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francixoxoxo · 5 months ago

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.𖥔˚ Lay Back, Relax ୨ৎ

𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐗 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞!!

• 𝐓𝐖: 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭/𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐱 (𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠) •

Coriolanus strived to be the best husband. He was expecting his marriage to be arranged, and not exactly a loving one at that. He resigned himself to that. There were more important things at hand.

Well, that’s what he thought until you practically fell in his lap. Intelligent, kind, thoughtful. Undeniably and classically beautiful. His true match. It wasn’t just that you were perfect for public image, that mattered less to him that he would have thought. But you were perfect for him, you two fit and complimented each other like dolls in a set.

Coriolanus was sitting at his desk, flipping through a few important political documents and letters. You didn’t mind that he was busy, you were content to lay across the chaise against the wall of his office. You were flipping through a fashion magazine a bit absentmindedly. Your heels were strewn across the floor, your feet up beside you on the red velvet chaise, fashionable dress-shirt unbuttoned and rolled over your forearms to try and get comfortable after a long day.

Your husband didn’t seem to have that privilege. He rubbed his deeply furrowed temple, nostrils flaring as he stuck his silver letter-opener into a new envelope to tear it open. He was in the beginnings of his presidential campaign, rapidly moving up the ranks and leaving only one seat in Panem’s government left to achieve. You knew how passionate he was about his work, and you had to admit you were thrilled by the idea of being the First Lady. But it was taking a toll on your poor Coryo.

You did what you could as his wife to soothe him. Even now, you could see the empty cup of chamomile you’d given him earlier— hidden behind the mountain of unread papers. You knew that this work would pay off in the long run.

Though it didn’t pull at your heart any less when Coriolanus slipped into bed sometimes hours after you retired, pulling you close only after he was sure you were already awake, murmuring weary apologizes and promises.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Coryo would groan into the crook of your neck, holding you loosely and sighing. He’d press a faint kiss to your collarbone, “I got caught up…”

You’d snake your hand around to thread your fingers through his mussed blonde curls, loose just how you liked them. You’d give his scalp a gently scratch, humming groggily, “You deserve some rest.”

He’d grumble affirmatively in reply, but every night became a late one regardless.

Your eyes flicker up to him now, taking a quick break from reading a document to scribble down notes for his reply, which he’d probably write tonight. Coryo could never put things off for the next day, that was his downfall. With a heavy heart, you resigned to the thought that he’d stay up until the latest hours of the night, only coming to lay beside you when his eyes were too bleary to read the print.

The clock was already at eleven, and you couldn’t stand by and Coriolanus stay in this office until it ticked to midnight. Perhaps he felt your concerned eyes peering at him over the magazine, because he lifted his own azure gaze. He let out a sigh through his nose, offering you a weary smile. You returned it silently, watching him look back to his work with a disapproving purse of his lips. You had no choice! You pushed yourself off the chaise, padding barefoot to his desk and standing behind his rolling chair. Coryo lifted his head to look at you, brows furrowed above sleepy eyes. “Darling?”

You draped yourself over the back of the red leather chair, your cheek to his temple and your arms wrapping around his chest. Coryo smiled softly, a large hand coming to rest over your forearm. “It’s late, Coryo.” You cooed, lips ghosting the shell of his ear.

He nodded reluctantly, that smile falling into a dark expression. He sighed through his nose. “I know.”

“Come to bed.” You murmured, nosing his temple and pressing a kiss to his cheekbone. You were grateful you hadn’t washed off your day’s makeup off yet, the red lipstick stain on his milky skin satisfying. Filling you with a kind of possessive pride. Not to mention that it was hot, having your shade of lip color on his face as proof that he’d let you stain it.

Coryo protested with a grunt, shaking his head a bit. “No, no… Darling, I have my work cut out for me.” But your lips peppering kisses across his face was breaking his resolve as you stepped beside him, grabbing the armrest of his chair and turning him to face you.

“It’ll still be on your desk tomorrow,” you reminded your husband as you slipped into his lap, legs straddling his hips. Your red acrylic nails (which he paid to have done, of course) threading through the back of his platinum blonde curls as you pressed lipstick stains over his cheeks and forehead, nose and chin. He was wonderfully oblivious.

“Just another hour, and I’ll be done.” Coriolanus protested, though his hands were resting over your hips. He tried to give passing kisses to you, but the task was a bit difficult with the way you kept shifting focus. He craned his neck to allow you access to his neck when you nosed his jawline.

You groaned in frustration, gently scratching his scalp with the hand behind his head. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Exhausted.” He admitted after a moments internal debate. His eyelids had long fluttered shut.

“Poor thing, you’ll stress yourself silver.” You cooed, finally pulling away from him. You examined a few strands of blonde hair for grays.

Coryo only snorted and opened his bright, icy eyes. He stared up at you fondly, a reverent smile on playing at his lips. “I doubt I could. Not a spot on me yet.”

You mirrored his smirk, but shook your head. “Point is, you’re overworked.” Coryo didn’t disagree nor agree, he just gently smoothed a palm over your thigh as you went on. “I think I have just the thing to help you unwind.”

Coriolanus’ eyebrows furrowed, he shook his head a bit. “I don’t think two cups of tea in an hour is very healthy, my darling.” You couldn’t help the giggle bubbling from your lips.

You pushed yourself off his lap, only causing his confused expression to deepen. His hands rested on your hips still. You press a sweet little kiss to his plush lips, though it was only chaste for a few moments before it deepened and his tongue slid past yours. All too soon, you broke the kiss. But only to replace it with something better.

“Darling..“ Coryo protested, his hand moving to your shoulder. “I know you’re tired, you don’t—“

“Let me.” You cut him off, turning your cheek to press a kiss to his wedding band. He was a thoughtful man. He knew that if you got him started, there wasn’t any stopping. But who was he to assume you didn’t want him?

Coriolanus’ eyes were hungry, fixed on you as you sunk to your knees between his lazily spread legs. Slowly, but not hesitantly, you reached for his zipper. “You don’t have to. Say the word, my love, and you can go on to bed.” He cooed, his tone agonizingly gentle, but you heard the strain. Looking up at his handsome features, eyes dark with lust, you knew he was desperate for this.

“I want to.” You replied, hooking your fingers under his waistband and pulling the quality fabric down, along with his suit pants, to his knees. His mouth-watering length sprang out as you did, catching your attention. He was easily seven or eight inches. You carefully but not hesitantly reached for him, wrapping a soft hand around the base of his cock.

Coriolanus inhaled sharply at that, his hips shifting ever so slightly. You couldn’t fight the smirk slipping over your face as you stroked your fist up and he exhaled harshly through his nose. Glancing up at your husband’s expression, his jaw was clenched and his blue eyes already so hazy. It had been too long (maybe a week, far too long for Coriolanus’ standards).

“How often have you thought of this?” You grinned, swiping your thumb over his flushed tip to spread the precum beading there. Coryo is white-knuckling the armrests of his chair, his fingernails divoting the red, upholstered leather. You can tell that he’s stifling any sound.

“You have no idea.” Coryo grunts, tipping his head back against his chair and staring down at you, lips parting. You feel satisfaction knowing these attempts at aloofness will be moot in a few moments.

You leaned forward to press a little kiss to his leaking head, batting those doe eyes up at him and making the heat rise up his neck, goosebumps erupting over his exposed forearms. A low groan escaped his lips, his muscles tense. “Lay back and relax.” You reminded.

Coryo’s hand slipped into your hair as you licked a long stripe up the underside of his shaft, he let out a soft sigh. His hips shifted a bit under your touch. You watched his face carefully, noting every little detail. His long lashes against his cheeks, the slight furrow of his brows, the set of his mouth. Everything you knew and loved.

When you closed your lips around him, lowering your head until your gag reflex protested, you were sure to catch Coriolanus’ moan as it left his lips. The weight of him on your tongue was familiar, warm. He was practically throbbing already— one week and he’s already so desperate for you. His eyes fluttered open, the icy blue of them focused on you. his nails gently scratched your scalp as an encouragement. “You’re so damn pretty.” He mumbled softly, relishing in the sight of you with his cock in your mouth. You hummed, gratified.

Coryo looked like he wanted to say more, but the way you began sucking shut him up. The warm wetness of your mouth and tongue on him was electrifying, it wasn’t long before he was clutching the armrest again. His hips bucked up to your mouth involuntarily and he was tempted to apologize, but the whimper that brought from your lips only made him harder. You were so beautiful from where he was sitting, doe-eyed and all for him.

You were taking it languid, using your hand to reach the inches your mouth couldn’t. It was too slow for his liking, it wasn’t very long until his hand tightened in your hair and he began thrusting his cock upward with purpose. “Fuck, your mouth.. Feel fuckin’ amazing.” Coryo grunted, his own mouth falling open in a gasp.

He wasn’t too rough with you, but enough to show you exactly who was in charge. Enough for you to enjoy it. Your throat burned, tears pricking your eyes and your whines filling his office, mixed with the obscene, wet sound of your saliva mixed with his precome. After hardly a minute of shoving his dick down your throat and grunting praise that didn’t match his actions in the least, Coryo lets out a guttural moan. “Shit, such a good fucking girl. Let me come in your mouth, baby, please— fuck,” You managed to hum affirmatively around his cock, your hand on his thigh squeezing.

With a low and masculine groan, his seed spurted down your throat, hips slowing their jerking into your mouth. His fingers tightened in your hair, though not too painfully. When he finally came down from the high, his head tipping back against the back of his chair and his hand smoothing down your hair he had mussed, your lips left him with a wet pop!

“You’re too good to me.” Coriolanus breathed, his eyes half-lidded and grin lazy when you rose to your feet. You leaned over him with a knee on the chair beside his thigh, kissing his cheek.

“You were supposed to relax and let me do the work.” You giggled, leaving him no choice but to turn his face and capture your lips. He could taste himself on your tongue, though he didn’t mind. He nose bumped yours as he pulled away.

“Mmm, you shouldn’t have to lift a finger, my love.” Coryo cooed, eyes sleepy and adoring. Certainly de-stressed. Whether he was ready for bed was another matter. His large hand moved to your hip, kneading the softness there.

“Let me return the favor.”

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fukutomichi · 2 months ago

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“Swear it. Swear to me that you will never wear one of those Rings.” - Princess Disa S2.E5 ∙ Halls of Stone

#the rings of power #rings of power #trop #rop #disa #durin #sophia nomvete #owain arthur #tropedit #ropedit #ringsofpowerdaily #tolkienedit #tolkiensource #lotr on prime #my gifs #a subterranean gif #showrunners...use your fanfiction and anime powers I'M BEGGING keep them safe 😭😭😭

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dilfmobius · 2 months ago

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"Existence is chaos. Nothing makes any sense so we try to make some sense of it. And I'm just lucky the chaos I emerged into gave me all of this. My own glorious purpose." LOKI 1x02 - The Variant

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blindmagdalena · 23 days ago

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Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter seven)

18+ 7k. homelander x f!reader. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, abuse, forced relationship, slow burn, heavy dubcon, fingering, clothed/unclothed, dry humping. gif credit | fic directory | AO3

As promised, Homelander allows you an opportunity to say goodbye to the life you knew. After which, he does what he must to prove that you belong with—and to—him.

Days spent with Homelander are simultaneously long and yet strangely fluid, hours blending seamlessly into one another. Every day that he comes home, you endure the flip into what you’ve privately begun to refer to as “performance mode,” in which you’re playing the role of doting girlfriend.

So long as you maintain the idea that it’s a performance, you don’t have to think too much about how good the heat of his body feels against yours. You don’t have to question the ease with which you’ve taken to toying with his hair while the two of you watch television, or why you don’t mind it so much when he rests his head in your lap.

There was a day he came home early and caught you absently dancing in the living room while you tidied. That alone was embarrassing, but it was mundane enough of a thing to be brushed aside, to forget. Except that he wouldn’t. He’d fixated on it like a dog with a bone, and you’d had to endure his relentless teasing about it for the rest of the day.

“You act like you’ve never seen anyone dance before,” you’d said.

“I haven’t,” he said. “Not here.”

Your role here has many names: girlfriend, cook, therapist, maid, lover, and reinventor. It’s about more than just romance. It's a complete transformation of his empty, lonely world.

It’s what you must do to survive.

You learn quickly that he’s a creature of habit, favoring the same routine each day. He gets out of bed at the same time every day, showers for the same amount of time, and asks for the same breakfast that he does not eat.

It drives you crazy to cook a breakfast only to find yourself emptying it into the garbage not an hour later, but the drastic and often unpredictable fluctuations in Homelander’s moods have made you reluctant to question or criticize him.

Besides, what do you care if he eats your food?

Caring is a creature with sharp teeth. It sinks its fangs into the deepest part of you and opens you up to deeper infection. Caring can hurt more than a punch, more than broken bones, more than anything that bleeds. Caring doesn’t break you clean. It’s a bone that doesn’t set, a cut that doesn’t close. Caring is to be vulnerable, to live as an open wound, and one thing you’re entirely certain of is that Homelander cannot be trusted with your vulnerability.

Yet you could not bring yourself to turn away from him. Not after he snapped at you, not after he screwed his eyes shut, not even as he began folding in on himself like a dying star readying to implode. Even though every primal instinct in you told you to run, your feet remained rooted.

You took him into your arms for the same reason you smother a flame rather than blow on it. In doing so, part of you has caught fire, embers continuing to burn.

The way he kissed you lingers on your lips like a ghost. His touches haunt every part of your tingling body, your fingertips numb with adrenaline as you pick up the containers from the coffee table. You can still feel the trail his hot mouth seared down your throat, branding your skin with the memory of his hunger.

He hadn’t embraced you so much as he’d clung to you, his hands testing every inch of the reality of you. He disappeared somewhere so deep in his own mind that it had shocked him stiff when you held him.

A panic attack…?

Strong hands settling on your hips break you out of your daze. Looking over your shoulder, you see Homelander’s smiling face. His eyes are bright and clear, his cheeks no longer streaked with tears. If you didn’t know better–know how easily and abruptly he can switch gears–you’d think you had hallucinated the entire thing.

“Oh, sorry,” you say, recognizing that expectant look on his face. Whatever he said, you didn’t hear it. “I was just thinking. What did you say?”

He huffs a little laugh. “Geeze, talk about a space cadet. C’mon, let’s get you airborne!”

Though your stomach flips, you nod.

I’ll take you flying again. You’ll be conscious this time around.

As soon as you have the containers of food safely tucked into a bag, he wastes no time scooping you up into his arms. The ease with which he lifts you is jarring; it’s less like being picked up by a person, and more like being strapped into a rollercoaster. There’s no sense of give in his strength, and all at once you’re shunted back to the memory of the night you were abducted.

It had felt the same way then, too. His arms coiled around you like steel, his chest a brick wall at your back. He’d held you then as gently as he holds you now. No matter how hard you thrashed, there was no give.

No escape.

Your heart beats hard against your chest, apprehension tightening around your throat like a collar being pulled tight.

When will it stop feeling like this when he touches me?

The derangement of the thought strikes your addled mind belatedly. Never, you remind yourself. His touch should never evoke anything but the fear he’s earned

A sudden rush of cool air from the door opening hits your face, the shift in pressure briefly paralyzing your lungs, halting your shallow breaths. You turn your face from it, nestling instead into the thick, textured fabric of his suit while you fight to catch your breath.

Somewhere over the furious drumming of your heart, you hear him laugh, feel the rumble of his chest against your cheek.

He adjusts you higher up, bringing your face to the crook of his neck. You’re more secure in his grasp this way, and admittedly, you’re grateful for it.

“Relax,” he purrs in your ear. “I won’t let you go.”

Yes, he’s made that abundantly clear.

In an effort to gain some modicum of control, you slip your fingers into the front of his suit collar, gripping the fabric tight. It’s stiffer than you expected it to be, but it at least serves as a good handhold that way. His pulse can be felt in his throat, the beat of it fluttering against the backs of your fingers. It’s quicker than you expected it to be.

You wonder what in the world he has to be nervous about.

“Just give me a warning before you take off, okay?” you ask, focusing on steadying your breathing.

“Before I take off?”

There’s a particular playful lilt to his tone that makes you uneasy.

“Yes.”

“Hm. Can we pretend I did that thirty seconds ago?”

You rear back to look at him, and before you can think better of it, you turn to look down. Your vision tunnels, the edges of it blurring as your eyes fight to adjust to the sudden distance between you and the earth.

The reality of it sets in. It was one thing to understand his capacity for flight in theory, what it would be like to fly with him, but nothing could have prepared you for this. There’s nothing stabilizing you but him, the plummet below a nauseating hundred storey drop. Against your every wish, your stomach starts to churn violently.

Tucking back against him, eyes screwed tightly shut, you mumble, “I’m gonna throw up.”

Homelander sucks in a breath through his teeth. “That’s really gonna ruin someone’s day down there.”

“Shhh’up,” you slur, white-knuckling his collar with one hand, the other clutching the bag of food to your chest. “I changed my mind, take me back, take me back. Can we please just take the elevator and drive? I really don’t want to–”

“Hey, hey, relax,” he coos, tilting backwards, bringing more of your weight against his body. The movement only makes you feel sicker. ”Closing your eyes only makes it worse. Y’gatta adjust.”

You shake your head and swear you can feel water sloshing back and forth in your skull. “Take me back, please take me back.”

Warm lips press against your forehead, his breath wafting over your scalp.

“It’ll pass,” he says with the certainty of experience. “It’s worth it. Trust me.”

Trust him? The audacity of the ask is enough to make you temporarily forget your peril and look up at him through narrowed glassy eyes.

“Why in the world would I trust you?” you ask through your teeth, emboldened by your incredulity despite the way the tension in your body makes your muscles tremble faintly.

His grin doesn’t falter as he asks in turn, “What’s your alternative?”

Your lips part on an incredulous breath, disbelieving that he would be so blatant about it.

In the three days you’ve spent with Homelander, there have been both ambiguous and unambiguous moments of cruelty. Moments where you were certain he was rubbing your captivity in your face, mocking you.

Other times he seems so desperately lost you can almost understand the way he clings to you. Times where his cruelty comes not from an understanding of what will hurt you, but a complete inability to comprehend that you’re a living, breathing person with your own complicated innerworkings.

“You’re unreal,” you say, mystified by the enigma he presents.

“And you’re flying,” he says in your same tone, those ocean blue eyes glinting with self-satisfaction.

You take in a breath to retort, but pause. Though your grip on his collar remains tight, you’re no longer shaking. For a moment there, you’d honestly forgotten where you were. Leaning against him like this, with more of your weight supported on his wrought iron frame, you don’t feel quite so much like you’re precariously dangling.

Though your heart is still racing, and your mouth's as dry as sand, you don’t feel immediately ready to eject your lunch anymore.

“Don’t look down this time,” he tells you, towards the horizon. “Look out.”

Hesitantly, you turn your head to follow his gaze.

The view is surreal.

The afternoon sky is a clear and vibrant blue that the maze of steel buildings below reflect, giving the entire city an oceanic hue. Hundreds upon hundreds of windows lit with warm lights dot the way like fireflies in a field.

In the distance, the sun has fallen low enough that it casts a golden glow across the water. It refracts the light in endless shimmering waves. The spectacle of it is enough to make you forget that this isn’t some fantastical world, that you live here.

Never could you have fathomed seeing the world like this with your own eyes.

“Fuck me,” you murmur, slightly dazed.

Homelander barks a laugh. “What, now?”

Ignoring him, you tentatively let your gaze drift lower. From this distance, all you can see of the lives below you are faint black dots, the flow of them reminiscent of an ant colony. The same loud bustling streets that you used to walk every day are silent from this vantage point, giving the city an uncharacteristic sense of calm. It’s the world–your world–as you’ve never seen it before.

“See?” You feel the heat of the word against your temple as much as you hear it, his lips brushing along your hairline. “I told you it was worth it.”

You tear your attention from the cityscape and bring it back to Homelander.

While you’ve always distantly acknowledged that he’s attractive, he’s undeniably beautiful like this. Bathed in the glow of golden hour, his skin looks Midas touched, and the blue of his eyes is even more vibrant, the light giving them an almost crystalline appearance.

All over again you’re struck by the fact that, whether you want him or not, he’s inexplicably yours. Your captor, your roommate, your warden, your boyfriend, your gilded cage. You’re only where you are now–soaring above the city beyond the confines of that penthouse–because you found it in yourself to be all the things he wants you to be. The more you give, the more you get.

Play your part. Reap the reward.

This is survival.

“You were right. It’s beautiful,” you say, relinquishing your grip on his collar to instead slip your arm around his neck, leaning in to press your cheek to his in a make-shift embrace. You feel his surprise in the slight hitch of tension in his body before he relaxes back into you.

“Can I ask you something? Something about us. Or… about me, I guess,” you say, staring at the world from over his shoulder. Only now has your pulse begun to calm enough that you can properly hear yourself over the rush of your own blood.

His flag of a cape billows in the wind behind him as he flies languidly through the air, giving you something near to focus on.

“Sure you can,” he says, feigning ease that doesn’t quite ring sincere.

He doesn’t like it when you ask too many questions, or start poking holes in the idyllic little fantasy you’ve been living for him.

“Why did you choose me?”

There’s a pause while he mulls over the question, the droning winds around you filling the empty space. Your stomach gives a small flip as he shifts, changing his flight path, making you wonder if you’ve made a mistake, said the wrong thing.

You draw back to meet his gaze, but his expression doesn’t betray any kind of upset.

“I’ll show you,” he says, the words punctuated by a wink, though the gesture doesn’t exude his usual self assured bravado. Based on the tension in his jaw, you get the sense he’s actually masking a buried nervousness.

Within minutes, you’re soaring over a part of the city you recognize with stark familiarity. Seeing your route to work from this angle has a surreal quality to it, like remembering a dream in vivid detail. It’s difficult to fathom that less than a week ago, this was your life.

Drifting to the ledge of a nearby building, he sits on the edge of it, adjusting you on his lap. While the height remains dizzying if you think too much about it, you can’t deny that the warm strength of his arms have given you a firm sense of security.

“I used to come here a lot during my downtime. Between meetings and location work,” he explains, taking in a deep breath.

You do the same, cool air filling your lungs. It’s warm out, but the altitude brings in enough of a chill from the ocean to offset the late afternoon summer heat.

“I got familiar with this spot. The people, their routines,” he says, head lightly bobbing side to side.

“You saw me,” you fill in as understanding dawns.

“Yeah. I saw you,” he echoes, following the walkways below as if he’s tracing your path to work in the same way you are. “Every day.”

“You were really out here every day?” you ask with a lilt of surprise, looking at him. “I never saw you before.”

“People almost never do. You’d be surprised how rarely people ever look up.”

You hum quietly. Already you feel isolated from the world below. Nothing more than an observer. Knowing him as you do now, you can only imagine how outside of it all he really feels.

“Do you ever… go down there? Not as Homelander, but just as yourself.”

“I am Homelander.”

“No, no, I know, but…” You falter, wanting to be delicate. “You were someone else first, weren’t you?”

His gaze turns distant, no longer focusing on the streets below. “No.”

You think again of the young boy in the empty room holding back tears, and your heart grows heavy in your chest. That child–and the man he grew into–had to have had a name once, didn’t he? It’s unfathomable to think he didn’t. Homelander isn’t really a name. It’s a persona, a product patented and sold by Vought.

To have a name is to exist in people’s minds and hearts as a whole person. Whether the name is a gift or a choice, there is soul in a name. More than just an identity, a name is a love language. Be it a given name, nicknames, pet names, to name something is to love it.

Names begin in the heart, form on the tongue, become shaped by lips and cradled by voice. They're an intimacy not only of the body, but of the mind and soul.

Surely he has a name beyond the hero’s title of Homelander.

Project Odessa.

You take in a breath, the question poised on your tongue, but Homelander speaks first.

“I don’t remember when, but you started to stand out. Couldn’t take my eyes off you. I wanted to know more, so… I learned more. And I saw that you were lonely,” he says, but you’ve learned to read between the lines when he tells you things about yourself.

I was lonely.

“You needed someone.”

I needed someone.

“Someone to take care of.”

Someone to take care of me.

“I wanted to save you.”

I wanted you to save me.

“And I did.”

He looks at you then, his expression difficult to parse. There’s a challenge in his gaze, as if he’s daring you to contradict him, but that defiance isn’t enough to cancel out the fragility that always seems to linger when he admits to any sort of genuine feeling.

“I saved you,” he reinforces, voice quieter, firmer.

Sitting hundreds of feet in the air, you’re reminded that this isn’t a normal conversation.

This is a matter of survival.

Play your part. Reap the reward.

“Thank you.”

The tight line of his lips relaxes, spreading into a smile. It radiates the same sort of satisfied pride that he always gets when you show him gratitude for all he’s done for you.

To me, you correct yourself, fighting to keep those lines from blurring. When you look at your life through his eyes, you cannot deny that it looks small. Inconsequential. Lonely. Sad.

None of that changes the fact that it was yours. That it is yours. That he had no right to take it from you when he had every opportunity to ask to be part of it.

The worst part is that, given the choice, you’re starting to feel like you would have said yes.

It’s a conflicted kind of relief when he closes his eyes and presses his lips lightly to yours. The heat of his mouth–the instant memory of his tongue, his teeth, his roaming hands–sends a hot rush through you, but unlike last time the kiss is fleeting and chaste.

“Aaaalrighty,” he says, his voice suddenly full of vigor and performative boom. It’s a wonder he doesn’t give himself a headache with how quickly he’s prone to switching gears. “Let’s get this grubhub goin’.”

He pushes off of the ledge and your stomach lurches the way it would at the start of a rollercoaster, a drop followed by a sudden lift. Your arm tightens around his neck while his smile lingers, clearly pleased by the clinginess this has imposed on you.

You don’t have to tell him where to go. He knows exactly the alley to land in, sinking between buildings to the very back, as not to be observed by the bustling crowd below. You’d grown used to the noise of the crowds, but after several days of quiet, the clamor of New York is borderline deafening. It makes you wince and reflexively press on one ear, plugging it while you adjust.

Regardless of the noise, you feel an instant relief when your feet hit the ground. Homelander’s hands linger on your hip and your elbow, steadying you.

“Well?” he prompts. “You glad we flew?”

“Let’s not get carried away,” you say, huffing a quiet laugh. “I very much almost lost my lunch, but… yeah, I’ll admit it was worth it,” you say, checking on the containers of food packed away.

You’d considered hiding some kind of message amidst the food, but it felt too risky. There was too good of a chance that Homelander would check, and if he did, you wouldn’t have made it this far at all.

For all you know, he did check. You’re still not certain if he really has x-ray vision, or if that’s an invention of Vought’s for the movies. Better safe than sorry.

Maybe you won’t need a hidden message. Maybe you’ll be able to get across to John, without saying a word, that something isn’t right.

“If you wait here, I’ll be–”

“What, I’m not allowed to meet your friends?” he interrupts, hands on his hips.

“Oh, uh.” You blink, holding his gaze uncertainly. “I didn’t… think you’d want to.”

Homelander waves his hand dismissively.

“If he’s important to you, he’s important to me,” he says, slipping an arm around your shoulder and squeezing lightly.

“Besides, next to children, the unhoused are our most vulnerable population,” he says, sounding entirely too much like a politician with a list of talking points. “Anything could happen to him. I can keep a close eye on him for you, make sure he doesn’t get into any unnecessary trouble.”

His smile is too wide, too wolfish, and with a terrible chill you understand the words for the threat that they are.

If John causes problems for him, Homelander will remedy them.

Am I making a mistake?

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “Okay… Sure.”

Despite how heavily Homelander’s words hang over your head, you very nearly take flight yourself with the swell relief that hits you when you see John sitting at the end corner of the alleyway, hands busy with a Rubik’s Cube. He’s an imposing looking man in his late thirties, bearded and tall, but he’s never made you feel unsafe. He’s kind, and most importantly, he’s familiar.

You take in a sharp breath of excitement, his name on the tip of your tongue, but a crimson leather clad hand clamps over your mouth and pulls you back into the shadow of the building. Homelander pins you back against him, one hand keeping you quiet while the other slips around your middle, locking you in place.

Did he change his mind, or was this all just a game from the start? Your wide eyes prickle with tears.

“Ground rules,” he says, voice low in your ear. “We’ve been together for a couple of weeks, but for your own safety, it’s been kept a secret. You quit your dead-end job and traveled to Europe with me, from which we’ve just recently returned. Got it?”

Huffing shallow little breaths from your nose, heart racing, you nod.

“If I see any funny business, I’ll break his neck.”

You close your eyes, every beat of your heart a painful jab. His voice has the same cool hollowness it did when he warned you not to lie to him. It’s him, and yet simultaneously sounds like an entirely different person.

“Nod if you understand.”

A beat, and then you nod.

“Good girl,” he says, his smile audible in his praise. His hand slips away from your mouth and he kisses your temple, straightening out your clothes. His arm slinks around your waist, hand settling heavily on your hip. “Now, let’s get this over with.”

Rattled, you rub the tears from your eyes and take in a steadying breath, trepidation replacing your excitement. Dread pools in your stomach, the tide of it rising with every step, but you still manage to smile once you’re in earshot of your friend.

“Hey, John,” you call gently, lifting a hand to wave when he meets your gaze.

John does a double take, glancing up once, then twice, recognition flipping to confusion, and then rounding back to delight. He smiles broadly from beneath his wiry beard, pushing off of the wall he’d been leaning against.

“I’ll be damned,” he says as he approaches you. “You had me worried! I was beginning to think y–” he stops himself, belatedly noticing Homelander at your side. His eyes widen a fraction, and then his brows furrow.

In his myriad of expressions, you recognize yourself. That first night you woke up, how confused you were by where you were and who you were with. The whole thing felt like a dream, and John looks as though he’s wondering if this is one, too.

As a New Yorker, seeing Homelander–or any member of the Seven–in the flesh typically means one of two things: you’ve stumbled onto a promotional event, or trouble is close at hand.

“Is everything alright?” he settles on asking, the priority of his concern for you instantly warming your chattering heart.

“More than alright,” Homelander answers when you take too long, flashing a winning smile. He gives your hip a squeeze, prompting you.

You clear your throat, lifting the bag off of your shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, yes, I’ve just–I’ve been away,” you say, already tripping over the lies catching in your throat.

If I see any funny business, I’ll break his neck.

Thanks to you, John’s life rides on this conversation, and he has no clue. You kick yourself internally, desperate to get your shit together for both your sakes.

“It was really impromptu, but, uhm, I didn’t want you to worry, and I have news, so I–” you flash Homelander a look, as if to say let me sell this, and he reluctantly withdraws his arm. “I asked Homelander if he’d come along, because I honestly didn’t think you’d believe me,” you say, forcing out a little laugh.

John hesitantly takes the bag when you offer it, but he’s looking at you like you’ve grown a second head, his eyes occasionally darting over to Homelander, who continues to stand akimbo behind you. “Believe you…?”

“That I’m dating Homelander,” you say, pulling your lips back in what you can only hope is a convincing smile, and not just a manic show of teeth.

“Oh,” he says, looking no less puzzled.

The whole situation is bizarre beyond words. That you would come to him, an acquaintance that you’ve known only through habit, through the quick conversations you’ve had in the transitional spaces between work and home, seems insane. That you would care that he knows or that he believes you’re dating New York’s premium hero.

Of course he won’t see that you’re a hostage. Why the hell would he?

You feel out of your mind the same way you did sitting on that stupid couch, punching in website after website after website. It’s futile. You’re outside, you’re right in front of another person, someone who would be just as horrified as you are to know the truth, and yet you can’t say a damn thing.

This will always be true. Whether you’re standing in front of a stranger, an acquaintance, or your dearest loved ones, your truth will put them in danger.

All because of one lonely little boy.

Your smile holds firm, but your eyes well with tears.

“I quit my job,” you say, fighting back the sob threatening to choke you. “So I won’t see you anymore. But I, uhm–I just wanted to say goodbye. So, goodbye,” you say, moving to turn away before your emotions betray you any further, but John catches you by the shoulder, his touch light and painfully human.

“Hey, you take care of yourself,” he says, looking to be shaking off the shellshock from what you’ve presented. “Y’always seem to be taking care of other people and their problems, so… Take care of you, too. If not for yourself, you’ll do that for me, yeah? For old time’s sake,” he says with a smile, giving the bag a little shake.

You stare at him, the confession of it all sitting heavily on the tip of your tongue.

Help me! you want to shout. I can’t do this alone. I can’t take care of this myself. I need help. It’s too much. I’m scared.

You start to move towards him, and his opposite arm opens, as if ready to embrace you.

“Lucky for her,” Homelander interrupts, hoisting you suddenly into his arms and out of John’s reach, shattering any potential illusions. “She’s got me to take care of her now,” he says, his Hollywood smile stretched instead into a thin sneer.

“Great to meet’cha, pal,” he spits, voice devoid of any actual camaraderie. Tears burn in your eyes as his fingertips dig into you, his grip like a vice, like chains slipping back around your limbs. “Enjoy the food.”

Anything John might have said in response is swallowed up by the rush of air parting around him as Homelander shoots up into the sky, leaving your world in the dust, and any hope you had with it.

The flight back to the penthouse is quiet.

Homelander flies faster than he did on the way out, itching to be back within the safe, predictable confines of home. You’re tense in his hold, but both of your arms are wrapped around his neck, your face tucked in under his jaw, and he takes pleasure in that, at least.

It’s a miracle he didn’t rip that filthy fuckers arm off for the way he grabbed you, for the way he tried to pull you into his arms.

God damn pervert is what he is.

You’re too naive to see it, but he isn’t, and there wasn’t a fucking chance he was going to let the guy cop one last feel before you were spirited away for good. The thought alone is enough to set his teeth on edge, to make him consider paying the son of a bitch a little visit anyways.

He grits his teeth.

No one touches his things.

It sets off something primal in him. A gnawing, feverish compulsion to claim you so thoroughly there could be no doubt that you’re his. He wants to fuck you, to mark you so obviously that no other man will ever touch you like that again.

By the time he lands on the concrete slab of his balcony, you’re shaking up a storm. He maneuvers inside without putting you down, as you’ve made no move to let go of him.

Something isn’t right.

He rubs your back, mimicking the patterns you make when you rub his, pausing when you suddenly make a choked noise that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.

What the hell? He did exactly what you asked him to. You’re supposed to be happy.

He carries you to his bed, a dozen versions of the two of you reflected back in the surrounding mirrors, and sets you down gently. Your arms slide loose from his neck and fall limply to your sides. Bending down, he cups either side of your face and brings your gaze up to meet his, perplexed to find your eyes brimming with tears.

“Hey,” he says softly, swiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb as it falls. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

You shut your eyes and make a sound he can’t make sense of, something between exasperation and agony. Though you try to pull out of his grip, he holds you in place, refusing to let you run from this.

From him.

“No, no. Look at me. I did what you asked,” he says, impatience slowly wringing the gentleness from his voice.

Your eyes are red and glassy, fat tears rolling down your cheeks and over his thumbs.

Christ.

This is a far cry from what he had in mind when he thought earlier about how you’d make it up to him.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you sob, taking hold of his wrists. “I just want to go home.”

His expression falls, brows furrowed in confusion, dismay, anger.

“What’re you talking about? You are home. You’re happy here. You have everything, you–I’ve given you everything,” he says, though a voice in the back of his mind reminds him that isn’t true.

He hasn’t given everything. Not yet. He’s been holding back. You both have, and now you’re both suffering.

Enough, he thinks. Hasn't he been deprived long enough?

Haven't you?

You try again to pull away, but this time he pulls you forward, pressing his lips to yours. You make a sound against his mouth that sounds like surprise, but all that matters now is the thrum of your skin against his.

“Doesn’t have to be like this,” he says between kisses, following you as you pull backwards, his knee hitting the bed as he crawls over top of you. He lets his hands roam, learning you in the way he’s been aching to since the day he decided that you would be his, and that he would be yours.

“You have no idea how fucking good I can make you feel.”

Pleasure has always been his greatest comfort. The ability to shut down his brain, to quiet the voices and focus solely on the physical. He needs it, and now more than ever, he can see that you need it, too.

He kisses your jaw, your cheek, kisses the wet streaks from your skin and licks the salt of them from his lips.

“I can make it go away,” he murmurs, undeterred by your hands pushing against his chest. You have a nasty habit of fighting what’s good for you.

“I’ll make you happy if you’d just let me.”

Your clothes put up less resistance than you do, the designer material tearing with ease. He swallows up your gasp with another kiss, slips his tongue into your mouth and grazes your teeth with it, daring you to bite.

Your pulse thunders in his ears, but not even the acridity of the fear coursing through you can hide the sweet heat of arousal seeping from between your thighs.

His own body aches in kind, cock throbbing needily behind his cup. His mind has already started to fog, the sting of rejection soothed by the need he can feel building in every part of your body.

You want him. You do. He can feel it in the drumming of every climbing throb he hears your body give.

“All this teasing, this tension, it can all end. We’re so close to what we both want now, what we both need.” His hand slips lower, forcing your legs apart enough to drag his middle finger over your cunt through the satiny fabric of your panties, savoring the way it makes you shudder.

“I don’t want this,” you say, hardly sounding convinced of it yourself.

“You can lie to yourself all you want, but you can’t lie to me, ” he says, taking his hand away only to bite the tip of his middle finger, tugging his glove off with his teeth and tossing it aside. He moves it right back to your pussy, pressing in firmly to finally feel the hot, soaked patch of fabric against his bare skin.

“Look who’s all wet.”

“Why are you doing this?” There’s a tremble running through your voice, through your body.

He huffs an incredulous little breath.

“I’m doing this for you. For us. I’m doing this because you don’t know how to let yourself be happy,” he says, drawing back to look at you. You’re beautiful like this. Eyes glassy and vibrant, skin hot under his touch. “All you have to do is let go, and I’ll make all the bad stuff go away.”

You don’t respond, but he knows by the look of you that he’s struck a chord. He kisses you again, and this time, you don’t try to turn away. Instead, both of your hands slip into his hair, and to his elation, you kiss him back.

He moans against your lips, shifting onto his side next to you so that he can better maneuver his hand, bringing his fingers up to slip them into your underwear, letting out a low sound for the feel of your velvety wet cunt under his bare fingers.

“Keep breathing,” he reminds you, acutely attuned to every inch of you, including when your breath catches. “That’s it… Good girl.”

The last thing he needs now is for you to pass out.

He kisses a trail down from your shoulder to your chest, nipping at the swell of your breasts before he kisses an apology into the soft skin, only to suck a mark at that same spot. He spreads your own slick from your cunt to your clit, massaging it between his middle and index finger.

You suck in a ragged breath, you whimper, and in that sound he knows he finally has you hook, line and sinker.

That’s when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror above. You shudder, turning your head away as if ashamed, but he won’t let you hide from this.

“Ah, ah, none of that. No shame in this. It’s a tale as old as time, sweetheart,” he says, pressing his middle finger slowly into the silky clench of your pussy.

“Boy meets girl… Girl falls for boy… Boy fucks her brains out,” he half laughs, half rasps, hooking his leg over yours both to pull your legs wider apart, and to give himself your thigh to grind against.

He angles his thumb to rub your clit while his finger crooks, stroking inside you until he finds that delicate, puffy little bundle of nerves he’s been taught to look for. More than just by the feel of it, he knows he’s found it when your hips jerk suddenly, and you look at him as though he’s just invented the spot.

“I told you,” he rumbles, kissing you slow, wet, hungry, “that I would make you feel good.”

He adds another finger, fucking you with them slowly, his pace building gradually. He imagines how it’ll feel to have his cock where his fingers are, and he nearly comes in his pants at the thought alone, his hips jerking against you.

“Look at yourself,” he sighs, his other hand cupping the back of your neck. “Look at yourself,” he says again, harsher this time, and your eyes snap up to the mirror above you.

You’re a mess, clothes torn apart and splayed under and around you, hickeys forming where he’s abused your skin with his lips. You’re fucking yourself down on his hand entirely of your own accord now, one hand fisted in his hair, the other in the sheets. Your tears have dried and there’s only sweet, mindless pleasure left in your eyes.

He’s never known a pain he couldn’t fuck away. He knew you’d be the same.

“So fucking perfect for me,” he coos, breath hitching on his own mounting pleasure. Your pussy squeezes his fingers, the lewd cacophony of pleasure filling the room the closer you get to the brink.

“Homelander,” you keen, voice fractured and sweet as sugar.

He kisses his name from your lips, licks up the honied taste of it while he fucks you deeper, faster, his pace never once faltering, not even as you begin to thrash against him. He can’t tell if you’re trying to get closer or further, but he holds you tightly in place, gritting his teeth against the pleasure while he shamelessly humps your leg.

Your shallow breaths take on a pitchy sound as you writhe, as if part of you is still fighting him, fighting your pleasure, but in the end, it’s a battle you lose. Your cunt locks up like a vice around his fingers, your orgasm throbbing inside and out, your clit fluttering against his thumb.

You’re robbed of breath, of sound, and of sense as you come, capable of nothing more than a silent cry as pleasure–the pleasure he gave you–wracks your body.

He fucks you through it, relishing the way your quivering cunt squeezes his fingers, greedily pulling him back in on every thrust. It’s too much–you’re too much–and he loses himself to it, giving a ragged gasp as he comes shortly after. His eyes roll back, pulse after pulse of sweet pleasure filling his cup with liquid heat.

“I love you,” he gasps, nearly choking on the words, rocking against your still-trembling form. “I–fffuck, I love you, I love you so much.”

He’s languid but no less ravenous in the way he kisses your chest, your throat, your jaw, your mouth, all while his fingers rock lazily in and out of your cunt. Still coming down from his own high, he doesn’t stop until you’re grabbing his wrist and pushing his hand away, pleading your overstimulation with nothing but soft noises.

He licks his fingers clean, intoxicated by the feel, taste and smell of you. A shiver runs through you, and it’s only then that he realizes he forgot to shut the balcony door behind him.

Too enraptured to move, to risk breaking the spell your bodies have cast over one another, he drapes his cape over your naked body, tucking you in against his chest.

Satisfied that he’s made his point, that you finally understand the gift he’s wanted to give you all along, he wraps both arms around you and nuzzles against the top of your head, pressing a kiss to the crown.

While ending your first tryst sticky and wet in his pants wasn't his ideal scenario, he'll take it. The weight of you in his arms, the taste of you on his lips, more than makes up for it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, the words slurring together slightly. He strokes your back, holding you close as the tremors subside. He gladly takes credit for the way your breaths even out, for the way you sink into his arms, the resistance wrung from your muscles.

All that’s left now is bliss.

“That’s my girl.” And you are, without a shadow of a doubt, his.

#i did it!!! 😭#i'm not ENTIRELY sure all the correct ways to tag this chapter but it's a heavy one #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander #x reader #yandere x reader #my writing #homelander fanfiction #center stage in a gilded cage

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dawn-moths · 8 months ago

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Tomura x Reader

word count: 800+

(You try and convince Tomura to take a break from his games and come to bed at a reasonable time for once.)

disclaimer/content warning: no warnings apply! sfw, soft tomura, maybe quirkless au?? i don’t really know, i just love and miss him a lot and wanna take care of him.

***

It’s late— nearly two AM— and the glow of the moon trying to creep in through the gaps of the curtains competes with the glow emanating from the trio of computer screens currently in use in the other corner of the room.

“Tomu…” you murmur, half a groan and half a whine, as you turn over beneath the covers. “Come to bed…”

It’s so warm here, your body heat seeping through the sheets, the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing— one of his shirts, the soft black cotton displaying the fading decal of some game he used to like— clinging to your drowsy form like a veil of comfort and familiarity.

If you buried your nose in the collar, it still smelled faintly like him, despite you basically having claimed it for your own a few weeks back.

From across the room, Tomura sits before his three monitor display, the soft light from the screens shifting the colors cast across his face in a fast-paced rainbow, reds and blues and greens illuminating the pale waves of his hair.

It’s almost to his shoulders again. You’ll have to convince him to let you give it a trim soon.

“Tomuraaaaaa…” you whine a little louder, drawing his attention that time as he shifts his headset so only one ear is covered.

“Ok, just one more round,” he replies, something almost apologetic in his tone, no more irked grumbling or sarcastic attitude present like he used to respond to such a request in the past.

You basically had to drag him away from the computer, once upon a time. If you didn’t, he’d be playing right up until the sun was about to rise.

You rolled over onto your other side, facing away from the glow of the screens, letting your eyes fall closed once more, the constant mashing of buttons clicking softly to fill the otherwise silent room.

Whatever game he’s decided to log into tonight, the rounds are long. After ten minutes he’s still playing, one or two curses hissed out under his breath when his character takes a hit or someone else on his team messes up.

You turn again, squinting your eyes as they adjust to the light. Once the room becomes clear, you can see just how focused Tomura is. Like he’s locked in. Like he’s entranced. The way his fingers fly across every button and joystick of the controller like its second nature to him.

But it’s been nearly twenty minutes.

Enough is enough.

You sigh and rise from the warm comfort of the bed, padding over with bare feet to where he sits in his big gaming chair— a birthday present you’d surprised him with last year. He glances over at you for a split second, trying to conceal the slight guilt that pangs inside him.

“Make room…” you say, and he obliges, pushing back a bit from the desk so you can curl up against him, sharing your sated warmth with him in hopes of coaxing him to bed.

“Swear I’m almost done,” he says, shifting a bit to allow you to get comfortable, pressing your chest to his, legs straddling his waist, arms draped loosely around him as your head rests against his shoulder.

You can just barely hear the up-beat battle music muffled through his headset, the looping audio somehow making you even more tired despite the high-energy pulse of it.

Before long, you feel yourself dozing off again, that heavy, floating feeling of the moments right before you sink into sleep dripping through you like thick syrup, honey sweet.

Not two minutes after your body had gone slack and heavy against his own, the round ends and Tomura logs out of the game, one hand carefully pressed against your back to hold you in place as he leans slightly forward to place his controller on the desk. He puts his computer to sleep, the screens fading to black.

And now, it seems, it’s time for him to put you to sleep too.

You’re passed out, completely dead to the world, breathing slow and shallow, head beginning to loll as he carefully shifts to splay his big palms under your thighs, carefully lifting you as he stands, carrying you to the bed and placing you back among the rumpled sheets.

Once you’re all tucked in again, Tomura slips out of his jeans and puts on a fresh t-shirt— a habit you worked hard to instill in him, something about not sleeping in your day clothes or wearing your sleep clothes during the day— and then joins you under the covers, snuggling up next to you and gently cradling you in his arms.

He presses a soft kiss to your forehead before allowing his own eyes to fall shut, hoping to meet you somewhere in your dreams.

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daycourtofficial · 1 year ago

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Solstice Celebrations

Pairing: Azriel x reader

Summary: Azriel realizes you’re pregnant before you do and tries to figure out what he’s going to do.

Azriel has been off for days now. He can’t explain it, but something is off. Not necessarily bad, but off and he needs to find the source.

It all came to a head tonight when he could hear a very subtle additional heartbeat in the room. He spent ages searching the room, trying to locate the source of the heartbeat, but it’s so subtle he can barely hear it when he’s not in bed.

He scours the room, the adjoining hallway, he even takes a short flight around the perimeter, but he is coming up completely empty. Even his shadows are telling him everything appears fine. Azriel eventually admits defeat and climbs back into bed, holding you tight to him. Even though he’s accepted he can’t find a threat, he’s still suspicious.

This becomes his nightly routine for the next three nights. He’s just been telling you he hasn’t been sleeping well, and you’ve been preparing him some teas to help him relax before bed. On the third night you draw him a nice soothing bath that you hope will help him relax enough to sleep.

“Mmm” he moans, getting into the tub, “you are too kind to me, my love.”

“Not kind enough if I’m not able to soothe your worries enough for sleep.”

You leave, too tired to help him bathe. Azriel spends a long time in the bath, trying to relax and eventually unwinding enough to feel the bed beginning to draw him in.

He steps out of the bath, drying off, and he comes to meet you in bed, finding you fast asleep. He laughs, because he’s never met anyone who falls asleep as quickly as you do. He climbs into bed, holding you close to him, pressing his head to your chest, hoping your heartbeat will help lull him to sleep.

The soft rhythm of your heart slowly drifts him away, until its rhythm is disturbed by that softer heartbeat. He pulls his head away, listening intently, but the beat becomes imperceptible. He puts his ear next to your chest again, listens to the slow brag of your heart, and listens to the soft beat of a much smaller heart.

He realizes immediately what the soft symphonies of heartbeats mean, and he is almost brought to tears. He never once considered he’d fall in love, let alone have a mate, so children were never something he thought the Mother would allow him to have, but he was wrong.

The Mother has made you a mother. He has made you a mother.

You worked under Azriel, taking on random missions whenever you’re needed. And the thought of you going on a mission while with babe scared the cauldron out of him.

He slowly untangles from you, puts on some pants, and shuts the door behind him. He has a certain high lord to see immediately.

“Azriel.”

The shadowsinger continues his pacing, holding a hand up to Rhys, “I’ll explain once Cassian arrives.”

Rhys sighs dramatically, “Azriel it’s the middle of the night, no one is dying or dead, please explain to me why I’m here with you and not in bed with Feyre.”

Azriel gives Rhys a look “brother, I’ve never once brought you out of bed before, this is… very important to me. But I need both of you here.”

Rhys sighs and while not happy, he knows Azriel is serious. The male won’t stand still, silently pacing, which is very unusual for him.

“Fine”, Rhys replies.

After a few more moments of silence, Cassian’s wings announce his presence. Before Cassian can start his round of complaints, Azriel begins immediately.

“She’s pregnant.”

Cassian and Rhys still, smiles slowly stretching across their faces.

“Wow, wow, I’m so happy for the both of you. Oh, Nyx is going to have a built in best friend.”

Cassian goes to hug Azriel, and the shadowsinger grips him in a tight hold. “I’m so excited for you, brother.”

“I just figured it out when I called you two to meet with me.”

Rhys and Cassian exchange glances.

“What do you mean you figured it out? She didn’t tell you about it?” Rhys asked.

“I don’t think she actually knows.”

Rhys and Cassian still as Azriel continues.

“I heard the heartbeat, and then I could smell it in her scent. It was very subtle and hard to detect, but it was there. She’s very early into it.”

“And you told us and not the mother of your child because..?” Cassian asks.

“I just need the week to figure out how to tell her and to figure out what we’ll do from there.”

“Well, as exciting as all this is, now I have to go back to Nesta and pretend I don’t know this massive secret and that this meeting was for something bad.”

The males hug Azriel again, excited to see his future with a babe.

“Good night, brothers.”

Rhys and Cassian didn’t even try to keep it a secret, those bastards. The way Feyre is looking at him this morning, he knows that she knows. Mor came into town later in the afternoon, and she obviously knows. During lunch she kept looking at you with stars in her eyes and the biggest smile on her face. Azriel’s death glares at her did nothing to curb her happiness for the shadowsinger.

Azriel takes you to walk around Velaris during the afternoon, and unfortunately for him you’ve noticed all of the special attention coming your way.

“Mor was only gone for a week, but maybe she shouldn’t be gone for more than 3-4 days. I think she ends up missing me too much. She was so happy to see me during lunch.”

“Well she’s spent the week in the Huen City, anyone would be happy to see your lovely face after that week.” Azriel smoothly replies.

You’re walking around Velaris, searching for last minute Solstice gift ideas. You were having a hard time finding a gift for Feyre, and it was eating you alive.

“Everyone always gets Feyre some kind of paints - maybe she’d like something different for once.”

“I’ve already received her specialty paints, so it’s too late for me to change her gift,” he replies.

You were walking in and out of shops, bundled up in your winter coat and scarf, holding Azriel’s hand “to keep warm”, when Azriel sees it. He sees a shop that specializes in baby clothes, baby furniture, maybe even baby knives if he’s lucky. Seeing the shop, he looks at you, and the idea pops directly into his head.

You both go into a clothing shop, Azriel tells you he’s going to get some drinks at the shop next door, and he bolts down the street to the baby store, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Or as inconspicuous as a massive male with wings can be.

“Hello” he says, startling the clerk, who looks over this tall, muscular man with massive wings, wearing a very cozy sweater. “I need something for a solstice gift.”

Azriel paid the shopkeeper, even paying extra for her to be discreet, and ran into the coffee shop to order the two of you some hot chocolate to keep you warm in this chill.

Walking back to the store you’re in, he’s consumed by thoughts of “can she have hot chocolate while pregnant? Feyre did, and Nyx seems fine. Besides anything wrong with Nyx would just come from him being Rhys’s son.”

His inner turmoil is interrupted by you grabbing your hot chocolate from him. “Thanks, sweetheart” you say.

He notices a shopping bag, and you reply “I found a gorgeous sweater that had stars knitted into it with beautiful shiny yarn. It reminds me of Starfall, and I think Feyre would love it.”

Azriel has been dying. It’s now been 4 days since he figured out about your pregnancy and it’s been a monumental task not to tell you. Every moment of every day all he can think when he sees you is “you’re pregnant! With MY babe!” He wants to shout it from the rooftops. But that would ruin his carefully crafted plan.

It also doesn’t help that he has been watching you even more carefully than before, constantly asking Madja “are carrots safe? What about meats? Is milk safe?” Madja has officially banned him from asking her these ridiculous questions until he tells you that you’re pregnant.

He manages to keep it in until Solstice, despite the constant asking from every other member of the Inner Circle. Cassian is convinced he’ll never tell you - that Azriel will let it go until you’re going into labor.

By some luck though, the inner circle haven’t told you. He told them it would be known to you by Solstice and they are keeping him to that promise.

He wakes you up the morning of Solstice preparing to leave for his annual snowball fight.

“My hero, off to vanquish evildoers with his compacted balls of snow,” you croon at him while he’s getting dressed.

He kisses your cheek. “I have a title to defend, if I lose it’ll be bring shame to us for decades to come.” You giggle at the absurdity of it.

The brothers wouldn’t let any of you watch their snowball fight, but you and the other ladies love imagining how ridiculous they look.

He starts to head out the door when you say, “If you win I’ll have to provide you with a hero’s welcome, we’ll have to celebrate.”

“Oh yeah?” He kisses you.

“You better hope you win or the hero’s welcome goes to the victor. Would hate to have to celebrate with Rhys or Cassian.” He growls at that, rolling his eyes.

“Good thing I’ve crafted the perfect strategy this year.”

And he did. He won, beating them in the shortest time they’ve ever seen.

After his hero’s welcome, Azriel started getting nervous. The two of you exchange solstice gifts in private before seeing everyone else. You’ve talked about kids before, but what if you’ve changed your mind? What if you decided he wouldn’t be a good father?

His insecurities start eating at him, when you present him with a present.

“Open it,” you say, buzzing with excitement and nerves. He unwraps the small bundle to open a box containing a small, thin chain with your first initial on it.

“I got us matching ones, see” you say, pulling an identical chain with the letter A on it, “so even when we’re apart the world knows you’re mine and that I’m yours.”

Azriel envelops you in a bone-crushing hug. “I love it,” he mumbles into your hair, kissing your forehead a million times as you giggle.

“Sorry that my gift was so small compared to yours,” you say, peaking over at the package behind him.

Azriel pulls back, completely forgetting about his gift to you, getting nervous again to tell you.

“Please, open it.”

You open the package to find a beautiful mobile for a baby crib. It is made of twinkling stars that shine ever so softly, and as you look at it, some of Azriel’s shadows push the mobile so it spins. The shadows mix with stars, creating an absolutely stunning recreation of the night sky.

“Wow it’s gorgeous, but aren’t these usually for babies-“ the look on Azriel’s face stops you immediately.

“Am I-“

“Yes.”

“Pregnant?”

“Yes.”

He wants to give you a minute to digest it, soak it in, however you take him by surprise and tackle him to the ground in a hug so full of love it takes his breath away.

“We’re having a baby!” You say, a little louder than intended. Cassian bursts through the door, yelling “we’re having a baby!” as he comes over to you, picking you up off of Azriel and spinning you around.

“You nosey old fool!” You yell in delight at him “were you listening behind the door?”

Cassian puts you down as he says “well I had to make sure he told you otherwise none of us would have been able to keep the secret any longer.”

“Who knew?” You say, seeing the guilty look all over Azriel’s face. And with that question, everyone else pours in to congratulate the two of you. You turn to Azriel “so am I the last to know?”

Azriel reddens a bit as he says, “to be fair, I only told my brothers, they are the ones that couldn’t keep a secret.”

He turns and gives Cassian a death glare, which Cassian responds to by tackling Azriel in a hug. By this point the other members of the inner circle have come by, offering their congratulations and happiness with you. Mor envelops you in a hug while she cries that is so tight Feyre has to pry her off of you.

Looking around at your family, you think if your babe is loved even a tenth of how much you are, they will be so so so happy.

It was the best Solstice gift - spending time with your family and being excited for your new addition.

#acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x female!reader #I love me some inner circle dynamics :)#please be nice this is my first writing 😭#acotar writing #acotar fanfiction #azriel fluff

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