, and just soft with the reader? thank you! i love your fics anyway, you're doing great! i hope you have a very good day ahead!! xoxo.

What If I Get It Wrong?

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was never afraid of anything, but fatherhood? That’s a different kind of terrifying. As the two of you prepare for your first child, Max is protective, terrified, and completely in awe, and you watch the man you love fall headfirst into fatherhood. (Requested)

4.1k words / Masterlist

You weren’t expecting it to feel like this, equal parts overwhelming and breathtaking. A surreal mix of the mundane and the extraordinary.

Two faint pink lines on a stick, the distant hum of the bathroom fan. The sound of your shaky breathing as you sit on the edge of the tub, blinking down at something that just shifted the axis of your entire world.

Your hands tremble when you press your palm to your stomach. It’s still flat. Still unchanged. And yet… you already feel different. Maybe not physically, but something inside you is new. Expanding. Blooming.

You had a plan.

Of course you did. You’d always imagined telling Max with a smile too wide to hide, maybe over a fancy private dinner at home with the test tucked inside a gift box or a Red Bull baby onesie folded on his plate. Maybe filming his reaction when he opened it. Something worthy of the moment. Something permanent.

You even started writing a card, got as far as, "You changed my life once. Now—."

But when the door opens that night and Max comes in, home late from some media obligations, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, and grumbling about TikTok's and something you can’t quite hear. You don’t even get a word in before he presses a kiss to your cheek. “Sorry I’m late. What’re we having for—”

“I’m pregnant.”

The words leap out of you before you even mean to say them. It’s not soft. It’s not poetic. It’s raw and breathless and a little panicked.

The silence is immediate. Thick. His mouth stays open mid-word. His eyes flick to your stomach, then back to your face.

“I—” you start, already flustered, “I was gonna tell you in some big, sweet way, I swear. With a whole surprise and maybe a stupid cake or balloons, I even wrote like half a card and now I’ve just blurted it out like a maniac and—”

“Pregnant,” he interrupts.

You nod. Your voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”

It takes another two seconds before a breathless laugh escapes him. He crosses the room in one long stride, pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face like you’re something breakable. “You’re serious?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I took the test three times.”

He looks down at your stomach again. Then back at you. Then exhales a shaky breath that sounds like something breaking open in his chest.

“I’m going to be a dad?”

You bite your lip, eyes filling. “Yeah. You are.”

You nod again, and before you can say another word, he’s kissing you. Slow. Deep. His hand presses instinctively to your belly, protective already, and you feel his body tremble as his forehead rests against yours.

The nerves come quickly.

You’re crouched over the toilet, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, on what feels like your fifth straight day of relentless nausea. Your stomach rolls again, and you groan, dry heaving into nothing.

Max hovers like a man teetering on the edge of a panic attack. He’s pacing the bathroom floor in bare feet, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other holding your water bottle like it might fix something if he just offers it enough times.

“Should I call someone?” he says for the third time in five minutes. “A hospital? Maybe your mum, I think, maybe Dr. Hendriks? I’ll fly him in. We have the jet, it’s—”

“Max,” you croak, cutting him off mid-spiral. “I’m fine. Just... a bit gross.”

He drops to a crouch beside you so fast you almost flinch. His hand is instantly at your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over your spine like he’s trying to manually ease the nausea out of you.

“You threw up twice, you’ve barley eaten anything since yesterday, and you can’t even stand up straight. This isn’t fine,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for signs of something worse.

You want to reassure him, but all you can manage is another gag and a feeble wave of your hand.

He makes a frustrated sound under his breath, somewhere between a growl and a groan and presses a kiss to your temple. You feel him shift beside you, still kneeling, still rubbing your back.

You’re pretty sure he was supposed to be on a flight to the Red Bull factory two hours ago. His suitcase is still zipped up in the hallway. His laptop sits forgotten on the kitchen counter next to the tea he brewed for you earlier, the tea you couldn’t even look at, let alone sip.

He didn’t even finish drying his hair. It’s still damp, curling at the edges. There’s a red line pressed into his cheek from where he must’ve fallen asleep beside you on the bathroom floor the night before.

“Max,” you mumble, finally able to lift your head. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, exhausted, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack before the baby’s even here.”

He tries to laugh but it comes out hoarse and half-broken. “I just hate this. Watching you like this. I keep thinking, what if I’m missing something? What if I’m not doing enough?”

You tilt your head up slightly, catching the crease between his brows, the lines of guilt that don’t belong there.

“You made me three kinds of toast this morning,” you murmur. “And cut the crusts off, and you held my hair and Googled ginger remedies until your phone died.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you press a hand to his chest right over the spot where his heart’s racing, fast and wild.

“You’re here,” you whisper. “That’s not useless. That’s everything.”

He exhales shakily, eyes locked on yours and for a second you swear they shine.

“I’m just so scared of getting it wrong,” he admits, barely audible. “This whole dad thing. Taking care of you. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done, and I keep feeling like I’m already screwing it up.”

“You’re not,” you promise, curling your fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt. “You’re already the best dad, because you care so much, because you show up.”

The weeks pass in waves. Ultrasounds. Appointments. Cravings that come out of nowhere at 2 a.m. and leave you both laughing in the kitchen in your pajamas, sharing a jar of pickles and toast with peanut butter. There are stretches of calm, slow, quiet mornings when the Monaco sunlight creeps across the bedsheets and Max wraps an arm around your waist, murmuring something sleepy against your neck. And then there are flashes of chaos, bags packed, schedules rearranged, Max on a video call with his race engineers while still rubbing your swollen feet with one hand.

Somehow, amidst it all, you find a rhythm.

You learn to time what you can around Max’s races, his travel, his returns. You count the days until he’s back, until he’s lying beside you again, one hand stretched protectively over your belly like it’s instinct now.

The first time you hear the heartbeat Max looks like someone knocked the air out of him. His mouth parts. His eyes fill.

“She’s real,” he whispers, the words barely making it past his lips. “Our baby is real.”

You haven’t even found out the gender yet, but he says she instinctively, without hesitation, like his heart already knows something the rest of you don’t.

You tease him about it once, smiling as he folds baby clothes that aren’t even needed yet.

“It might be a boy you know?” you say, watching him hold up a tiny lemon-patterned onesie like it’s the crown jewels.

He looks up from the clothes, something quiet and unshakable in his gaze. “Maybe, but I don’t know, I just feel it, every time I picture the future, it’s you... and her.”

You stare at him, your breath catching somewhere in your throat.

“She’s loud,” he continues, grinning now, his accent curling around the softness of his voice. “Talks too much. Bosses me around. Already a little menace. Definitely your child.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughs, quick and boyish, and leans over to press a kiss to your cheek. “You’ll see. She’s gonna have your fire.”

You don’t say it, but the truth sinks deep into your chest, he already loves this baby with his whole being.

He talks to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep. You catch him doing it all the time, quiet, unguarded moments where his world has narrowed down to two things, you and the life you’re creating together.

When you both lie awake at night, hands intertwined under the duvet, whispering about baby names and nursery colors and what kind of parents you want to be, Max is always a little breathless. Like he still can’t believe it’s real. Like he’s terrified and amazed in equal measure.

“She’s going to change everything,” he murmurs once, voice low in the dark.

“She already has,” you whisper back.

He nods slowly, curling into you like he always does, like you’re the only home he’s ever needed.

Max becomes… soft.

In every possible way.

It’s not just the way he handles you now, like you’re something precious and breakable. It’s not just the way he walks slower beside you or watches your face when you stand up too quickly or how he quietly puts your sneakers on for you when your feet start to swell.

It’s in the little things.

He buys three different pregnancy pillows, a full-body one, a C-shaped one, and some strange ergonomic wedge because he isn’t sure which one will help you sleep better. One night you catch him actually reading a parenting blog in bed next to you, blue light from his phone casting shadows across the duvet. He scrolls silently, occasionally muttering things like:

“Did you know babies can hear our voices by week twenty?”

Or,

“Apparently we’re supposed to play music for her.”

Then there’s the night you find him in the nursery.

It’s late. You’d gotten up to grab water and noticed the light was on down the hall. You pad softly to the doorway, heart already warm with affection and there he is.

Max. Standing perfectly still. The crib is built, assembled a few days ago it sits against the far wall now, freshly made up with soft cream sheets and a stuffed lion tucked in the corner.

He’s just staring at it.

Half terror. Half wonder.

“Max?” you say gently, stepping into the room.

He startles a little but doesn’t turn around.

“Do you think I’ll be good at this?” he murmurs.

You cross the room without answering and slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against the cotton of his t-shirt. He reaches for your hands, holds them tightly over his chest.

“You’re already good,” you whisper.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. The kind that sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for months.

“It’s just…” he starts, and then pauses, struggling to find the words. “I didn’t exactly have the perfect example.”

You nod, letting the silence stretch. You don’t talk about his childhood much but he’s never needed to say much for you to understand. Jos was many things, passionate, driven, ambitious. But he was also sharp around the edges. Affection was earned, not given freely. Max learned young what it meant to perform under pressure. To please. To succeed, or suffer.

“I’m scared I’ll mess her up,” he says, voice quieter now. “That I’ll push too hard. Or expect too much. Or say something I can’t take back. What if she cries and I don’t know how to make it better? What if she needs something I don’t know how to give?”

You pull back just enough to tilt your head and meet his gaze.

“Max, you’re the most patient person I know.”

He snorts, but there’s not much humor in it. “That’s a word I don’t think has ever been used to describe me.”

“You’re patient with people you love,” you correct gently. “With me. You’ve been soft and kind and so careful this whole time, even when I’ve been sick or moody or irrational. You listen. That’s what she’ll see. That’s what she’ll learn.”

You hesitate, then add softly, “I’m scared too, you know.”

His brows draw together, surprised. Maybe he hadn’t realised, maybe you’ve hidden it well. “You are?”

You nod. “Every single day. I lie in bed and think about how much we don’t know yet. About how overwhelming it all feels sometimes. What if I’m not enough? What if she needs more than I can give?”

His arms tighten around you instinctively, like he’s trying to hold the fear out of your body.

“But then I see you,” you whisper. “And I remember… we don’t have to do any of it alone, and that makes all the difference.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just turns in your arms, eyes a little wet, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want to get it wrong,” he breathes. “Not with her. Not with you.”

“You won’t,” you whisper. “But if you ever feel like you are, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

He nods slowly. Swallows. “Promise me you’ll tell me if I ever forget, if I ever slip. If I start to become…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“I promise, but I already know I won’t need to.” you say, holding his face in your hands.

You kiss him then, soft and sure, and he kisses you back like your faith in him is something he never wants to let go of. And in the stillness of that nursery, with your belly pressed to his and the crib waiting quietly behind you, Max lets the fear settle… just a little.

Maybe it’s okay to be scared, as long as neither of you is scared alone.

The last month is the hardest.

Your back feels like it’s been replaced by concrete. Your feet have swollen so much you’ve officially retired every pair of shoes you own except one pair of very ugly slides. You cry at everything, a dog food commercial, a voicemail from your mum, Max just looking at you across the kitchen.

You’re tired in ways you didn’t know were possible. Your body feels like it’s working overtime to grow a person and also remind you of gravity’s cruelest tricks.

Max, meanwhile, has entered full protective mode. As if the impending arrival of your daughter has turned every single instinct inside him up to eleven.

He won’t let you lift anything.

Not a grocery bag. Not a chair. Not even your own overnight hospital bag.

You once reached for a water bottle and he appeared out of thin air swiping it out of your reach with a sharp, scandalized look.

“Max,” you deadpanned, “I’m pregnant, not paralyzed.”

“I’m aware,” he muttered, already unscrewing the cap and handing it to you like a peace offering.

“You think the baby’s going to fall out if I hold a Fiji bottle?”

“No,” he said seriously, “but why take the risk.”

You rolled your eyes then. You do it often now. But secretly?

You love it.

You love how protective he is. How he walks slightly behind you in crowds, like a buffer. How he started driving ten kilometers under the limit the second you entered your third trimester, even though he used to complain that Monaco traffic was basically just expensive cars parked in motion.

You love how he fusses, quietly but constantly. How he now triple-checks that your favorite snack is stocked before leaving the apartment, how he installed a nightlight in the hallway so you wouldn't trip during your nightly bathroom trips. How he downloaded six different white noise apps on his phone so you could try them out in bed. "For practice," he said, “in case she’s fussy.”

But what really gets you, what makes your chest ache with something warm and vast and impossible to describe is the way his face changes every time you talk about the baby.

A softening around his eyes. A slight tilt of his head. The more you speak about her name, about what she might look like, about whether she’ll like racing or painting or maybe dinosaurs, the more he leans in.

He’s never looked at you like this before. Not when he’s on the podium. Not even after winning his first championship. This? This is different.

This is awe. This is devotion. This is Max Verstappen world-class driver, famously unshakeable completely and utterly undone by the thought of his daughter.

He leans down and kisses your skin. “She’s going to wreck me isn’t she?”

“She already has.”

He looks up at you, eyes shining under the soft lamp light, and for once he doesn’t have a smart reply.

Then the day finally comes.

You wake at 3:13 a.m. with a pressure in your abdomen that steals your breath. It isn’t sharp, not at first. Just a heavy, aching pull deep in your core, like gravity has shifted suddenly inside you.

For a moment you think it’s another false alarm.

You shift under the covers, already rehearsing the mental checklist your doctor gave you: hydration, time the contractions, don’t panic. You ease out of bed, try walking to the bathroom, just like they said to do when you’re not sure it’s real yet, but then the pain tightens, sharp and low and unmistakable. It doesn’t come and go. It grips.

Just like that you know.

You shuffle back to the bed and place a trembling hand on Max’s chest.

“Max.”

He jolts upright as if someone’s fired a starter pistol. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it time?”

His voice is gravelly with sleep, but his body is already moving.

You nod, barely able to get the words out through the rising wave of pain.

“Okay. Okay. Alright, okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, as he flings the covers off and springs into motion.

What follows is like watching a pit stop in human form.

Max moves with sharp, terrifying focus. He’s already helped you into the comfiest clothes he can find, sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts, before you even finish brushing your teeth. He pulls the hospital bag from the front closet, double-checks its contents, grabs your water bottle, chargers, snacks, the car keys.

But the entire time, his hands are shaking.

You notice it in the way he fumbles with the seatbelt when helping you into the car. In the way he presses the elevator button three times like it’ll come faster.

By the time he’s in the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the steering wheel, you’re gripping the side of the door, breathing through another contraction.

“Max,” you whisper, chest rising and falling in short bursts. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing, you need to breath.” he says quickly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror even though the road is deserted.

“No, you’re hyperventilating.”

“I’m not, maybe a little,” he admits, cheeks flushed. He loosens his grip on the wheel, forces one deep inhale through his nose.

You reach across the console and take his hand, squeezing through the contraction.

“You’re going to be amazing,” you say through gritted teeth.

He glances at you, eyes shining under the dashboard light. “You’re the one doing the hard part.”

You laugh sort of. It’s half a wheeze, half a whimper. “Hard doesn’t even cover it.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles at the next red light. “Just keep holding on. I’m right here.”

The labour is long.

Twenty hours of chaos and calm. Of excruciating pain and quiet moments in between, your hand curled tight in Max’s.

He never leaves your side.

“I love you,” he says every few minutes, even when you’re too far gone to reply. “You’re doing so good. You’re so strong.”

He hovers beside you, whispering soft encouragements, brushing sweat from your forehead with shaking fingers.

And then, after everything, comes silence.

The kind that feels holy.

The room stills. You collapse against the pillows, exhausted and trembling. And then it happens.

A sound. Fragile. Piercing.

A cry.

Your baby’s first breath shatters the stillness, high-pitched and perfect and real.

Max sags beside you like his legs can’t hold him anymore. He buries his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since you’ve known him, since the earliest days of cautious flirtation and long-distance calls, since the podiums and the plane rides and the quiet "I love you"s you feel him cry.

“She’s here,” he chokes out. His whole body shakes. “She’s really here.”

When the nurse places your daughter on your chest, something in you clicks into place. She’s tiny. Wrinkled. Red-faced and slippery and making the most outraged little sounds, but she’s perfect. She’s yours.

And Max… Max looks like he’s been struck by lightning. He can’t move at first. Just stands there, one hand braced on the edge of the bed, the other hovering like he’s afraid to touch her. His face is wet with tears. He looks shell-shocked.

“She’s…” he starts, but he can’t finish. His voice breaks again.

You reach for his hand and guide it gently to her. His fingertips brush her hand and her tiny fingers curl around his pinky, as if she already knows him.

“Hi, kleine meid,” he whispers. “I’m your dada.”

Just like that he’s gone.

Hopelessly, entirely, irreversibly in love.

Later, after the visitors come and go after your families cry over tiny fingers and kiss your cheeks with soft, trembling mouths, after nurses shuffle in and out with gentle voices and kind hands the hospital room falls quiet again.

Just the three of you now. The soft hum of machines. The muffled hallway beyond the door. The gentle rustle of a newborn’s breath in the bassinet beside the bed.

Max lies beside you on the narrow hospital bed, somehow fitting his long frame against yours like puzzle pieces. One arm is curled protectively around your back, anchoring you to his chest. The other hand rests on the side of the bassinet, fingers still.

You watch him as he stares at her. He hasn’t looked away in over twenty minutes.

Not since the nurse gently wheeled her over and whispered, “She’s all yours now.”

“She’s got your nose,” you murmur sleepily, the exhaustion pulling at you like a tide, but the kind you’d wade into again without question.

Max smiles, slow and full and a little dazed. His eyes are glassy, bloodshot from lack of sleep and tears he no longer bothers hiding.

“Poor thing,” he says softly.

You chuckle, too tired for more than a breathy laugh. “She’s lucky.”

He looks over to you, his gaze heavy with affection. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there like he’s silently thanking the universe for bringing you through it.

“No,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m the lucky one.”

You curl into his chest a little deeper, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His hoodie smells like hospital linen and baby powder and Max, warm, worn-in, familiar.

“You were worried,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.

He nods without hesitation. “Terrified.”

There’s no bravado in his voice now. No need to pretend.

He exhales, glancing back at your daughter. “I’ve been trying to imagine this moment for months. Her face. The sound she’d make. Whether I’d be good enough for her.” His fingers flex slightly against the edge of the bassinet, just brushing the corner. “And now she’s here. And I just keep thinking… how do I live up to her?”

“Still scared?” you whisper.

He hesitates. “Yeah.”

He glances down at the baby again. She’s sleeping now, her tiny fist curled near her cheek, lips parted in a soft, steady rhythm.

“But it’s different now,” he adds. “I think… how is she real? How did we make her? How is she breathing and blinking and making those tiny sounds like it’s the most normal thing in the world?” His voice catches. “How do I ever make sure she knows how much I love her?”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. He grips yours back immediately, tight, like he needs to feel your pulse to believe any of this is real.

“She already knows,” you whisper. “She’s felt it. She’s felt it every time you talked to her. Every time you rubbed my back or held my hair or teared up during an ultrasound.”

Max looks at you then, and you see it all, the vulnerability, the devotion, the pure, unfiltered wonder that hasn’t left him since the moment she arrived.

You smile through the tears clouding your lashes.

“We’re in this together,” you say.

He nods. “Always.”

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974 notes · View notes

sobbingscripter · 6 months ago

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Tags: [mdni][mlw][slight angst?][semi-public][oral f! receiving][sloppy][spitting][petnames][implied age gap][age gap is legal btw][fingering][anal fingering. no i will not apologize.][ass eating.][i won't apologise for that either]

"I had to do Damian's laundry for this so don't fuck it up."

Jason huffs, eyes narrowing at Roy as the car pulls up to the curb outside the restaurant. A cute diner, neon lights flickering over the double doors of the entrance, reading, 'fancy eat-outs' in cursive.

"Name's... A bit on the nose." Roy lets out a scoff of laughter before swallowing and glancing at Jason. There's the tiniest hint of nervousness swirling behind those leafy pools, gingery brows furrowing into a little frown.

"You're gonna do good." Jason reassures quietly, his tone soft and he places a hand on Roy's shoulder.

"I'll be on that roof," Jason motions to the building across, "listening in. It's just like a stakeout, only this time, the stakes determine whether or not you get your dick wet."

A good 20 minutes into waiting, Roy brushes his tongue across his top row of teeth, eyes glancing towards his wristwatch before he leans back in his seat. Muscular fingers card through overgrown strands of clementine, before he swallows.

"She's not coming, Jay." Roy hums quietly, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.

There's the heaviest pit in his stomach, aching and uncomfortable, and it throbs with each ding of that bronze bell above the door, that indicates a new patron.

Roy feels pathetic that his eyes keep lifting to see who it is.

He's an adult. He shouldn't be going on dates in the first place. He should focus on being a vigilante, and a father, because he's good at that.

Not at dating. Not at women. Not at anything more than a one night—

"Excuse me, sir?" Your voice is a soft sound, snapping him from his pathetic daydream, and Roy glances up at you through his lashes, unable to keep the little frown from tugging at the corners of his mouth. Although, if he plays his cards and his tone right, he might just seem deeply displeased, instead of upset.

"Mhm?" Roy hums. He doesn't trust himself to talk right now.

"I don't...." You simply shake your head, a sympathetic expression on your face as you clutch the serving tray in your arms.

You've got the prettiest doe eyes, the nicest and softest lips, and he can't deny that those pretty smile lines makes him feel a little better about being stood up.

"Yeah, she's not coming." Roy concedes, letting out a deep breath and his elbows come to rest on the surface of the table, making the slightest fold in the guava coloured tablecloth and you clear your throat.

"Well... We've got a special for this?" You answer, almost sheepishly. And Roy cocks a brow.

"At the start of the new year, a lot of people try to get into relationships and... You know, not everyone's date shows up. So we've got a 'Stood Up' special." You lift the menu from the table, before flitting through the thick parchment, and showing the option.

"A meal, dessert and drink of your choice with 60% off, and you get to talk shit about your date with your server."

And Roy lets out a laugh.

It's a deep, husky rumble that makes your knees the tiniest bit weak, and makes you feel like you've been standing on your toes for an uncomfortably long period of time.

"Sure thing." Roy hums. "So you'll be my server?" He cocks his head, a charming tilt of his lips have you sweating underneath your uniform and you nod your head.

"So what would you like, sir?"

"Depends. You gonna eat with me?" Roy hums, resting his chin in the rough palm of his muscular hand and you wince.

"We're actually not allowed to eat on the job, if it's not a dessert."

Roy lets out a hum.

"Two parfaits, please. One chocolate and the other a flavour of your choice." Roy orders, emerald gaze roving over your features, committing them to memory because he's not gonna take a picture of you for his spank bank. Because that's just... Creepy.

He'll just... Look at you really hard and hope to be able to piece the pictures well enough when he needs to.

"You wanna order two parfaits? You're basically paying whole price." You state, your fingertips tapping on the thin metal tray and he corrects you. "I've got a 20% discount still."

"She sounds pretty, put in the eyepiece." Jason hisses in Roy's ear, the binoculars aren't good enough to see through the structures that seem to permanently obscure you from vision. Like you're allergic to getting spied on.

"I'm not touching my fucking eyeball in a restaurant, you freak." Roy murmurs under his breath, ignoring Jason's curses.

"Oh, like you care about germs, you filthy bastard. Your apartment would look like a dumpster if you didn't have Lian." Jason mocks.

"I will shoot you in the eye. I'm not even fucking kidding." Roy threatens, before letting out a deep breath, carding his muscular fingers through his orangey strands.

When Roy watches you slide into the seat across from him, he can't deny the way the weight lifts from his belly.

The pretty, white ruffled shirt with the pretty pastel waistcoat and a matching skirt. None of the staff wear the same colour, all just pastels. And you smile that fucking electric smile, and Roy feels his cock throb like it's never throbbed before.

His hand cups himself beneath the table, in a poor attempt to ease his ache but he can't even hide the way his breath hitches at the way you carefully slide that decorative silver spoon into his parfait.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Over the entire course of the 'date', Roy's eyes can't leave you. He might just die if they do because God, you're perfect.

He loves the way your mouth forms words, he likes the way the corners of your eyes crinkle when you laugh at something, the way the apples of your cheeks turn rosy when he compliments your smile.

God.

You're adorable.

"How'd you meet this girl?" You question, and the softness of your voice shows that you're still the tiniest bit sympathetic.

"She's... A teaching assistant at my buddy's brother's school. So... I did a bit of networking to get her number." Roy explains, eyes glancing towards your expression as he slowly lifts a spoonful of sweet creaminess to his lips, and shoves it in, making sure to flick his tongue against the edge of the spoon.

Your mouth forms a little 'o' shape and you mimic his action, a spoonful of ice cream cooling your tongue.

You take the moment of eating to really... Drink him in. Pretty, dark lashes, leafy green eyes with flecks of gold and blue, the faintest freckles dusted over his cheeks and that sexy scar right at his jaw. He's shaved. Freshly. But the nick on his chin suggests that it's the first time in a while, but he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd have a full-on beard.

Maybe a 5 o'clock shadow.

You don't think too hard before you speak again.

"You wanna key her car?" You question, almost teasingly but there's the cutest glint of mischief in your eyes that make him damn near soak through his boxers.

"I'm gonna come off as a psychotic asshole." Roy snorts. "Even if it is well-deserved."

"Then I'll do it." You shrug your shoulders, unable to hide the twitch at the corners of your mouth when Roy lets out that boyish yet husky laugh.

"I'm not above keying someone's car." You add. "Or even stealing tires. Or gas."

"Wow." Roy snickers.

"You're really, uh... Really something else."

Batman works hard.

But Roy works harder.

Fingers thrust in your mouth, your legs spread almost sinfully wide as Roy's tongue drags wet, sloppy strokes against your cunt, flicking at the hood of your clit. Emerald eyes peer up at you over your mound and hiked up skirt and your expression makes him harder than anything.

Eyes rolling back in your head, brows pinched into a little frown and your wet, flushed lips wrapped around his middle and ring finger, the feel of your tongue against the pads of his digits.

You're trying so hard to keep quiet.

And he has to ruin that.

You let out a low moan, pornographic sound strewn together in a cacophony that bounces off the tiled walls and glinting floors and reaching his ears.

Roy's two digits scissor inside your gummy walls, his tongue working against your pebbled clit as his fingers give lazy strokes, curling against that spongy spot that makes your toes curl.

Manicured fingers thread through his hair, strands of clementine and orange slip from your grasp like shredded silk and he moans at the way your nails brush against his scalp in that sweet way.

Like you're massaging conditioner into his head.

"That's it, pretty girl. Come on my fingers and tongue." He groans. "Use me to feel good."

You moan around his fingers, teeth nearly leaving indentations in the skin as you cum, thighs pressing against his ears, and he hears your blood rush. Your pulse thrumming against his ears, and your body twitching and hips bucking.

He laps at you like a thirsty man.

Throat parched and only you can wash down the bullshit that life's been shoving down his mouth for the past few years.

Roy pulls his fingers out of you, licking them clean before he gently flips you over.

Your toes meet the tiles, your tummy pressed against the chilly counter of the bassinet and your cheek presses against the coolness of the mirror.

Hot breaths fog up your reflective image and for the shortest moment, you watch the way Roy palms the flesh of your ass. Globes fill his calloused palms and you barely realise what's going on when he guides your leg to rest along the counter.

"Keep that there for me, beautiful."

Roy's thumb is pushed into your messy pussy, slowly fucking the pudgy digit into your hole, just to get the interior of it. Before he fucks. Hard.

"God, you're so fucking messy." The squelchy sounds are louder than your muffled moans and you let out a sluttiest gasp, looking over your shoulder at Roy as his tongue slides over your puckered entrance.

He taunts the hole, his left hand resting on your tailbone and his thumb teasing the start of the cleft of your ass, before his tongue drags up.

All the way to your tailbone and back down.

His right hand's fingers brush and tease at your clit, his left hand moves lower and he thumbs at your asshole, spitting messy globs of spit at the hole before licking it back up.

You feel like a dirty whore.

A man you don't even know is licking at your holes like a rabid animal, trying to commit your tastes to memory and he tilts his head.

Before pulling back.

"Let me see that pretty hole, angel." Roy coaxes you sweetly, watching as your hands move to spread the plushy globes, exposing yourself even more and he groans.

His cock is scraping against his zipper, leaking precum into his boxers and down his thighs, but he doesn't feel like he should fuck you yet.

At least not on your first date.

You're not some whore.

"Fuck, that's it, gorgeous."

Roy is fucking hypnotised, one hand fucking and adoring your leaky cunt, while the other hand fucks your virgin ass. You're tight at both ends, lips pursed into the cutest frown, hot breaths fogging and steaming up the mirror and your toes curl.

Your cunt trickles all while your orgasm builds, wetness and slippery mess dripping down your inner thighs.

You've never been like this before.

Roy pulls his thumb out of your cunt, spitting at your cunt and spitting on his digits, before three thick fingers fuck into your hole at a god-like pace. While he dips his head lower, tongue out and ready.

You whine and mewl, feeling so full and so good until your knees buckle and you shake.

Thighs shudder and shake, and your muffle your scream in your shoulder as you cum, spurting your messy and slick juices all over Roy's awaiting tongue.

He doesn't waste. Not a single drop as he swallows everything you give him, droplets dribbling down his chin and wetting the collar of his crew neck.

Roy pulls away, pressing a kiss to the flesh of your ass before straightening up and looking at you.

Back arched like a cat, pussy and ass messy with lovebites and spit and he groans, palming himself through his jeans.

"Fuck, I should've brought a condom." Roy groans under his breath, his body nearly melting at the way you look at him through bleary eyes, lips wet and raw from being bitten.

"Don't you trust your pull-out game?" You question, a shaky breath leaving your lungs burning like you've ran a marathon.

"I've got a kid, gorgeous. My pull-out game's as reliable as a knitted condom."

—♱—

Pulling back an arrow, Roy releases the end, watching as the wood thwips through the air, wind pushing it even closer before the metal pierces the target.

"Target neutralised." Roy speaks into the earpiece, his voice low.

"Good job, gorgeous." Jason responds and it feels like Roy's world comes crashing down around him before he lets out a low, disturbed and embarassed groan.

"Yeahhhhhh." Jason snorts. "You didn't turn off the earpiece."

#smut #x reader smut #sobbingscripter #roy harper x reader smut #roy harper x reader #roy harper smut #roy harper dc #roy harper #dc comics smut #dc smut #dc #dc comics #dc comics roy harper #dc comics x you

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rockingbytheseaside · 2 months ago

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✦ The little gifts they give you

(Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia)

tw: none, pure fluff

✧ Pierro – Love letters hidden in the house

When you awaken in the hush of dawn, your beloved is nowhere to be seen in the house. He often rises before the world stirs, summoned by his obligations as the Fatui Director during the first rays of dawn. However, even if he has to depart as you sleep soundlessly, it’s never without leaving a small note by his pillow.

A small, beautiful card, meticulously folded and inked in his elegant cursive. A masterful piece full of words that he yearns to speak when he is away at work. You only opened your eyes, yet a smile already graces your lips when you spot the letter on his side of the bed. It reads:

“You sleep like a tender beauty, your thoughts are my constant companion. Even when you rise, the pillows and covers grieve for the absence of your warmth, like the departure of summer, leaving but the coldness of winter. So does my heart miss you when I am away. May you rise like a blooming Leucojum, starting off your morning well, while I think of you every waking second.”

He often did that, leaving you small sonnets around the house while he was away at work. His fancy for poetry and writing had endured since his noble youth in ancient Khaenri’ah, a love untouched by time. This way, even when he’s away, he still manages to bring a smile to your face first thing in the mornings.

You’d find other letters elsewhere. One day, he’d leave it in your study room:

“The pen and paper you write in get graced by your wisdom. The tomes that line your shelves store knowledge for your interest, each page covets your attention. Share your discoveries with me when I am back, my divine.”

Another, he’d hide it by the dresser:

“When you don your attire for the day, the stars and moons would gasp in awe. Yet it is I alone who bear witness to your truest splendor. I count the second until I may once again gather you in my arms, to undo every silken layer-”

Oops, never mind. Best not to read that one aloud. Too intimate for wandering eyes. Either way, throughout the months, you’d collect these little love letters, always keeping them safe as a memo, giddy whenever you reread them, or stashing them happily for safekeeping. For such excellent penmanship, the Jester truly deserves some extra adoration from you.

✧ Il Capitano – Exotic flowers and seeds from all over Teyvat

‘Is a bouquet of flowers too cliche a gift for someone you miss?’ – the Harbinger pondered to himself. He stood by the outskirts of Kannazuka, not far from Yashiori Island, where the solemn sea breeze swept by crimson Dendrobium petals. He heard from locals that these flowers were thought to be instinct, yet returned to where blood was once spilled on Inazuman soil.

You’d appreciate the austere symbolism of such flora, and the Captain knelt before carefully picking it by the stem. He paid respect to each bloom, as any warrior who understands the grievances of a quiet battlefield would. Thus, by the time his mission drew to its quiet end, the 1st of the Fatui Harbinger appeared with a bouquet presented to your arms.

“Hm? You plucked these, Capi?” – You looked at him curiously, the bouquet massive in your arms. “But that means they will wilt soon.”

The Captain’s helmet dipped slightly, his unreadable face betraying a flicker of hesitance. Perhaps this was a bad idea?

“...I apologize, do you dislike them?”

You smiled at him, with meticulous swiftness, you moved with the bouquet, searching for an appropriate vase, and to fill it with water. The Dendrobiums were indeed exquisite, yet what you desired was their preservation, especially if such blossoms bore no seeds to sow. Thus, your beloved watched in fascinated silence as you showed him how to remove extraneous leaves and guard petals. It will help the flowers last longer. Now, the Captain had more ideas.

During his other expeditions, he no longer sought out just any flowers; he would seek intel on horticulture or where to purchase high-quality seeds. If he’d purchased flowers, he’d barter for seeds rather than stems and purchase plants nestled in earthen pots. If only you had witnessed the face of the poor Mondstadtian girl who overlooked the Floral Whisper shop - Flora. She went silent as to why a Harbinger was questioning how to properly maintain Windwheel Aster during transport. In truth, he was so excited to bring his beloved one more exotic plant, he could only think of your expression when you see the petals spin in the breeze.

Thus, you found yourself with a makeshift garden, brought to you proudly by Capitano. Each flower is a fragment of his journeys, a testament of his quiet devotion. He even helped construct a modest greenhouse, sturdy and sun-warmed, to shelter those blooms that craved warmer climates. Now, every time the Harbinger is away and spots a single flower blooming in the wild, his mind wanders back to you; what else might my beloved like?

✧ Il Dottore – Small inventions to make your life easier

To love someone doesn’t equal to lavishing that person with materialistic luxuries. Dottore knows you have little taste for frivolity, acquiring only what necessity demands. Instead, he attends to subtler needs: when you scribble in your notebooks for hours, your fingers get tired from clutching a pen, the side of your palms are smeared with either ink or graphite. Hence, one evening, he returns with a set of gloves.

“Here, give me your hand,” – he said busily, already cradling your palms as he carefully put on two-finger writing gloves, securing your skin in comfort against the soft material. “I ensured the design is versatile when you’re writing something, without tiring or smudging your hand. Tell me if it feels better.”

You never even noticed or complained about the ache. At times, the Doctor saw you plop down on the sofa, tired and whining from cleaning around. You were always meticulous with your personal space, but none is immune from the hassle of vacuuming, dusting, or cleaning the floors. Especially if it gave you a night of painful back pain. Hiring attendants would have been the simplest solution, he thought. But he preferred an idea far more personal.

“Take this,” – he casually handed you a circular device. You blinked in confusion but accepted the new state-of-the-art machinery. “An automatic vacuum cleaner. It will map out the layout of the house so it can sweep the floors whenever you’re away. Spare yourself the drudgery.”

And another time, when you were delighted by your purchase of a sweet bubble tea beverage, you wistfully lamented how difficult it was to replicate such indulgences at home. Oh well, you shrugged, but Dottore was sitting nearby, already scheming a blueprint.

A week later, your kitchen bore a marvel: a gleaming coffee and tea machine, capable of brewing, frothing, even carbonating any beverage you wished. You just have to throw in the ingredients of your choice. Be it coffees, matchas, smoothies, or bubble teas, not even Fontainian cafes had such appliances.

“Dottore, when did you have the time to wipe out such a machine? That’s massive work!” – you inquired curiously one day, but The Harbinger waved his hand dismissively, stating:

“Hm? Oh, why, this is hardly a strain. I don’t like seeing you toil over menial tasks or seek out solutions that will just burn through your Mora. If you are in want of anything, you can always ask me. You know that, correct?”

Even in matters where you never uttered a single complaint, Dottore’s ever observant nature remained unfaltering. He would silently bask in the sight of you, committing every small nuance of your life and habits to memory. He’d sit with his chin resting on his palm, silently smiling as you enjoyed his inventions or the little knick-knacks around his lab that brought your sincere smile.

✧ Scaramouche – Learning to cook your favourite dishes

The Ballader never grasped humanity’s fascination with food. Concerning sustenance, survival required little. Animals hunted their prey without fanfare, yet humankind alone had transformed eating into a cult. Fawning over flavors? Creating restaurants? Scaramouche never got it, even when he first lived as an innocent puppet in the rural village of Tataratsuna.

So why was he here, eyebrows furrowed as he looked over the sizzling meat on the stove? Somehow, against all reason, the Harbinger cooked an entire meal exclusively for you!

“Ah, you’re back at last. Come here,” – he beckoned you diligently to sit down, presenting you with a bowl of Gyudon, a beef and rice bowl topped with egg yolk on top. You obeyed, baffled yet in pure awe, while Scaramouche sat opposite you with arms crossed. “Well? Don’t just glare at it. Taste it!”

So you did. “Um, Scara… did you cook this?”

He nodded silently.

“Did you… Add any soy sauce anywhere? Maybe salt or mirin?”

Oh no.

Turns out, cooking is no simple art form. There are careful blends of spices and garnishes that make even the simplest dishes outstanding. And unfortunately for the Ballader, he missed all the steps, underestimating the power of spices that one must add to the beef. He watched you gulp down with a nervous, hesitant smile. You radiated so much encouragement that it ached. Scaramouche said nothing, only sat broodingly still. Nonetheless, he had to remind himself that he was no longer in Tataratsune. The simple folks there often kept rice as a garnish, and many imports of spices never reached the rural islands of Inazuma. He does not have to run barefoot to scavenge for Lavender Melons from wind-worn hills.

He didn’t let that deter him. Little by little, he paid more attention to the spices he had to put in. Never too much, never too little. Noticing your love for rich flavors and blends of textures, The Harbinger challenges the kitchen like an enemy, learning new dishes and methods. When you simply asked him why the sudden hobby, he replied:

“I thought humans liked homecooking. So I hoped one day you’d come… knowing there would be some. Isn’t that where a home is?”

“Oh, Scara,” - your hand found the curve of his back, to which he never leaned away. “I think you’re a quick learner, because you made leaps of progress. And your last dish, the Unagi Chazuke? It was perfect.”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it, you know?” – he mused whistfully.

“No, I mean it. I think Chazukes are your best. But don’t get discouraged. Inazuman cuisine focuses on subtle blends of saltiness and sweetness, relying on ingredients like rice vinegar, sesame oil, or soy sauce. But Sumeru? Oh, I heard they have all kinds of spices out there!”

You went on and on with unbridled enthusiasm, weaving tales of harra fruits ground into rare, fragrant spices, prized all over Teyvat. Scaramouche listened silently, more in delight at your simple excitement. Perhaps he started to understand why humans focused so much on food. Not out of survival, but as a cultural effort to spend time together, a silent way to stay a little longer. Because whenever he sat down with you over a meal, it felt more than just an indulgence.

Maybe if he ever gets the chance, he should visit Sumeru…?

✧ Pantalone – His coats or clothing after each date

It started by sheer coincidence. One time, the two of you were enjoying a splendid afternoon, when suddenly the wind stirred without warning, bearing the chill of an impending October rain. Caught unprepared without an umbrella, and before the two of you could bid farewell for the day, Pantalone stopped you.

“Wait, honey,” – he deftly unbuttoned his coat, wrapping it around your form from behind and adjusting the fur-lined collar to shield you from the cold. “Here, wear this along the road. If it starts raining, the hood of this coat will keep you spotless.”

You wanted to protest, but when The Harbinger saw you half-swallowed by the voluminous fabric, only your gaze barely peeking through, it demanded every ounce of restraint to maintain his gentlemanly expression. ‘My… my sweetheart! They look utterly precious! Like a bundled burrito!’

Your words of worry slipped past him from one ear to the other – “Ahem. Nonsense, my love. You can keep it for now.”

On another occasion, when he had invited you for a pleasant dinner date at his estate, the atmosphere bloomed with warmth and quiet comfort. The candlelit table was set, as you aided him in arranging the plates and dishes in the dining room. Pantalone, ever at ease in your presence, casually shrugged off his sweater, remaining in a crisp button-up now that the fireplace’s warmth embraced the indoors. However, it wasn’t until you wore his sweater after dinner that he realized he had left it on the sofa, and it piqued your curiosity.

“Ah, if I had a camera on me right now, I would’ve taken a hundred photo shots of you!”

“Sorry, sorry, I can give your sweater back.”

“Not a chance now. Keep it!”

Thus, a habit was formed. Whether by intent or by innocent accident, Pantalone would gladly share with you his wardrobe – be it coats, scarves, his pieces of jewelry, or bigger lounging shirts. You assumed he let you borrow them, like the loving boyfriend that he is. Yet he never asked for them back, even when you suggested taking them off, stating proudly:

“Honey, I have plenty more in my closet. If I were in dire need of taking them back, I could simply purchase tailor-made once more. But I’d rather see you wear them. You look splendid in my clothes.”

It stirred a quiet pride within the Regrator, to be accompanied by his sweetheart in public, and the people recognizing his iconic coat draped over your shoulder. A clear message of who has his heart cupped in their palms, and who he adores beyond reverent adoration.

Yet what truly stole the crown is when you’re together in the comfort of your home, and decide to forgo any garments and simply slip into one of his button-up shirts. He’d find you, re-emerged from the bathroom, looking all cleaned and refreshed, your figure clad in his shirt.

All the blood leaves his head. There is not a single thought in his brain - just the image of you. In bed, his button-up shirt the sole remaining piece covering your figure.

“You know, Pantalone, I must admit - I love the feeling of your clothes. They’re soft and comfortable, yet they carry a whiff of your scent. Thank you for not mind me wearing them. I can give it back if y-... Dear?”

Yep, he’s about to pass out. His beloved is too beautiful.

✧ Tartaglia – Plushies as souvenirs from different regions

The young Harbinger took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and stretched his neck. A recent mission in Liyue lay completed behind him, but did that mean he could rest and take a break? No, alas, the battle has only started. And today’s battle is shopping in the busy markets of Liyue in search of gifts and souvenirs.

He often makes a mental list of what presents to bring home to Snezhnaya. New fishing gear for his father, fine garments for his dear sister Tonia, rare tomes for Anthon, and vibrant Liyue kites for little Teucer. His arms often returned so laden with offerings that his family affectionately dubbed him Ded Moroz, or as Teucer would shout in delight upon his arrival: “Father Christmas is back home!”

Nonetheless, despite the massive ordeal of finding appropriate gifts, the task Childe found most effortless is finding you all sorts of figurines and plushies from each region.

Maybe this Rex Lapis dragon plushie? No, you already have a five-foot-tall one at home; no need for another. Perhaps this rotund bird plush, fashioned after some grumpy Liyue adeptus? Oh, but there are also beautiful plushies from Fontaine, resembling Blubberbeasts and otters. Even though the sight of otter plushies gave him a dreadful sense of déjà vu. Truly, there were far too many to choose from.

And knowing Tartaglia, his heart would cave in and purchase all of them for you either way. He would return home triumphant, adding to your ever-growing collection, until your bed became a veritable kingdom of pillowy plush creatures, half of them functioning as pillows all over the house. No matter what your cherished brought, you’d smile in delight at his safe return, but laugh when he proudly presented the chunky blubberbeast plush with a boyish grin.

“Oh, by the way, look! I also bought this,” – he suddenly stated and handed you a masterfully crocheted keychain of a little Sumeru creature. Its stitched smile looking silly.

“Ajax, what is that?” - you chuckled, more amused by the Harbinger’s goofy smile.

“The shopkeeper called it an Aranara. There is a legend in Sumeru that these little wood critters roam the jungles, but are only visible to children who retain their innocent childhood imagination.”

You turned the keychain over in your hands, pondering where best to fasten it. It was charming, like every other token Childe so thoughtfully brought you. Yet truth be told, everyone knows your favourite plushy to cuddle was not the entourage of souvenirs, but the Harbinger who bought them. And in Childe’s mind, that alone was the sweetest victory he could claim.

(Some lovelies kindly asked me if I can add the Harbinger missing in my fanfics. I try to keep those specific characters in my stories, but if you ever see me not include Scara or let's say Childe - it's not because I forgot or dislike them, but because sometime in the process of writing I do not want to repeat the same tropes for all the characters depending on the headcanons :< thank you for reading so far)

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txrully · 8 months ago

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BLLK BOYS' CHRISTMAS GIFTS!

chars: isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, chigiri hyoma, mikage reo, hiori yo, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, michael kaiser, alexis ness x fem! reader (all seperate)

a/n: whew that's a lot of characters.. ;-;

isagi yoichi

he’s overthinking. like, seriously overthinking. this man has researched “best gifts for girlfriends” on google at least five times. a candle? too basic. jewelry? what if you don’t like it? a heartfelt handwritten letter? too corny.

it takes bachira dragging him to a mall (where he immediately gets overwhelmed by the crowds) to finally decide. he ends up picking out a cute sweater that’s totally your style and pairs it with a charm bracelet he thinks would look adorable on you. bonus: he spends an extra half hour wrapping it perfectly. there’s no way he’s messing this up.

... except he accidentally forgets the tag and panics, scribbling a little sticky note with “to the best girlfriend ever :)” right before handing it to you.

bachira meguru

bachira’s gift? chaotic perfection. this man goes all out, no second-guessing. he decides on a custom plushie that looks like you and him as little cartoon characters (it’s both adorable and mildly terrifying, let’s be real).

but that’s not all. he also makes a scrapbook filled with random polaroids of the two of you – some cute, some extremely cursed – and decorates every page with colorful doodles and washi tape.

he doesn’t bother with wrapping paper, though. he hands it to you in a giant gift bag covered in glitter with the words “BEST GIRLFRIEND IN THE WORLD!” written in permanent marker.

rin itoshi

rin claims he doesn’t “do christmas.” yeah, okay, mr. grinch. except he totally does, because he’s secretly been working on his gift for weeks. he gets you something practical but meaningful, like a sleek pair of headphones in your favorite color, engraved with your initials.

oh, and he throws in a tiny sanrio keychain because he noticed you staring at one in a store once. (yes, he remembers these things. don’t ask how.)

he doesn’t say much when he gives it to you, just a quiet “merry christmas” while awkwardly avoiding your gaze. but you catch the little smile when you say you love it, and it’s the best present of all.

nagi seishiro

nagi... completely forgot it was christmas until reo reminded him. but don’t worry, he’s got this! (or so he claims.)

his idea of a “perfect” gift is something chill and cozy – like a weighted blanket and a pair of fluffy socks, because he knows you love staying warm. he wraps them in the most halfhearted way possible, with tape sticking out everywhere and zero attempt at folding the edges.

“it’s what’s inside that counts,” he mumbles when you laugh at the wrapping job. you love it anyway, because it’s so him. and when you catch him napping under that same blanket with you later, you know he secretly loves it too.

chigiri hyoma

chigiri’s gift is effortlessly elegant, just like him. he spends weeks planning it out because he wants everything to be perfect. he gets you a delicate necklace with a tiny charm that reminds him of you – maybe a snowflake or a flower.

but that’s not all. he also bakes you cookies (yes, chigiri bakes, fight me on this) and arranges them in a cute little tin with a handwritten card. the card? it’s filled with heartfelt words that make you tear up just a little.

when you thank him, he gives you one of those soft smiles that makes your heart race. “only the best for you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

mikage reo

reo spoils you. like, you tried to tell him to keep it small this year, but does reo listen? absolutely not.

his gift is an entire experience – dinner at a fancy restaurant, followed by a private ice-skating session (because, of course, he booked the whole rink). then he hands you a perfectly wrapped box containing the most beautiful dress (or outfit) he picked out just for you.

“i saw it and thought it’d look amazing on you,” he says casually, like he didn’t spend hours agonizing over it. you try to scold him for going overboard, but he just grins. “your happiness is worth it.”

hiori yo

hiori is the thoughtful gift-giver. he listens to every little thing you say and somehow remembers it all.

so when you open his gift, you’re stunned to find it’s exactly what you mentioned months ago – whether it’s a book you wanted to read, a cozy hoodie you loved, or even that random stuffed animal you gushed about once in passing.

he also includes a playlist he made just for you, filled with songs that remind him of you and your time together. when you tell him how much it means to you, he gives you a shy smile and says, “i just wanted to make sure you felt special.”

shidou ryusei

shidou’s gift? utterly unhinged but somehow sweet in the weirdest way possible. he buys you a gigantic stuffed animal—like, it barely fits through the door. why? because he “wants you to think of him when you’re hugging it.” (as if you could forget him even if you tried.)

but wait, there’s more. he also gives you a pair of matching pajamas. yes, matching. one side is obnoxiously pink with sparkly hearts (yours), and the other is black with a neon skull print (his).

when you ask him why, he just smirks and goes, “so everyone knows we’re the ultimate power couple, babe.” obnoxious? yes. thoughtful in his own shidou way? absolutely.

itoshi sae

sae doesn’t do christmas gifts. or so he says. but then he shows up at your place with a sleek little bag in hand, acting like it’s not a big deal.

inside? the perfect pair of winter gloves—luxurious, soft, and in your favorite color. oh, and he picked out a matching scarf, because, in his words, “you’re always complaining about being cold.”

he tries to play it cool when you gush over the gift, but you catch the tiniest smirk when you wrap the scarf around your neck. “don’t make it a big deal,” he mutters, but the way he watches you wear it says otherwise.

michael kaiser

kaiser’s gift is pure drama. he makes an event out of it, because, of course, he has to be the center of attention. he leads you on a whole scavenger hunt through the house, complete with cryptic notes and hints that are honestly harder than necessary.

when you finally reach the last clue, it’s a big box wrapped in glittery gold paper with an obnoxiously large bow. inside? a designer coat that probably cost more than your rent.

“only the best for my empress,” he says with that signature smug grin, pulling you into his arms. when you point out he went way overboard, he shrugs and smirks. “you’re worth it.”

alexis ness

ness is the ultimate cinnamon roll gift-giver. he spends weeks making something special for you—like a scrapbook filled with photos, ticket stubs, and little notes from your time together.

but he also surprises you with something cozy, like a fluffy blanket or a custom sweater he picked out because he knows you’re always cold.

when you thank him, his cheeks turn pink, and he shyly mutters, “i just wanted you to have something that feels like a hug from me.” (stop. he’s too precious.)

do not copy, translate, plagiarize, or post my works on other platforms.

likes and reblogs appreciated :) <3

hmmm should i make a part 2 w other characters? pls lmk! ^^

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queenbcreations · 2 months ago

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Flip Flap Fun Fold Cards

Welcome to the Stampin’ Pretty Pals’ Blog Hop! This month’s theme is “Flowers in Bloom.” The Pals hope to inspire you with card ideas and paper craft creations using Stampin’ Up! products. Links to the Pals’ blogs are at the end of each post to help you “hop” along! I’m excited to share two beautiful flip flap fun fold card ideas that are perfect for stepping up your handmade cardmaking. These…

#blog hop #card making #Cardmaking #fancy fold card #flip flap card #fun fold card #handmade card #stampin up

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fear-is-truth · 7 months ago

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THE PERFECT GIRL — patrick bateman x reader

THE CAB HUMS FAINTLY as it cuts through manhattan traffic, the city’s skyline glowing outside the windows. your fiancé sits beside you, immaculately dressed in valentino, his walkman resting on his lap as he adjusts the foam pads of his headphones.

whitney houston’s voice leaks out, bursts of synth breaking through whenever the cab hits a pothole. the air smells of leather and the paul sebastian fine cologne patrick doused himself in before leaving his apartment. you’re pressed into the corner of the backseat, trying to stay out of his way while he stares out the window, the city outside reflected in his glassy eyes like an art exhibit only he can understand.

you’ve spent most of the ride staring out the window, accustomed to his rituals. patrick doesn’t talk much in cabs—usually distracted by his music or staring at his reflection in the window. not exactly a conversationalist unless the subject revolves around himself.

your game of counting homeless people slumped in doorways and subway grates has run its course, leaving you disheartened.

it’s too many. there’s always too many.

bored out of your mind, you sneak a glance at him, taking in his sharp features, the way his full lips part slightly like he’s thinking hard about something. maybe another fancy restaurant he’s dragging you to. maybe a new suit. maybe the font of someone’s business card.

“you okay, patrick?” you ask casually, not really expecting an answer.

but he surprises you.

“we should get married,” he states flatly.

you blink, caught between confusion and disbelief. “what?”

patrick adjusts his headphones like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb into the space between you.

“married, y/n.” he repeats with an air of impatience in his tone.

“it makes sense. people expect it.”

“wait—pat, are you serious?”

“you’re… not terrible,” he mumbles, as if that’s supposed to be some grand compliment. “it would—what’s the word—streamline things.”

you laugh, the sound a little shaky because what else are you supposed to do? “streamline things?” you echo, folding your arms. “that’s your pitch?”

patrick shrugs. “you don’t want a wedding? flowers, rings, cake?” he gestures vaguely, his hand slicing through the air. pantomiming cutting a wedding cake (or someone’s jugular). you’re still trying to process this, trying to figure out if he’s serious or just messing with you.

“well, do you want that, patrick?”

he pauses, the question hanging in the air. for a second, his mouth twitches, like he’s about to say something honest, but instead, he leans back in his seat, pulling his headphones back over his ears.

“…just consider it,” he mutters, closing his eyes as the music drowns you out again.

#patrick bateman x reader #patrick bateman fanfic #patrick bateman #patrick bateman imagine #american psycho #slasher x reader #slasher fanfic #christian bale x reader #slasher fluff

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tacobacoyeet · 16 days ago

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father's day with... dad bod!patrick

warnings: SMUT 18+, one use of daddy in a semi-sexual way but not really, he's just a cutie i love him so much, i want to have his babies

-----

The kids start begging the night before.

They’ve already made the card— a folded piece of printer paper covered in gluey macaroni and aggressive glitter, signed in various attempts at spelling "Love you Daddy." You’ve already picked up the gifts: a new grill spatula with a cheeky "Kiss the Chef" engraving, a framed photo of him passed out on the couch with both kids napping on top of him, and the socks. God, the socks— bright blue with "#1 DILF" stitched in obnoxious lettering. A joke, of course, but also not.

You were going to keep things simple. Give him the gifts over coffee, maybe let him sleep in. But then the kids start tugging at your hoodie, pleading like they’re about to be banished from the kingdom.

"Can we pleeeeease make him breakfast in bed?"

You raise a brow. "You mean you’re going to let me make breakfast while you lick batter and argue about who gets to carry the tray?"

"No! We're gonna make it."

That's a disaster waiting to happen. But your kids have Patrick's face and you can never resist. So you sigh, smile, and say, "Fine. But you’re waking up early, and we’re not telling him."

They squeal. They pinky promise. One of them tries to hide the card in the oven.

---

The next morning is a beautiful mess.

Pancake mix in hair. Syrup on pajamas. Someone spills orange juice and declares it a "kitchen emergency." They manage to burn only one piece of bacon. The kids decorate the tray with wildflowers from the yard and tuck the card underneath a napkin like it’s a secret treasure.

When you all tiptoe into the bedroom— tray wobbling, giggles barely contained— Patrick is already half-awake, blinking against the sunlight, hair matted to one side and shirtless beneath the covers.

"Happy Father’s Day!" they shout, and he flinches like he’s been tackled. Which, to be fair, he has been. They scramble onto the bed, and one plops a pancake directly on his chest.

"We made it all by ourselves!" they beam.

Patrick looks at you over their heads. Your face says, Don’t lie to them. His says, I’d eat raw eggs if it meant they stayed this happy.

He eats every bite. Kisses sticky cheeks. Reads the card out loud with his voice thick and fond. Later, he pulls you into the hallway and murmurs, "I don’t need anything else. This? This is everything."

And even though you’re covered in flour and your coffee’s cold, you believe him.

You always do.

---

The rest of the day is exactly what it should be: slow, easy, wrapped in love.

Patrick wears the handmade pasta necklace one of the kids gave him like it’s a medal of honor. They insist he keep it on all day— even when he’s manning the grill, even when he’s wrestling them into sunscreen, even when he falls asleep in the hammock with one kid draped across his chest and the other tracing hearts on his arm with a juice box straw.

You keep it simple, like he likes it. No fancy plans, no crowd. Just the four of you and a backyard that smells like smoke and honeysuckle.

The gifts come out after lunch. He gets a laugh out of the spatula. Nearly tears up at the framed photo. Gives you that soft, reverent look— the one that says he still can’t believe this is his life. That he gets to have this. That he gets to have you.

And as the sun starts to set and the kids wind down, sticky-fingered and sleep-drunk from too much watermelon and laughter, you both tuck them in. Kisses on cheeks. "Thank you for today, Daddy," whispered like a secret.

You find him later in the kitchen, backlit by the refrigerator light, eating the last pancake cold and shirtless.

"There’s one more gift," you say.

He turns, grinning. "Is it another photo of me drooling on the couch?"

"No," you murmur, and hand him a tiny wrapped box. "But it’s just for you. Now that the kids are asleep."

He opens it, curious— and then bursts out laughing.

Bright blue socks. Bold white letters: #1 DILF.

He lifts them like they’re sacred. "Oh my God."

"I had to," you say, biting your lip.

"These are incredible." He pauses. "You know I’m never taking these off now, right?"

"That’s fine," you say, stepping closer. Your fingers tug at the waistband of his sleep shorts, low and lazy. "But you might want to take everything else off."

He smirks. "You wanna fuck me in my new dad socks?"

You hum. "Not quite."

He raises a brow.

"I want to take care of you tonight," you say, voice soft. "You give so much to all of us— today, every day. Let me give something back. Let me make you feel how loved you are."

His smile falters just slightly. Goes softer. Deeper. His hands come to your waist like a question.

"Okay," he breathes. "Yeah. Please."

He kisses you like he’s grateful. Like he needs this— not just the sex, but the surrender. The quiet devotion of it. And when you pull him to the bedroom, when he lays back and lets you strip him down to nothing but those ridiculous socks, he doesn’t joke. Doesn’t deflect. Just watches you with wide, wet eyes.

You start slow. Kisses down his chest. Hands smoothing over his stomach like you love it (because you do). You praise every part of him— the arms that carry your babies, the hands that fix broken toys and rub your back at night, the belly that softens against yours when he holds you in the kitchen.

He looks like he might cry.

"You deserve this," you whisper, sinking down to kiss the crease where thigh meets hip. "Every second."

He moans when you take him in your mouth, already so sensitive he’s shaking. You work him slowly, lovingly, watching his stomach tense and relax beneath your touch. And when he finally can’t take anymore, when his fingers curl into the sheets and his voice cracks on your name, you pull back just long enough to climb on top and guide him inside.

He gasps. Chokes on it. His hands flutter up to your hips, barely holding on.

"I got you," you whisper, moving slow. Deliberate. Every roll of your hips meant to say I love you, I love you, I love you.

He breaks apart like he’s never been touched like this before. Like no one’s ever given him anything just to say thank you.

And when he comes— overwhelmed and whispering, tears clinging to his lashes— you kiss his forehead and stay close. Stay connected. Stay his.

And later, when you’re tangled up and breathless, his hand rests over your stomach without thinking. His voice is hoarse.

"This was the best Father’s Day."

"I know," you whisper, kissing the corner of his smile. "You earned it, Daddy."

And just like that, round two starts— socks still on.

-----

tagging:

@kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream @nozhdyved @asheepinfrance @love-ella333 @jesuistrestriste @cha11engers

want to be tagged in the next one? join here!

#ava's asks #a writes #patrick zweig #dilf!patrick #dilf!patrick zweig smut #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig fluff #patrick zweig smut #dilf!patrick zweig

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fresitasmoribund · 27 days ago

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i’m utterly OBSESSED with your model wolfstar x reader posts

could we potentially get a part 3 (maybe where we are shooting another intimate one bc the last one did so well and sirius convinces remus to do the modelling and let him work the camera - which he does, except this shoot has a far more provocative rougher vibe that the other one and at one point we’re on our knees and stuff and then bam.. smut) 🤭🤗❤️

this took forever im so sorry!

-`♡´- part: 1, 2

-`♡´- pairing: Poly!Wolfstar x Fem!Reader

-`♡´- contains: model!sirius, model!reader, photographer!remus, established wolfstar, modern au, praise, smut, oral (male receiving), fingering

-`♡´- warning: hair pulling (reader has pullable hair? LOL idk hair texture isn’t specified), fingers in mouth

-`♡´- masterlist

-`♡´- word count: 6k

The loft is quiet, save for the creaking of floorboards beneath your heels. You cross your arms, unsure if it is the chill in the air or the thought of seeing them again that raise the goose pimples along your skin.

It had been weeks since that shoot – weeks of confusion and unasked questions. You didn’t know what the three of you were. Nevertheless, the first shoot had been a wild success. Your agent hasn’t stopped singing its praises. “You’re in high demand,” she’d chirped over the phone while confirming this follow-up shoot. “Black and Lupin? Absolute magic with you.”

But the aftermath of the first shoot had still left you feeling… you weren’t quite sure. They’d sent gifts, messages congratulating you, and even a bottle of wine with Sirius’ sprawling handwriting across a tag that read To our muse. Sweet, sure, but what did it mean for the three of you?

And then there was the box. It showed up on your doorstep a week after the shoot. You’d stared at the box for a long moment before opening it – heart pounding – wondering if this was some final gesture to put the shoot behind you… or if it meant something else entirely.

It was the exact set you’d worn during that intimate whirlwind, folded neatly inside. A card in Remus’ script read: Just in case you ever fancy wearing it again.

That was all. No calls. No new texts. No mention of the way Remus’ words seared your skin, or the way Sirius’ mouth had you crying out in pleasure. You concluded that the near-magnetic tension that had pulled the three of you together was only temporary fun. Now, you were booked to face them again.

Your stomach fluttered. What happens this time?

Shadows play along the exposed brick walls, lending the place a rugged feeling. It was a far cry from the chic air of your last photoshoot. And – despite the awkwardness that pulses beneath the surface – they greet you warmly. Remus smiles as Sirius opens his arms for an embrace you can’t stop yourself from being wrapped in. He smells just as you remembered – like a sweet smoky leather.

“Everything okay?” Remus asks as you take a step back from Sirius.

You nod, grateful for the assurance. You’re trying so hard not to smile like an idiot, the corners of your lips twitching. The last shot was so intense, so unpredictable, that this anticipation was getting to you.

“You look perfect,” Sirius chimes in, walking behind you to better appreciate the backless dress you’re wearing.

You look over your shoulder before you can stop yourself. “Planning on buying me this one too?”

You immediately regret what you’d just blurted out. You had only meant it as a joke, not to call out either of them for their leaving you in the dark. A deeper part of you rejoiced in the way Sirius’ eyes widened just a tad, and the intake of breath from the man in front of you.

“Tempting,” was all Sirius mumbles as he walks past you, and he briefly steals another glance at you. You don’t have it in you to apologize, but you do go silent and stare at the floor. But apologize for what, exactly?

As he settles into the chair provided for the pictures, he breaks your sudden trance. “Shall we get straight into it?”

Looking up, Remus gives you a reassuring smile and nod, which you return. You move toward Sirius, and upon your approach, he spreads his legs and looks up at you with that wicked grin of his.

“Up you go, gorgeous,” he murmurs, his hand reaching out to help you onto his lap. You hesitate for a moment, but the pull is too strong. You slide into position, sitting on one of his thighs feeling the warmth of his body beneath you. One of his hands immediately find their place on your hip, the other on your thigh – it’s light, but purposeful.

It’s an intimate start, but it’s nothing you haven’t done together before. Still, as you settle in and Remus’ camera flashes, you try not to think too much on the weight of his hands. You’re all warm and flushed, and you feel as though your blood is boiling beneath your skin. He’s testing the waters with every inch of fabric his fingers roam over. But when you meet his gaze, the playful glint in his eyes deepens, and everything stills. His hand drifts to your back and your muscles tense, causing you to twitch. You can tell he’s trying not to laugh, and you forgive him for his cruelty as he “adjusts” one of the straps of your dress. You swallow, trying to focus on the task at hand. But the tension between you and Sirius is thick – so thick that you can almost taste it.

As you adjust your position, you turn your head toward the camera. Sirius leans in closer, his breath brushing against your ear, and you freeze. He murmurs, his voice low and rougher than before.

“I miss having you like this.” The words wrap around you as you look back to him.

Is my heart giving out? You swear it is.

You were too distracted by the confession you’ve been craving that you weren’t paying attention to his wandering hands. He pulls a gasp from you when he squeezes your breast, your eyes widening.

“Sirius.” Remus’ tone is a clear warning. For a second, you’d almost forgotten what you were here for.

“I’m being good,” Sirius replies casually, but he throws you a wink. Just as it had never happened, his hands slide down to your waist.

His lips hover just shy of yours, your breaths mingling. You fight every fiber of your being not to close the gap, but the moment is gone too quickly. He leans back, his hands still on your body. The room feels significantly smaller, and you shift in his lap. As you adjust your posture to have your body fully facing the camera, his hands follow every moment. He guides you with a casual expertise that betrays how much he’s paying attention. His fingers slide along your thighs, and you try to mask your confusion as he lifts one of your thighs to spread your legs.

You snap your head to look at him, as if to call his bluff. But you should know better, considering who you’re modeling with. Just what are you planning, Sirius Black?

His gaze is locked on yours, giving no clear indication of what he’s really planning. You gasp involuntarily again when you feel the coolness of his rings against your warm flesh, his thumb brushing along the crease of your thigh. The heat rushes to your cheeks as the sound of the camera shutter stops. His fingers slip under your underwear, but he stops before making any contact with your sex – much to your dismay. He glances up at Remus, his grin widening.

“Does this pose work for you, Moony?” It’s way too casual.

Finally detaching your eyes from Sirius’ face, you take note of how stiff Remus is, his camera lowered. His fingers twitch where they rest on the camera, and he exhales slowly. Sirius’ fingers flex against your skin, but Remus schools his features into something neutral. Dragging his gaze from where Sirius’ hand is, he finally looks him in the eyes.

There’s a long pause, and you try your best to keep your breathing in check. Sirius’ fingers trace small, lazy circles against your skin. It tingles and spreads into a shiver curling up your spine. You’re waiting for some big reaction from Remus – for him to cancel the shoot and leave, or set his camera down and join you two. Instead, he clears his throat and shifts his weight.

“Pretty sure that’s not part of the poses we planned for,” he murmurs, though there’s a rough edge to his voice that exposes how tightly wound he is. His gaze flickers to you, assessing, searching for any sign that you want this to stop. But you don’t move away. Should I be moving away? Despite what transpired the previous time you’d seen them; did you have the right to want more from them?

Sirius only hums in response, a deep, satisfied sound.

“Mm, thought it was,” he muses, his fingers twitching against you before – mercifully – he withdrawals his touch, pulling back with a slow drag of his hand.

Sirius guides you effortlessly, and you follow the silent direction to straddle his lap. You press your chest against his, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders. Sirius exhales, tilting his head so that his lips brush against your jaw. Your eyes flutter shut when you feel just the slightest pressure of his lips. The camera clicks, but the sound barely registers over the rapid pulse of your heartbeat.

Sirius’ hands slide down your back, past the curve of your waist, resting firmly beneath the swell of your backside. He shifts beneath you, pressing you against his bulge, and the fleeting friction has you biting your lip to hold back the sound that threatens to escape.

Remus makes a strangled noise – something caught between exasperation and disbelief. “Sirius.”

I should be pleading for forgiveness, not aching for him to fill me while I’m in his boyfriend’s lap.

Sirius only chuckles and makes quick work of pulling your dress over your hips, exposing more of your skin to the cool air of the loft. Your breath hitches as he continues to press you down against him. The slow, deliberate roll of his hips pulls a startled yelp from your lips. It doesn’t take long for you to meet his movements, mewling and rocking against him.

“I haven’t even touched you properly,” he whispers to you. “Missed us that much?”

You can only nod. He drags out an “aww”, mocking pout deepening just to make your face heat more.

You wonder if Remus was able to take enough shots before things spiraled past the realm of professionalism, but the thought barely lingers. A loud chorus of yes, yes, yes drowns out any rational thought as Sirius’ mouth finds the curve of your jaw. The warmth of his slow, open-mouthed kisses combining with the consistent pressure against your core have you crying out pathetically. Your hidden anticipation was revealed by the smallest attention to the space between your legs.

Your fingers twitch against his shoulders, gripping instinctively as another roll of his hips shoots through you. He’s relentless, guiding you into the motion with a firm grip. His lips move down the column of your throat, and just as his teeth scrape against your pulse point—

Remus makes a noise – caught between a sharp inhale and an incredulous scoff. He drags a hand down his face, his patience past the point of wearing thin.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath, though the way he adjusts his stance betrays that he’s not entirely unaffected either. “We’re done with this shoot.”

That’s when Sirius seemed to remember that this was, in fact, a photoshoot – not an excuse to have you grinding against each other. With a sigh that was more performative than genuine, he tilts his head back and shifts his attention back to the camera. While you nervously straighten yourself up, there was a glint in his eye that caught your attention.

“You know what?” Sirius drawls, stretching lazily before flashing Remus a wicked grin. “I’ve always wanted to be behind the camera.”

Remus stills. His brows lift, the only outward sign of his hesitation, but it’s enough for Sirius to pounce. His hands finally relinquish their hold on your ass as he guides you off his lap, standing in one smooth motion. You blink up at him and awkwardly pull your dress down, still feeling the lingering heat of his touch. He doesn’t let go of you just yet, smoothing his hands down your arms before guiding you toward Remus.

Remus eyes Sirius warily, suspicion flickering across his features. “I don’t think—”

Sirius tuts, reaching for the camera hanging from Remus’ neck. “Think less, my love.”

He slides the strap over Remus’ head and lifts the camera into his own hands, testing the weight of it like a prize. His smile is wolfish as he steps back, making a shooing motion. “Go on, Moony. Get close to our girl.”

Our girl.

Fighting back the biggest grin, you glance at Remus as he exhales. He shakes his head in reluctant amusement before his eyes flicker to yours. There’s something so him about it – the careful consideration, the quiet war between curiosity and restraint. You tilt your head, offering a small smile, and that’s all it took for him to fold. He sighs in defeat, moving toward you despite mumbling something under his breath. His first instinct is to fix your hair, sending a pool of heat to your stomach. You mumble a soft thank you.

Sirius raises the camera, adjusting the focus before snapping a quick picture of Remus just standing there, looking unsure. The shutter click echoes through the loft.

Remus tenses. “Oi, don’t waste film.”

Sirius hums, glances at the digital preview before pressing the Playback button.

“Wouldn’t call that a waste,” he mumbles appreciatively, his eyes roaming hungrily over the picture. He turns the camera toward you. “Back me up here, love. Tell our Remus how gorgeous he is.”

Our, our, our… I could die from this.

You nod, your smile widening. “He is.”

Remus lets out a scoffing laugh, ducking his head for a moment and running a hand through his hair. “I’m not photogenic.”

You can’t help shooting him a sharp look, Sirius doing the same.

“That’s enough of that—"

“You’re ridiculous is what you are,” Sirius chides.

Remus raises a brow. “What’s ridiculous is us not having enough pictures for this campaign,”

Sirius ignored him entirely, looking at you instead. “Put your head on his chest.”

“Yes, sir.” You giggle and stepping closer to rest your cheek against the firm plane of Remus’ chest. You hear the steady thump of his heartbeat; feel the way his breath catches ever so slightly at the contact. Sirius clicks his tongue.

“Not close enough.”

You barely have time to react before Sirius reaches out, pressing two fingers against the side of your face to guide you until you’re flush against Remus. It’s not just an adjustment – it’s a silent push to something else. You don’t resist.

The camera clicks.

You slip into action, your fingers grazing over the fabric of Remus’ shirt, tracing the curve of his bicep. You don’t have to think about it anymore – about how to move, how to look. It comes naturally now, your body responding to the weight of Sirius’ gaze behind the lens, to the way Remus’ breathing has begun to stutter. He’s tense, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides.

“Touching her won’t kill you, Moony.”

Remus swallows, his jaw tightening. There’s a pause. He finally lifts a hand, placing it against your head. His touch is warm, grounding. You relax into it, sighing softly as your fingers trail further up his arm – relishing the heat of his skin beneath the soft fabric.

The camera clicks, but you’re barely registering the sound. The warmth of Remus’ fingers still lingers against your head. Sirius hums in satisfaction behind the lens, but you can sense his restlessness – he wants more.

Remus exhales through his nose when you meet his gaze again, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he flexes his fingers against your side. He tests the weight of his touch with a gentle squeeze, and you respond by standing closer to him. He adjusts his stance, rolling his shoulders back slightly. He’s starting to play along, you notice.

The moment breaks when you can’t help letting out a nervous giggle.

He chuckles too, his brows pinching together. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, pressing your lips into a line. “You’re just—” You pause, searching for the words.

“Hopeless?” Sirius suggests, and you roll your eyes.

“I was going to say ’sweet’,” you correct.

Remus scoffs, shaking his head, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “That’s worse.”

“Be possessive about it.” Sirius sighs, shaking his head playfully.

Remus clears his throat, and, before he can overthink it, he cups your jaw. The pad of his thumb sweeps along your cheekbone, testing. Your lips part at the touch, and for a second – his eyes flicker down.

Sirus’ grin is sharp behind the lens. Click.

“Better.”

The more shots Sirius takes, the more Remus falls into it. He strokes his thumb over your jaw, then along the curve of your bottom lip. The touch is featherlight, and yet it has your breath stuttering. With every touch, all you can think about is the Sirius was touching you earlier. You’re not stupid, you know that wasn’t all you were getting today (at least, you hope it isn’t). You appreciate how cautious he’s being, but you honestly wish Remus would just bend you over that desk nearby and fuck you hard.

The camera clicks – again. And again. Each sound punctuating the heat settling thick between you. You can still feel your arousal every time your thighs rub together.

Sirius is in his element – framing the shots, shifting angles, adjusting the focus – but not without an ulterior motive. You can hear it in the way he hums, feel it in the way his eyes are practically devouring every interaction through the viewfinder.

“Mm,” he muses, lower the camera just a tad. “Something’s missing.”

Remus exhales, pressing your back closer against his chest involuntarily. Your head feels like it’s spinning.

Sirius tilts his head, considering.

“Pull her hair, Moony.”

Despite how coolly he said it, your skin prickles.

Remus freezes. His brows lift, his entire body locking up. “Sorry?”

“You heard me,” Sirius replies smoothly, raising the camera again. “Give it a little pull.”

You feel Remus stiffen as you turn around to face him. He blinks once, twice – then lets out an incredulous scoff. “I’m not—”

“Oh, come on,” Sirius interrupts. “You love doing it to me.”

There’s that implication that makes you dizzy once again. The casual implication that you were truly a part of their lives. You had tried to stop yourself from fantasizing before, to save yourself from the discontent that looms over you.

Remus’ jaw clenches, and he glances down at your wide eyes. He makes no move to obey.

You meet his gaze, offering a reassuring nod.

“It’s okay.” You place a hand on his chest.

His throat bobs with a swallow. His reluctance lasts only a second longer before his hand slides up, placing it carefully on your hair. He tugs – not too hard, testing the motion and your reaction.

The pull makes your scalp tingle, a shiver running down your spine. Your eyes flutter shut briefly as a shaky sigh escapes your lips. It’s good – but not enough. You blink up at him, your lips parted, and that’s when you see it. A shift.

Remus sees you. He sees the way your breath quickens, the slight tilt of your chin, the way you’re barely restraining yourself from pushing into it.

So, he tightens his grip.

He roughly pulls your head back, exposing the curve of your throat. Your mouth falls open with a soft, breathy moan. The sound had just left you when the shutter goes off - click, click, click rapid and so eager. Sirius exhales a satisfied laugh.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “Fucking gorgeous.”

Remus doesn’t respond. His breathing is heavier now, his grip unwavering as his free hand comes up to hover near your jaw again.

“Chin,” Sirius directs. “Grip it.”

Remus hesitates for only a moment before his fingers press beneath your chin, tilting your fave toward. His thumb skins along your jawline, rough and calloused. Sirius lets out a hum of approval.

“Now…” Sirius drags out the word, considering. “Put your thumb in her mouth.”

Remus’ eyes barely glances up at Sirius, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip slowly. You part your lips for him without thinking, causing him to inhale sharply through his nose. His thumb ghosts over your teeth before resting on your tongue, the pad pressing down ever so slightly.

Sirius groans softly behind the camera. ”That’s it.”

The moment is charged beyond words, Remus’ breathing goes shallow. His fingers flex subtly against your jaw as your lips close around his thumb. A quiet moan vibrating from the back of your throat. He lets his thumb linger, just barely moving it in and out of your mouth, watching your lips cling to him each time. You respond eagerly, swirling your tongue around the pad of his thumb, tasting the salt of his skin and silently begging him to push just a little further.

When he finally drags his thumb free, your lips chase him slightly before you catch yourself. Remus’ thumb glistens, and you can see the faint tremble in his fingers. Meeting his gaze, you can almost feel the way his entire body thrums with the effort not to devour you.

“Alright, Moony,” Sirius says in a voice that’s almost thoughtful. “Take a seat.”

He jerks his chin toward the worn chair he’d been using earlier, its placement perfect beneath the soft, diffused light from the window.

Remus doesn’t argue, and maybe he can’t. His legs mechanically carry him across the room, and he drops heavily into the chair. His eyes don’t leave yours as his hands rest uselessly on his thighs like he doesn’t know what to do with them. And maybe it’s the heat burning beneath your skin that’s making you feel so daring. Or the look on his face – wanting and trying so hard to behave.

But, whatever it is, it pulls you down to your knees in front of him without a second thought. You hear Sirius’ quick chuckle to your right as he moves to stand behind Remus. There’s a click as he adjusts the settings, framing the scene quickly.

“Well, aren’t you just a dream.” The praise is thick with something heavier than amusement.

Your palms find purchase on Remus’ knees, and you feel the way his thighs tense beneath your touch. He leans forward slightly, like he’s physically incapable of resisting you. You tilt your chin up at him, waiting.

His hand darts out, curling around your jaw – not rough, but firm enough that your breath catches. You just barely register the way his thumb presses into your cheek before his lips smash into yours, your surprised gasp swallowed into the heat of his mouth. The chair creaks beneath him as he leans forward. It doesn’t take long for you to melt into it, meeting his near-desperate pace with as much fervor. Your hands brace against his thighs for balance, mind spinning. Teeth clash, and you whine when he takes your lips between his teeth. Even Sirius, who would have spat out some teasing comment, stills. You don’t hear the camera going off, just the intermingling of your breaths with Remus’.

When Remus finally pulls back, both of you are flushed and panting. He subtly returns the smile you didn’t even realize was lighting up your face.

Sirius exhales a laugh, shaky and sharp. “Don’t stop on my account.”

The camera resumes its steady rhythm again, clicking steadily. Remus blinks, swallowing hard, but doesn’t move away. He stays leaning forward, his hands still cradling your jaw. You press your cheek into one his palms. You’re breathing hard too, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. There’s a bloom of warmth in your gut that you can’t tame, not with him looking at you like that.

You slide your hands up his thighs, grounding yourself in the feel of his jeans beneath your fingertips. The muscles seem to jump under your touch.

Remus leans back into the chair with a shaky exhale, dragging a hand through his hair. His eyes gleam, the flush in his cheeks high and hot.

You shift closer instinctively, your hands sliding further up his thighs to chase the warmth radiating off him. His knees fall open slightly, and the silent invitation as your breath catching. Sirius approaches him from behind, camera hanging forgotten around his neck now. He leans down, pressing a kiss to Remus’ flushed cheek. You see Remus turn his head almost reflexively, and Sirius rewards him with a soft peck on the lips.

“Look at her,” Sirius instructs, mouth still ghosting close. “On her knees for you.”

And the weight of his gaze makes you clench around nothing – your pulse fluttering. It’s a hungry gaze that makes your hands slide higher. They stroke up the insides, seeking more of his stuttering breaths as you stroke your thumbs over the seams of his jeans. You glance up through your lashes, your fingers digging lightly into the denim at the top of Remus’ thighs.

Sirius circles back around the chair and lifts the camera over Remus’ shoulder. He whispers soft praises, but the only sound you can focus on is the breathing of the man before you. But you want more, so your hands roam higher – pawing at the bulge straining against his jeans.

“Fuck,” Remus breaths, looking down at you with dilated pupils.

You don’t know what possessed you, but something compels you to lean forward and press your cheek gently against his thigh. He freezes as your finger begins to trace the outline of his belt buckle.

“Can I?” you ask – softly and sweetly – dragging your cheek up and back down just a tad.

His gaze flicks between your face and the way your finger lingers on his belt.

“You don’t need to ask,” Remus answers, a little more strained than he probably intended.

You can’t help but smile at his response. Slowly – deliberately – you undo the buckle with a soft clink of metal. The sound feels obscenely loud in the quiet. Remus exhales through his nose as the fabric parts with a soft scrape of teeth. He lifts his hips, ever so controlled, and you ease his jeans and boxers down his hips. When the fabric clears the tops of his thighs, you watch as he frees his cock. Your lips part instinctively, the thought of having him in your mouth nearly makes your mouth water. Remus pants lightly above you, his jeans loose around his thighs and your hands resting just shy of indecency.

“Fuck, look at you,” Sirius whispers mostly to himself, camera now abandoned.

“Go on,” Remus says huskily, curling his left hand into a fist and letting it rest on his thigh. “Use those pretty hands of yours.”

And you didn’t need to be told twice.

The heat of him settles into your palm the moment you wrap your hand around his cock. Heavy and flushed; it twitches slightly against your touch. You trace your thumb along a thick vein running to the tip, smearing the precum already gathering there. He pulses in your grasp, and your brows pinch as you drink in the sight.

A low grunt rumbles from Remus; the subtle rolling of his hips pulls you back to the moment. You lean forward, letting a thick string of spit fall slowly onto him, catching the light as it lands. You smooth it down with your palm and begin with exploratory strokes. Slowly, deliberately – to coax the expletives and breathy catches from his lips. You’re cautious, not adhering to a steady rhythm just for learning him. Just to watch the way his chest rises, the way his mouth parts with every pass of your hand.

“Twist a little at the end,” Sirius murmurs, his voice warm against the shell of Remus’ ear. “He likes that.”

And so, you do. You glance up, eyes meeting his, whispering a soft “Like this?” without thinking.

You earn from him the most delicious sound you’ve ever heard a man make. His head tilts back, jaw going slack.

“Yeah.” Remus’ hips twitch up into your hand. “Like that.”

You try again, slower, pressing a kiss to his inner thigh while your wrist rolls. His hands, tense on his thighs, inch toward you until one finds its way to your hair.

“Fucking hell,” Sirius breathes, and you can hear the smile in it. “She’s so good for you, isn’t she?”

Your lips part, breath warm against Remus’ skin. The praise flutters low in your stomach, encouraging you to increase your pace just enough to keep him right at the edge. You glance up just in time to see Sirius shrug off his jacket with an elegance no man should have. The leather slides from shoulders, revealing the ink along his forearms as he rolls his sleeves to the elbow.

He stays behind Remus, hands skimming briefly over Remus’ shoulders before he leans in. He mouths at Remus’ jaw – slow drag of lips and barely-there teeth. Remus slants his head instinctively, offering more, but Sirius only lingers for a moment. His eyes are on you.

Your palm glides over Remus’ length, grip firmer at the base, thumb teasing the head each time you crest. He swears again, the syllable caught somewhere between pleasure and disbelief. His thighs tense beneath your hands – one flexes, the other shifts wider.

You lean closer, lips brushing the sensitive underside of his shaft, just to watch him jerk. His hips buck and he mutters something that breaks halfway in his throat.

You sense Sirius before you see him – the shift in the air. His footsteps brush against the floor as he lowers himself. When he kneels beside you, a pleased hum in his throat, your body tilts toward his heat.

Remus’ hand stays in your hair, thumb grazing your temple. You can feel him twitch again in your hand.

Sirius brushes a finger over your face reverently, trailing the edge of your cheekbone before dropping lower. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, planting it there as he settles just behind you.

“You always smell too damn good.” His voice is low with amusement, his fingers finding your hip like it belongs there. “It’s criminal, really.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help the breath catching in your throat when his mouth ghosts closer to your neck.

You blink up at Remus through your lashes, and he stares back with glassy eyes. One breath – then another – until he finally speaks.

“Go slow, yeah?” It’s barely a whisper.

Your lips part as you lower your head, your eyes never leaving his. You watch his stomach tense as you drag your mouth over the head of his cock. He guides you with that same hand in your hair, your hand continuing its steady rhythm while your lips seal around him. His fingers tighten in your hair as you smooth your tongue against the underside.

Sirius purrs something into your ear that you don’t register, his hands were lifting your dress again. The cool air is replaced by the warmth of his hands on your hips, fingers trailing over your thigh and to your underwear.

Remus breathes out your name as you take him deeper, your mouth hot and slow around. You hollow out your cheeks, sucking as you do. The faint, wet sound it makes feels impossibly loud in the space between you. The weight of his cock on your tongue is heavy, but you savor it. Every twitch, every shudder from him sustains that ache in you to give him – give them – all you can.

You gasp when you feel Sirius dragging a finger along your clothed cunt, hips jolting back toward him, and you accidently still around Remus. Your eyes squeeze shut, and Sirius’ hand strokes up again to circle your clit through the fabric.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs against your neck.

You respond with a muffled moan around Remus. You reach blindly, grabbing Sirius’ wrist – not to stop him, just to anchor yourself.

“Keep looking at me,” Remus rasps.

You lift your gaze, lashes fluttering as you blink through the haze of pleasure. He’s looking down at you, his skin flushed all the way to his collarbone and dragging your attention to his unsteady breathing.

Slowly, you begin to move again – more confident now – and Sirius’ hand matches your rhythm. He teases your clit in time with the bobbing of your head, spurring you on more. He kisses your cheek, just behind where Remus is filling your mouth, and then your jaw.

Your hips chase his touch mindlessly, pleasure sparking through you. You feel dizzy and overwhelmed in the best of ways. You feel him breathing behind you, feel Remus struggling not to buck into your throat.

You whine at the sudden loss of stimulation, but Sirius shushes you, and you feel his hand disappear under the hem of your underwear. He teases your clit once more, and you arch into the contact as one of his fingers sinks into you. The stretch isn’t overwhelming, and you moan when the heel of his palm presses against your clit in just the right way. Your hips roll against the pressure, encouraging him to pump his finger in and out.

You can feel Sirius smirk against your skin as he sets a steady pace with his hand. It’s all too much, and not enough. Your mind blanks and spins, caught in the heady drag of your mouth, the way Remus starts to pant your name, and the lewd slick of Sirius’ fingers inside you.

Your head lolls to the side, tears brimming in your eyes as you nearly choke when Sirius curls his finger inside you. He chuckles, firmly pressing dragging his palm to your sex. With his free hand, he strokes your cheek – right where Remus’ cock bulges from the inside of your mouth.

“There’s a pretty picture,” he coos.

It’s disgusting. It’s filthy.

You need more.

You suck Remus down harder in response, humming just to hear him moan a little more. The hand in your hair tightens, his hips stutter up once – just once – before he reins it in.

Behind you, Sirius crooks his finger. You whimper, clenching around the intrusion, your walls fluttering and on the edge.

“Another?” he asks, sounding almost sweet.

I could strangle him, you think.

“Mhm, you whine loudly, nodding faintly.

He presses a second finger into you, and you feel the slow slide. You falter for a moment, jaw slack around Remus, but you recover with another whimper as Sirius curls his fingers inside you. You swallow around Remus, and his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth before it slips back to your hair. His eyes are fixed on you, half-lidded and swimming with something tender and wrecked all at once.

You’re breathing hard through your nose now, your jaw aching, but you don’t stop. Remus’ thigh twitches beneath the palm of your hand – one you hadn’t even realized you’d placed there. Sirius murmurs something into the shell of your – something indecent, you’re sure – but it’s downed out by the pounding in your chest.

“F-fuck—darling—just—” Remus chokes on the words as you quicken your movements.

His whole body tenses.

You can feel it in the way he swells on your tongue. His hand cups your jaw again – just for a second – as if to cradle you, and then pulls back to tangle both hands in your hair. His breath stutters, and his body shudders with every flick of your tongue.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps. “Don’t—oh—fuck—”

You couldn’t if you tried. You let your tongue drag languidly beneath the head before sliding down again, hollowing your cheeks on the way up. His hips buck, and you feel him pulse. You taste the warmth as he comes in sharp waves. Your name sounds sweet on his tongue, head tipped back, and your fingers squeeze around his thighs as you swallow what he gives you.

Sirius’ fingers are still stroking deep inside you, slower now. He coaxes and milks every ounce of pleasure as you cling to Remus. He presses a kiss to the space behind your ear, voice velvet-soft.

“I’ve got you.”

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