#when i say the second look has a chokehold on me...

[oreo-creampies]

‘𝐛𝐞𝐠’

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: manhandling, face slapping/pussy spanking, biting, spitting, blood, knife play, power play, bratty!reader, ghostface!satoru, light bondage, ankle cuffs, degradation/praise, ruined orgasm/edging, anal fingers/hints of anal, vibrating dildo, begging, dacryphilia

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧! I need me some possessive primal gojo x bratty breakable reader. I can NOT get those thoughts out of my head. Him losing it over head and reader getting a lil into the power just to have it taken away? yes please! Halloween getting closer (yes, I know it is late June..) so the ghostface thoughts are back in my head 😤😮‍💨 (light knife play?) The chokehold that cocky whiney mans has on me rn is despicable! All thoughts, no pressure to make anything of it. Hope your eye feels better lovely ~🌙

Oreo: SAME MOONPIE SAME!

You look sexy deepthroating him. Enthusiastically bobbing your head, with sucked in cheeks and your tongue stuck out. Spit trickles down chin and drips on his thighs.

Your hands feels so soft, massaging his balls and stroking his cock when you glide him out of your throat. Swirling your tongue around his sensitive head making his hips buck.

“Nnnn fuck!” The mask muffling his voice, making his face sweaty. He roughly yanks the mask off his face and tosses it to the side.

Satoru glances down at you, your eyes are wide as you take in his face for the first time. “Ya not gonna turn me in are ya? You’re too much of a greedy whore for my cock to do that?”

He isn’t think straight with your warm wet mouth gliding along his cock. His abs clench, thighs quiver and his cock throbs with a pulse. Any moment he’s going to cum in your mouth.

Tilting his head back and letting go of your hair, Satoru clenches the sofa’s cushion. Whilst loudly moaning your name, “Fuck! Please! Fuck! Nnnn! Don’t stop!”

You glide his cock out, kissing his head, leaving him aching to cum. Unable to resist you order, “Beg more for it.” Satoru yanks your back with a handful of your hair. He presses his cold steal blade to your throat. You clench your thighs together in fear and excitement.

There’s a playful bite to his voice “Beg for it? Princess you got me fucked up, say it again.” The second you open your mouth his hand cracks across your face. A sharp pain erupts in your cheek, and the taste of rust greets your tongue.

You spit in Satoru’s face, causing some of the bloody spit to dribble down your chin. “That attitude is begging for me to fuck it outta ya.” Satoru dips down for a rough kiss, shove his tongue past your lips. He groans when he tastes your blood.

When Satoru pulls away you taunt, “Try me, please fuckin’ try me pretty boy.” He’s beautiful with high cheekbones, pale pink lips, bright blue eyes framed by fluffy white lashes. Whilst his hair is a fluffy white messy that his fingers sliding through could only tame so much.

Satoru sets his knife down and drags you, by your hair, away from the sofa. Taking you down the hallway towards your bedroom. Where he picks you up and throws you onto the bed.

Rummaging through the sex drawer for some rope and lube. Satoru yanks you to the edge of the bed and spreads your legs apart. He fixes your ankles in place with the cuffs he previously attached to the bottom of your wooden bed’s frame. Rendering you unable to close your legs or running away.

He binds your wrist behind your back. “What’s the safeword?” Dragging the knife along your lower back. You’re sexy tied up, helpless, vulnerable whilst dripping wet ready to take his cock.

You say, “It’s clouds.” Shivering when he squirts some cool lube on your asshole. It’s thick slowly dripping until Satoru shoves it in with his finger. The lube bottle resting next to you in the bed.

Satoru smears the the lube deeper with each pump of his finger. “Princess ya fucked up, you think I can let you get away with not listening? I told ya not to stop.” He carves a S slowly into your lower back, taking his time enjoying seeing you squirm and cry in pain.

“Not only did you stop, but ya think ya can order me to beg?” He twists his finger, and slides his finger in to the knuckle. Getting off on seeing your pretty asshole take him, squeezing his finger. Whilst your cries become needy moans.

You remind him, “Nnnn - you got so into it I’m seeing your face for the first time.” You glance over your shoulder. He’s been naked in front of you countless times, but always with that mask. Until he blindfolded you. But now with your hungry eyes studying his face he feels too vulnerable.

He crouches down to bites your ass. Setting his knife aside and squeezing your thigh whilst pushing a second finger inside you. Knuckles deep in your asshole Satoru slaps your pussy sore.

Jerking away from from his ruthless slaps, the bed and cuffs preventing you from escaping. “Stupid cock hungry slut, beg if you wanna cum.” Your cunt is throbbing with a sweet stinging pain, thighs trembling, toes curled into the carpet. Whilst the bed frame digs into hips.

“I said fucking beg!” Satoru stands up behind you, leaning over your body. He finger fucks your sloppy asshole, dragging his tongue between your sweet wet lips.

Snatching his knife off the bed, Satoru lines the hilt of his knife up. Whilst keeping his grasp firmly beneath the ridged hilt. “How did you beg? Fuck! Pleeeease!” Satoru sets his knife aside long enough to line his cock up.

“Dumb brat, I wonder if you’ll still have this attitude after I edge you, lets say nine time. If you don't keep count we can start over.” Nudging his head in between your lips, admiring how his cock vanishes inside you with a rough thrust of his hips. You sweet lips gliding along him.

Bullying your bratty cunt whilst fingering your ass. Your jaw drops and your pussy flutters, squeezing his cock. “I can't- I can't! He fucks you harder, rocking the bed, softly groaning as he gets off on feeling your soft cunt rub his hard cock.

You plea, “I’m sorry I won’t do it again. Promise please, your cock feels so good I wanna cum. Please lemme nnnn!” After half a year since breaking into your house looking for a place to sleep. Which he did after he burried his head between your legs whilst you begged for his cock.

He chuckles then states, “You’ve always been such an easy whore for me. What is it? The muscules, the mask, or the knife, or is it all three?” He grabs your hair, squeezing your ass with two of his finger fingers knuckle deep in you.

He leans overs your body, feeling taller and stronger in comparison to you, trembling and vulnerable beneath him. “Doesn’t really matter. It won’t change you’re my pretty lil’ cocksleeve with too much attitude for your own good.”

Letting your hair go to grab his knife, Satoru holds it to your throat. Whilst using some of his weight to pin you to the bed. He knows your slutty cunt so well, the speed, force and angle to make your cunt quiver.

“Nnnn please lemme cum. I'll behave, I promise!” Satoru leans back and props his foot up on the bed of the bed. Fucking his cock in deeper with the new angle, rubbing your sweet spot.

You’re so wet, warm and tight. Its a struggle to remember not to let you cum. The closer you get the tighter you are around him, pulsing with your slick dripping down your thighs. As it smears onto his balls.

It’s so tempting to let you cum. To let you make a mess on his cock you can suck clean. But the cry of, “Please no! Lemme cum, don't stop!”

Sliding out and smacking your cunt ruining your orgasm. “You can beg better than that.” Swiping his head between your sensitive and sore lips.

He leans over you, grabbing your hair and yanking your head up. “Fuck when did you start crying? Are you really that much of a cum addicted whore you’re gonna cry when I edge you?” Moaning as your sweet cunt hugs his cock perfectly.

You whine, “Yes! I wanna cum! Needa cum! Ya feel so gooooood!” Your pretty tears trickling down your cheeks drives Satoru to fuck you harder. Getting off on seeing the mixture of pain and pleasure in your beautiful expression as he bullies your pussy.

“Fuckin’ hell princess you look so hot when you cry. It makes me wanna cum on your face.” He grabs his knife and presses it into your lower back beneath your bound wrist. “Keep begging princess.”

Oreo’s m.list

[mischiefandmultiverse]

NSFW Alphabet / Joe Burrow

A/N another of the many men who have me in a godforsaken chokehold 😌- G🌙

Word count: 1,222k

WARNINGS: Voyeurism (??), cock-warming, smut smut smut smut smut beneath the break!!!!

A = Aftercare (What they're like after sex)

Joe is incredibly careful with you after sex, treating you as if you're made of glass, bound to break at any second. No matter how long your session lasted, or how rough it had gotten, he'd pull you into his body and place kisses on your sweat-damp forehead before cleaning you up.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and their partners)

This man is obsessed with his hands. Like. Obsessed. Seeing them cupping your tits or your ass makes him go feral. And seeing you sucking on his fingers?? Whew, boy... He loves your eyes, a controversial take, I know. But this man could be the angriest he's ever been and all he'd have to do is look into your eyes to calm down. They're like his safe-haven. 

C = Cum (Basically, anything to do with cum)

Joe is secretly a kinky mf who would 100% cum inside you whilst muttering pure filth into your ear about making you his. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

1000% has a polaroid of you in his wallet wearing the expensive lingerie he bought for you one Valentine’s Day. And this man will 1000% jack off to this picture whenever he’s on the road and has been missing you for far too long. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

Very. And yes, he knows what he is doing. Joe knows exactly what makes you tick, and he knows exactly what it takes to make you come undone. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Anything in front of a mirror. He wants you to see how well he fucks you and how good you take him. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

He can definitely have a goofy side when it comes to sex, but these instances are very few and far between. Joe wants to make sure you feel good and, to him, there’s nothing goofy about that!

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

I’d say it’s nothing to write home about! He’s well-groomed, but doesn’t really think about it. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Similar to being goofy, Joe can be very romantic in the moment, but more-often-than-not you’ll ask him to rail you into tomorrow and he’ll be a-okay with that! 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Joe will often begin jacking off minutes before he knows you’re due home so you’ll catch him in the act and help him finish. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Cock-warming. This man loves having his dick in you even if it isn’t for the purpose of sex. You’ll be sitting on the sofa watching TV and he’ll be cock-warming you. Lay in bed, about to go to sleep? Yep. At the cinema in the most secluded spot? You betcha. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere. Literally, anywhere. Anywhere he can get his hands on you without anybody noticing, where he can cover your lips with his palm or put his fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet. Of course, the comfort of your own home offers its advantages - your bed, shower, kitchen counters, sofa… The list goes on. 

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

Joe adores you when you act like a brat. Acting cocky to get your own way, only for Joe to put you back in your place and rail you into next week.

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

Threesomes. Whether it be another man or another woman, Joe wants you all to himself. 

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

Adores both.  Seeing you on your knees for him is a sinful sight which Joe will very happily welcome.  On the other hand, he loves the way he makes you feel when he eats you out; pushing his palm onto your belly to hold you down, nipping at your inner-thighs here and there to catch you out, hearing the soft whimpers escaping your lips as you unravel beneath him. 

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

As I said earlier, Joe is very much experienced and understands what you want. Even if it’s killing him to stay at a slow pace, if he knows it’s what you want, he’ll carry on 100%.

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

Yes. Yes. YES. Anywhere and everywhere, loves having his hands on you whenever and wherever he can. Bending you over the kitchen table after a particularly tough training day; in the changing-room of your favourite store; car parks, movie theatres, the list goes on once again…

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

Definitely takes risks. This man would fuck you in the back of your car with the windows rolled down in public and on the busiest day of the year just to lean down to your ear and say “Putting on a show for everyone, baby?” 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He’s the quarterback for the Cincinnati Bengals… You do the math. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

You’d always try to hide your toys from Joe. You wouldn’t want him thinking he couldn’t make you finish or that you didn’t feel good with him. That is until he came across the small shoe box you hid away beneath your side of the bed and he’d spend the rest of the day… evening… night… using each individual toy on you until you came from each one. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Very much so, especially when you acted like a brat to get your way. “We can’t always get what we want, can we?” he’d coo as he withdrew your orgasm for the twelfth time. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Joe is used to shouting across a football field to catch the attention of his teammates… Unless the two of you are in public, he’s using every breath in those lungs to tell you how good you are for taking him and he would definitely not silence himself as he came. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

This. Man. Fucking. Whimpers. I will say no more.

X = X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

He’s 6ft 4”... Once again, you do the math. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He is genuinely like a teenager who’s just discovered PornHub. He is horny 24/7 and will want his hands, his teeth, his lips, his breath on you whenever and wherever he can. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

The two of you definitely fall asleep quite quickly afterwards - especially if you’ve both been going for longer than usual. You’d fall asleep in Joe’s arms, heated flesh resting against heated flesh as you both fell into your slumber.

I do not own any of the pictures used at the beginning of this post.

Please do not re-post and claim as your own.

Likes, comments and reblogs are welcome!

[ranger-kellyn]

you ever just buy a whole comic just bc ur fave showed up looking Cute

[shorlinesorrows]

just got the time to start the sunshine court and I'm Vibrating out of my skin

[aryomengrande]

peacefully drawing then i suddenly remember that time i contacted my supervisor to clarify sth it automatically switched to imessage so that means my supervisor is seeing a photo of baekhyun as my pfp and it didnt occur to me until ive finished my work ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ )

[thepencilnerd]

And Through It All

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: What starts with years of coffee, rooftop conversations, and quiet closeness unravels in the aftermath of a violent patient attack. As the hospital reels, so does Robby—until everything he’s buried comes to the surface. warnings: depiction of violence towards women genre: slow burn, pining, angst, fluff, you both suck at feelings word count: 3.6k a/n: yes this show still has me in a chokehold, this man is old enough to be my father, and protective/emotionally constipated Robby has consumed my every waking thought. also someone please sedate me because I don't know how I'm going to make it between episodes.

p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | Feels Like Trouble) if you're interested

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch always clocked in just after you.

It started as coincidence—years ago, when you were a new year-2 resident fumbling your way through charting and sleep deprivation. You’d arrive blurry-eyed at 5:58 AM, and two minutes later, he'd walk through the side door with two cups of coffee. One always ended up in your hand.

"This is my warm welcome to the pit, I’m not on coffee rounds," he’d grumbled the first time.

"Yet, my savior, here you are," you smiled, taking the cup. "Thanks, Dr. Robby."

He gave you a look, dry and fond. "Don’t get used to it."

Needless to say, you both did.

Now a senior resident, you’ve long since earned your stripes—but the morning coffees kept coming. So did the banter.

"That differential on bed 7 was a mess," Robby muttered one morning.

You sipped from your cup. "I was experimenting with chaos as a teaching strategy."

He stared, deadpan. "Rein it in, Nietzsche."

Late nights sometimes ended on the roof—shoulders nearly touching, silence stretched long between you. The rooftop was a liminal space: above the noise, between shifts, between you and him. You'd talk about patients. About medicine. About what the job takes and what it leaves behind.

One night you’d murmured, "Do you think we make a difference? Or are we just putting out fires that never stop?"

Robby didn’t answer right away. You could hear him breathing. "Some burning buildings are worth running into," he said eventually, voice low like he was admitting something he'd carried a long time.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t not. You were close—so close it blurred. You never noticed how often he drifted into your orbit. But others did.

"So... you and Robinavitch—what’s the deal?" McKay would tease with a grin.

You furrowed your brow, genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"

She leaned on the nurses' station, unbothered. "C’mon, you really don’t see it? The way he looks at you? Brings you coffee every morning? Steps in before anyone else can when the ball rolls downhill?"

You waved a hand dismissively. "He just… cares. That’s his job."

McKay raised an eyebrow. "Sure. Except he doesn’t bring me coffee. Or look like he’s going to deck someone if they so much as raise their voice at me."

You opened your mouth to reply—but the sliding ER doors slammed open. A gurney rushed in, shouting echoing off the walls. Without thinking, you turned and ran toward the trauma bay.

"Saved by the bell," McKay called after you, but you were already gone.

But you didn’t see how his eyes tracked you in a crowded hallway, lingering just a second longer than necessary—guarded, but unmistakably drawn. How he'd appear at your side before anyone else when things turned sideways, voice calm but stance protective, like he was positioning himself between you and whatever chaos had just erupted. The way his jaw would tighten when residents spoke too casually around you, especially if their tone dipped into flirtation. The moments when his voice dropped low, quiet and edged with something softer, when asking if you’d made it home safe after shifts—always phrased like a passing question, but one he never failed to ask.

Earlier that week, Robby had been leaning against the counter in the break room with Dana and a few of the nurses clustered nearby. He was sipping bad coffee and flipping through a chart when Dana nudged him lightly with her elbow.

"You know," she started with a smirk. "You're getting pretty soft on that senior resident."

Robby didn’t look up, adjusting the frame of his glasses. "Yeah? What makes you say that?"

Princess glanced at Perlah, who grinned. The two exchanged a few rapid lines in Tagalog—something teasing and full of mischief. Robby raised an eyebrow.

"Just because I don’t speak Tagalog doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly what you’re saying," he said dryly, finally taking off his glasses and staring at the nurses judgementally.

Dana just about cackled. "Come on, Robby. You bring her coffee every morning, you hover when she’s in a tough case, you barely let interns breathe near her."

Perlah added, "And you always look at her like you’re trying not to."

Princess laughed. "Sir, that’s not just coffee—that’s courtship."

Robby rolled his eyes, biting back a smile. "You all have too much time on your hands."

"We're just saying," Dana said as she turned toward the door. "If you're gonna pine, at least be subtle."

He shook his head and muttered, "Back to work, people."

Then came the day everything cracked.

The patient had come in hostile—angry at the world and bleeding from a cut above his brow—muttering about how no one respected him, how women thought they were better than him. According to his chart, he had a record of violent outbursts and a chip on his shoulder the size of the hospital.

"You think you're smarter than me, don't you?" he sneered when you entered the bay, his arms crossed and chest puffed like a bull ready to pick a fight.

You kept your voice calm and professional. "Sir, I'm just here to update your chart and make sure you're getting what you need."

He laughed—sharp and bitter. "What I need is for people like you to stop looking at me like I'm some kind of freak. All you female doctors think you're so much better."

You froze for just a second. "I'm here to provide care. Nothing more."

"Don't lie to me!" he spat. "I see how you talk to the others. You think you're above me like some queen. But you're not. You're just another stupid cunt—"

"I'm going to get another physician to help with your case," you said quickly, trying to disengage, stepping back toward the call button.

"You walk away from me, and I swear—"

The second he was out of your peripheral vision, he lunged.

You cried out as his weight slammed into you, sending you hard to the ground. Everyone around you scattered, the staff protecting patients and patients protecting themselves.

Your elbow struck tile and pain bloomed across the crown of your skull. Your head snapped back like a slap bracelet. He loomed over you, shouting a string of vile insults, hands grabbing at whatever they could. Another set of fingers clamped around your throat. A scream pierced through the air shouting, "Robby!" Only after a set of doors burst open did you realize it was yours. 

Before you had time to process what was happening, he was there.

Robby knocked the patient off of you with brute force that stunned the entire hospital staff. Without help, Robby pinned him to the floor facefirst with practiced strength, knees braced, and jaw clenched. "Security!" his voice thundered.

Subduing the attacker by his wrists, Robby's knee dug into the man's back thigh without mercy, making him cry out in pain. "Collins! Dana!" he barked, voice sharp and commanding, reverberating through the trauma bay like a shockwave.

You were on the floor, dazed, breath knocked out of you. The two women rushed to your side in the blink of an eye. All around, med students and residents stood frozen, eyes wide.

They had never seen Robby like that.

No one had ever seen Robby like that.

The patient struggled once more before Robby leaned in and drove his knee harder into the attacker’s thigh, his grip unrelenting, voice low and deadly calm. "Stay down."

Security took over a moment later, but Robby didn’t move until he was sure it was safe. Then he stood, exhaled once, and turned to Dana and Collins.

"I'll be over as soon as I can, brief me later," he said. "I'll assess her myself."

Dana crouched beside you, one hand firm on your shoulder. "We've got you," she said gently, then glanced over her shoulder. "We'll be in 4."

Collins helped you up with care, guiding you slowly down the hall while Dana kept close at your side. You were still disoriented, a sharp ringing in your ears, but you caught a glimpse of Robby speaking to security. He didn’t even glance your way—focused, furious, deadly calm.

In Exam Room 4, Collins set you down on the cot, already checking your pupils with a penlight. "You hit your head?"

"Yeah," you managed, wincing as you moved. "Elbow too. Think I caught most of the floor on the way down."

Dana pressed a cold pack into your hand. "You’re in shock. Just breathe. We’ll handle this."

Collins nodded, gently examining your face and palpating around your ribs. "No obvious trauma, nothing broken. Expect some bruising around your throat the next few days. We should get you in for a head CT just to be safe. You took a hard hit."

"I'll get that booked ASAP," Dana said, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze before stepping out to handle the order. She paused at the doorway just long enough to exchange a glance with Collins—an unspoken check-in—before disappearing down the hall. 

Moments later, the door opened again. Robby stepped in, his expression unreadable but his eyes scanning you like he was cataloging every mark, every breath.

"I’ll take it from here," he said quietly to Collins.

They exchanged a glance, then wordlessly stepped out.

And then it was just you and him.

He crossed to your side, kneeling. His hands moved automatically, gently tilting your chin to check for swelling, eyes flicking to your pupils, then the scrape along your cheekbone. "Can you look up for me? Good. Follow my finger."

His voice was low and clinical, but his touch was careful—too careful.

"Headache? Nausea? Double vision?" he asked, bringing your hand into his and turning it over to assess for any injuries.

"No, just a little dizzy," you murmured.

He nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed your elbow, then the bruising along your neck. Then the questions stopped. His hands stilled.

He just looked at you—really looked at you—and the silence took hold.

His jaw flexed, like he was trying to say something but couldn't. Something had cracked open in him. Not just from what happened. From what it revealed.

And you could feel it—the weight in the room. Something unsaid between you, thick as blood and twice as loud.

You tried to fill the silence. "Dana said she'd put in a rush order for a head CT. Collins didn’t think anything was broken, just some bruising and—"

"Don’t," Robby said, almost too softly.

Your words faltered. You watched him—how his shoulders stayed tense, how his eyes didn’t move from yours, how still he was, like saying the wrong thing might make everything unravel.

"Robby," you said gently. "It's okay, I’m fine."

His jaw clenched, masseter muscles carving his sunken cheeks like a marble sculpture. "No, it's not. You’re not."

He said it so quietly, like he hated the truth of it. Getting up, he ruffled his hair and shook his head, voice still quiet but heavy. "Just... give me a second."

It wasn’t the injury that had shaken him—it was the realization. That in those terrifying few seconds, the worst thing he could imagine had nearly happened. And it wasn’t because you were his resident. Or his colleague.

It was because you were you.

You watched him pace as the silence dragged, your heart still pounding faintly in your ears. "Robby," you tried again, softer this time. "I'm okay, really..."

Still, he said nothing.

You gave a half-scoff, half-sigh, trying to shake off the tension. "I’ve had worse nights. Dana and Collins already cleared me—CT’s just precautionary. Nothing to worry about."

His movements stilled and eyes didn’t leave yours.

"What is it?" you asked, finally, your voice gentle but steady—like you already knew the answer but needed to hear it.

That cracked something in him. He looked away for a beat, jaw flexing again, his breath hitching as if he was holding back something too big to name. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, raw—nothing like the sharp, composed attending everyone else knew.

"I didn’t know it would feel like that." 

He rubs the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture in an effort to hold back whatever threatens to overflow. "Seeing you on the ground. Hearing you scream. For me. I’ve seen worse—God knows we all have. But nothing’s ever felt like that."

You froze.

His eyes met yours again, and the walls he always held in place—stone and steel and professionalism—weren’t there anymore. He looked at you like he wanted something he had never allowed himself to want. Like he was terrified of the feeling and already grieving it.

You felt the shift like gravity tilting. Like the air changed around you. It was as though the ground beneath you had tipped on its axis.

And suddenly, everything between you was different.

Not unspoken anymore, just unbearable to say aloud.

You felt yourself retreating into the space between what you wanted to feel and what you needed to believe. The part of you that ached wanted to lean forward, close the distance, tell him you felt it too—that terrible, awful, beautiful clarity.

But another part held you back. The part that lived in hospital hallways and stared at name badges and remembered what it meant to be professional. To be younger. A resident. His resident. The part that convinced you it could never be more.

You searched his face, trying to decode what this moment was, or if it had always been there, hiding in quiet coffees and rooftops and restrained glances. And still, he said nothing. Maybe he was waiting. Maybe he didn’t know how to cross that final line either.

So you just sat there in the quiet with him, suspended between the ache and the boundary—between what was true and what you were still too scared to say.

Eventually, you broke. Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

His brows furrowed instantly. "For what?"

You shook your head, feeling heat rise behind your eyes. "I don’t know. For not calling for help. For being alone in there. For... allowing this," you gestured between the two of you, "to happen." You sniffled. "For letting myself—"

"Don’t," he cut in sharply, but not unkindly. "Don’t you dare apologize for any of that, you did nothing wrong."

You blinked.

He leaned in slightly, voice steady now, like he needed you to hear every word. "You did everything right. You followed protocol. That man was unstable, and what happened wasn’t your fault."

Your lip trembled, but you didn’t speak.

His voice softened again. "And if this is about me... if you think you’ve done something wrong because of how I feel about you—how I care about you—don’t."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was everything neither of you knew how to name. It sat heavy between you—thick with the ache of things buried too long and the sharp edges of everything that couldn't be said. You could feel it in your chest, pressing against your ribs and threatening to claw itself out, the unspoken confession of a man who just laid bare more than he meant to, and your own desperate need to pretend you didn’t hear it.

But you had. You’d heard it in his voice, in the way his hands had trembled just slightly when he touched your face, in the way his eyes wouldn’t leave yours even when they should’ve.

And now, as your chest rose and fell too quickly and your heart tried to find steady ground, all the small moments you’d buried—or maybe just refused to examine—rushed back like a crashing wave. His hand guiding yours during your very first incision, firm but not overbearing. The coffees every morning—always your usual, always on time. The time he’d found you on the stairwell after you lost your first patient, sobbing uncontrollably, and he didn’t try to fix it—he just sat there beside you until you could breathe again. The rooftop shifts when you couldn’t quiet your incessant thoughts, he somehow always found you there.

The silence that needed no explanation.

It had always been there. A quiet, steadfast presence. Not loud, not showy—but constant.

And now, undeniable.

And maybe you were still trying to find the line between what had always been there and what had just changed—but the silence was no longer uncertain. It was waiting.

You decided to break it.

"Can I kiss you?" you whispered, eyes searching his, breath catching somewhere in your throat.

Robby didn’t answer. Not with words.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His eyes searched yours, one last moment of hesitation flickering there—one last out, if you wanted it.

But you didn’t. Instead, you met him halfway.

His lips brushed yours, featherlight at first, reverent, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed. His skin was warm against yours, soft in a way that surprised you. Your fingers found his jaw, the roughness of his beard brushing your palms as your hands slid down slowly, until they came to rest at the curve of his neck—right where his pulse thrummed hard beneath your fingertips.

The kiss deepened a breath later, quiet and aching, full of everything you’d both held back for far too long. His hands rose to cradle your face, holding you like something fragile, like if he wasn’t careful, you might break. His thumbs grazed the corners of your cheekbones, grounding and gentle, anchoring you both in the impossible tenderness of it.

There was nothing hurried about it. Just warmth and softness and the quiet admission of something real. Something that had lived in the silence between you for years.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, exhaling shakily.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a confession.

He let out a breath, rough and shaky against your cheek. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that," he murmured. His voice cracked just slightly at the edges—like the truth cost something to say. And maybe it did.

You pulled back enough to see him clearly, your hands resting on his neck, feeling the steady, trembling pulse beneath your fingertips. He looked at you like the moment might vanish if he blinked.

For years, probably. You just hadn’t let yourself admit it. Not through the early mornings or the long nights. Not even when he stood too close, or when his voice turned soft just for you. Not even when your heart always found him in a crowd. But now, with his breath still warm against your lips and his hands still cradling your face like something precious, you couldn’t pretend anymore.

You’d been his and he'd been yours, long before either of you were brave enough to say it. You pulled back just enough to look at him—really look—and gently stroked his cheek, admiring his freckles like newly formed constellations in the sky. 

His eyes drop ever so slightly. "I'm old," he starts. "My work-life balance is absolute shit. You deserve someone who can give you what you need."

You stare at him, puzzled. For a second, you think he’s serious—like he's about to start building walls where they’d only just crumbled.

Then you catch the flicker in his expression. The barely-there smirk at the corner of his mouth. He’s only half-serious. Nervous. Teasing you.

You grin, easing the weight with a well-aimed jab. "At least you're not old enough to be my father. And it's not like my hours spent outside work ratio is any better."

He scoffs, ducking his head before shaking it all too lightheartedly.

"And for the record," you add, tapping his chest with a pointed index finger. "This is not some personification of daddy issues, I'll have you know that my father and I have a very healthy relationship."

"Well, that’s a relief," he murmurs, his smile softening as he encloses his fingers around your hand.

You sit back, playful. "I’ll keep you up to date on all the hottest trends the youths engage in. Like cat cafés and strawberry milk matcha lattes. And emotional vulnerability."

He groans, rubbing his face shyly. "God help me."

You grin, careful not to laugh too hard, and lean into him again. "Too late for that, Robinavitch. You’re stuck with me." 

"Yeah," he whispered. "I really hope I am."

Outside, the hospital buzzed as it always did—pages overhead, heels echoing on tile, lives beginning and ending behind curtain walls. But for a moment, the noise faded. The only sound was your breathing, his.

And the quiet hum of something long overdue settling into place.

You didn’t know what came next—how this would unfold outside the safety of Room 4, outside of bruises and adrenaline and low-lit confessions. But for now, with his forehead still resting gently against yours, and the weight of unspoken feelings finally aired between you, it didn’t matter.

You had time.

Until a round of cheers and high fives broke the stillness like a confetti cannon bursting into the air.

Both of you jerked apart, startled. Just outside the half-closed door to Room 4 stood a cluster of med students, nurses, residents, and paramedics—huddled together like a peanut gallery, barely containing their glee.

Fire. Fire beneath your cheeks igniting your face like the depths of hell and embarrassment. You buried it in Robby’s chest as he turned around slowly, one hand instinctively coming up to rest on your back as he started to laugh.

Langdon, of course, was the ringleader. He held up a neon orange post-it like a trophy, waving it proudly as the group chuckled and whooped behind him. In black Sharpie were the words:

UNPLANNED CONFESSION - Langdon & King—the bet circled and underlined. And below it: $7/week. Scribbled in tiny pen just beneath that, barely legible, was a date—six months ago.

He high-fived someone out of view next to him just before giving the two of you an exaggerated thumbs-up, grinning like he’d just won the Super Bowl. On cue, Mel stood up from beside him and gave you a quick wave and a shy smile, arms held tightly by her sides.

You groaned, still pressed into Robby's chest. "I swear to God, if they made a bracket—"

"Oh they definitely made a bracket," Robby said, laughing into your hair.

You peeked up at him, still mortified but grinning. "Are we seriously the plot twist in someone’s trauma bay soap opera?"

"Apparently," he muttered, pulling you closer. "Should we give them something to talk about for next week's episode?"

You scoffed, swatting lightly at his chest. "Take me out to dinner first, will you?"

Outside, the group began to scatter—some called back to rounds, others still giggling as they walked off. But you stayed there, tucked into Robby’s side, warmth blooming in your chest despite the chaos. Whatever came next, you’d figure it out. Together.

And if the hospital had front-row seats to your slow-burn becoming a soft landing? So be it.

[vamplvs]

notes: y'all i am so sorry this stupid mf (lovingly, mostly) has me in a chokehold, and its so bad. idk what thunderbolts did to me. i used to be a hater, and now i'm kicking my feet and giggling over him making me breakfast.

it's not uncommon for john to make breakfast for the team. he likes making pancakes, eggs, coffee, and anything else he learns they like. it's something he misses doing for people he cares about (though he is loathe to admit that he really cares for the thunderbolts), and after what happened after he became captain america when olivia-

“you’re a fool, walker,” yelena says over her coffee, having treaded into the room so quietly he couldn't hear her over the sizzling of bacon in the pan.

john is startled first, and offended second. “the hell did i do?”

“you know what you’re doing,” she replies, no further context added.

only half a moment later, you walk into the kitchen. "you are a saint, john," you say with a tired grin. in one smooth movement, you pull a mug from the cabinet and fill it with coffee. john watches you reach for it and only has half the mind not to grab it for you. "don't tell bob i told you this, but your coffee is amazing."

john snorts. "yeah, will do."

"you make any waffles or is it all pancakes today?" you take a seat at the counter, stirring in sugar and creamer to your coffee. there's a stack of pancakes for the team in front of you that you're looking at skeptically.

he immediately perks up, and before you know it, there's a plate of waffles sitting in front of you. "made them just for you," he says with a soft smile, "i know you prefer them, so..." he trails off, pointedly ignoring yelena's raised eyebrow.

"like i said, a saint, john, a saint."

you and yelena talk while john takes the time to clean up, scrubbing the fat out of pans methodically. by the time he's done, you've already run off to train with bucky, and john pretends not to be bothered by that. pretends it doesn't get under his skin in the worst way that you train night and day with bucky instead of him.

yelena sits at the counter with a smug grin on her face. "a saint, my ass," she laughs, "you are a fool, walker."

[whateveriwant]

Ok I lied. Here’s some more Simon fucking himself stupid because apparently he has a chokehold on me. (prev: part 1, part 2)

You’d think a man that regularly fucks his own brains mushy would have a poor performance in the bedroom, right? For a normal man, perhaps, but this is Simon Riley we’re talking about; ‘vigor’ is his middle name.

So even after going for multiple rounds, cycling through multiple positions, and getting covered in multiple fluids, your boyfriend is as ready to go as ever… physically speaking, that is. Because as far as mentally goes, he dropped out a long time ago, somewhere between taking you on your back and then on your knees.

Now you’ve reached the part of the night you like to call your ‘wind down phase’, where you’re just looking for one last, easy release before you throw in the towel. But where you’re tired, sensitive as hell, and already feeling tomorrow’s soreness starting to creep in, Simon’s still pinching and pawing at you like he can’t get enough.

As you lazily ride him, fingers curled over his thick shoulders, Simon’s own hands are pressed hungrily into the meat of your hips. From where he’s sat against the headboard, his lower back propped up by a pillow or two, he’s in the perfect position to guide you back and forth in his lap.

It’s as you feel the slow approach of your final climax that you begin to pick up the pace a little, only to slow right back down again as a sudden noise has you distracted. It takes you a second to place the sound, but once you recognize it, you’re immediately grinding your movements to a halt.

Simon’s phone only rings when it’s you or his work calling. And seeing the current situation you find yourselves in, you know it’s not the former.

The phone rings and rings, neither one of you bothering to move for it. The call gets sent to voicemail, and for a moment you think that’s all it’s going to be, but as the phone promptly begins to trill again, you know something else is up.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you reach over to the nightstand to grab the device. “It’s John,” you tell your boyfriend, seeing his Captain’s contact flash across the screen. You turn the phone around to show Simon, but it seems he has little interest in it, his grip on your waist unwavering as his phone buzzes away in your hand.

“Should you answer? Could be important,” you say. The boss making back to back calls speaks of urgency, if not emergency. But Simon’s focus lies solely on where your two bodies are connected, a sex-fueled tunnel vision if you ever saw one.

Though one look at Simon’s face tells you he’s in no place to have a meaningful conversation right now, as the phone darkens again, only to then light up for a third time in a row, you know this is serious. So despite the haziness in his eyes and the limpness of his jaw, you decide to answer the phone, putting it on speaker.

There’s silence on the other end for a moment before you hear the deep baritone of Price’s voice calling out. “Simon?” He waits a beat. “Simon, hello?” He tries again when he hears nothing in response.

While Price is kept in limbo, you’re busy trying to rouse your boyfriend back from brain death. “Simon, it’s John,” you whisper to him, hoping to not be heard by the other man on the phone. Unfortunately, Simon gives zero indication he’s heard you, his bleary gaze looking right past you.

“You there, Simon?” Price’s voice crackles over the speaker.

Bringing your hand up, you lightly tap Simon on the cheek. “Baby, it’s John. Your boss,” you whisper again, slightly louder this time.

Again, he offers you no response, just a slow blink, an even slower trickle of drool starting to form at the corner of his mouth.

As you hear another gruff, “Simon?”, being spoken over the phone, your taps become a little more insistent, a little more forceful.

“It’s Price, Si. Price. Captain Price,” you hiss, urgently patting him against the cheek.

Somehow, whether by miracle or sheer force, you’re able to knock Simon’s last two brain cells together and coax forth a vaguely human-sounding reaction from him.

“Priiizzzzze,” Simon rumbles out, a garbled approximation of his Captain’s surname.

The line goes quiet for a beat, and you can almost imagine the man on the other side blinking in confusion. Then, “You alright, Simon?” he asks earnestly. “Now’s not a bad time, is it?”

Thankfully, Simon seems to have regained the smallest hint of his bearings again, and he manages to hum a solid, “Mmmf.”

Price takes a moment to consider what he means by such an ambiguous response, and deciding it translates to ‘Speak freely’, he does just that. “Well, I’m callin’ because we’ve just received word of some new developments comin’ out of Hong Kong. Laswell’ll want to give a full briefing tomorrow mornin’, but essentially–”

And that’s about as far as Simon gets before he checks out again.

As Price continues to lay down the basics for him, Simon’s focus shifts back to what he really desires: the person he’s currently buried to the hilt inside.

His Captain’s droning acts as little more than background noise as Simon reaches up and begins toying with one of your nipples. The action is unexpected (not to mention ill-timed given the circumstances), and you try batting his hand away, even as a pleasurable tweak has you choking back a moan.

However, unfazed, Simon drags his fingers down, down, downwards, slowly tracing the midline of your body until he reaches your throbbing sex. His fingers are warm and slightly rough as he begins to stroke you, applying just the barest of touches, but it’s enough to light your nerves on fire.

This time, it’s harder to stop your moans from spilling forth, and you’re forced to mash your lips together lest you reveal your presence to the Captain still chirping on and on. Your free hand darts down to grab Simon’s wrist, meaning to tug it away, but instead, you find yourself pausing, holding onto him as a shudder wracks up your spine.

You know you should push him away – or, at the very least, tell him to ease up a little – but it just feels so fucking good that you can’t bring yourself to do either.

Besides, even if you were to speak up, would Simon be cognizant enough to heed your words? A quick peek at his expression tells you all you need to know. The lights may be on upstairs, but there is no one home right now to answer the phone.

You can feel the hand between your legs grow wetter and wetter as you start to leak droplets of your arousal. The slippery fluid makes Simon’s fingers glide that much smoother, that much slicker as he rubs you.

Even the way he’s touching you now – the way he’s expertly taking you apart – isn’t the result of conscious decision making by Simon. His movements, however deft, aren’t directed by any true rhyme or reason; they’re pure muscle memory at this point.

Simon’s other hand on your hip starts to rock you against him, and you find it’s getting harder to keep yourself under control. Try as you might to tamp your voice down, your ecstasy soon gets the better of you, and before you can stop it, you’re muttering a less than subtle, “Fuck.”

Immediately, you realize what you’ve done, and you slap a hand over your mouth at your mistake. As Price’s side of the call goes similarly quiet, you squeeze your eyes shut, wanting to kick yourself for your carelessness.

Just as you think the jig is up, however, you catch a lucky break, as not a second later, Price resumes, “–boots on the ground to confirm what these sat images have been pickin’ up.”

The feeling of relief that floods you is almost akin to euphoria, and you exhale deeply (but not loud enough to be picked up over the receiver) as you bring your hand back down.

That was close; way too close for comfort, honestly. And yet, despite how close you just came to exposing yourself, Simon is totally, completely oblivious to it all.

This time when you reach for the wrist between your legs, you successfully tug it away. You feel like you’ve tempted fate enough for one night.

Though Simon puts up zero fight as you remove his hand from your sex, that’s only because he then reaches up and quickly stuffs his slickened fingers into his mouth. His eyes fall shut as he savors the salty taste of your arousal, a sort of blissful wave washing over him as he sucks his fingers clean.

Somehow, though you’re not sure how it’s possible, you swear you can feel him grow even harder where he’s buried inside you. The sensation makes you squirm, wanting to bear down on the fullness within you, but you force yourself to resist the urge to tilt your hips back and forth.

This is almost torture at this point, like you’re caught in some kind of kinky Saw trap. Honestly, you’re not sure how much more of this you can take. But thankfully, it appears you won’t have to endure it for much longer.

“All that’s to say, it looks like our timetable’s been moved up. We’ll be shippin’ out earlier than expected,” Price starts to wind the one-sided conversation down.

Though Simon has been relatively mute this entire time, for some reason, at this moment, he takes the opportunity to let out a long, “Mmmmmm.”

While you know the noise isn’t much more than an appreciative moan at your taste, Price is unaware of that fact, and so he asks, “That’s not a problem, is it, Lieutenant?”

You both wait a few beats for Simon to respond, but with less than a handful of working neurons left in his brain, you figure that’s unlikely to happen. Knowing Price is still expecting an answer and your boyfriend is unable to offer him one, you realize you have to take matters into your own hands once more.

So puffing out your chest and straightening up your spine, you muster up your best Simon impression as you expel a deep, gravelly, “Hmm.” The several seconds that follow find you holding your breath in anticipation, praying to whatever god will listen that Price buys your impersonation.

It’s after he eventually says, “Alright, well, I’ll expect you at 0800 for tomorrow’s brief,” that you breathe again, feeling nearly on the verge of passing out.

Frankly, this whole ordeal has left you exhausted. From having to hide from Price to having to pull one over on him, you feel like your heart is liable to give out any moment now.

If only Simon had been more of a conscious participant in this conversation maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad. You and him could have quietly laughed and swore together in your shared misery. Instead, he’s too preoccupied with squeezing your nipple again between his wet fingers to notice anything’s the matter.

You don’t even bother pushing his hand away this time as you can sense the call is mercifully coming to a close.

“Have a good rest of your night, Simon,” Price says through the speaker.

If you weren’t so wrecked right now, you could almost leap with joy from how utterly relieved you feel. From the moment you answered this call, you thought you’d undoubtedly be found out. Truth be told, you’re not sure how you managed to make it through the past several minutes unheard and undiscovered. All you know is that you did and you’re beyond grateful for that.

But before you can hang up the phone to celebrate, Price has one last thing to say. Just as you’re about to press the end call button, just as you’re about to fling the phone to the far side of the room, just as you’re about to collapse into a boneless heap because you’re finally, finally, finally in the clear, Price gives one last farewell that makes your stomach fall out of your ass.

“And you too, (Y/N).”

The call dies, and you wish you died with it.

[hanchette]

𝐌𝐘 𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 ( kpop demon hunters )

a/n: stop saying they're a hear me out, I AM HEARING YOU OUT

consist of : fluff, gender neutral reader — soft moment w/ jinu

"you're my soda pop, my little soda pop."

"that song again?"

entering the room with snack filled tray was jinu, a small smile blessing his face, there's a small tremble in the way he holds the brown wood—filled with a glass of grape juice with spherical ice filling them in with a straw, a miniscule little umbrella sits on top of it, resting oh so sweetly like a cherry on top of a cupcake. besides it was a classic cheesy noodles that jinu has lately been craving ever since he found out that they existed.

to be fair, you did introduced it to him and as soon as he tasted it, he almost cried in relief of how good it was. or maybe it was more on the cooking (how you did it) that took him kneeling on the floor gobsmacked with a delicious thump at how the flavours blend well—ahhh, he can be quite dramatic at times.

"yup, had me on a chokehold ever since I've heard of it, yanno?" you grinned, looking at him over your shoulder, teeth showing with an entertained look plastered on your face. shameless at admitting it.

your phone continues to ring out the melodies, the song in the background playing over and over again—saja boy's voice and visuals emitting from the little pad of device on your hands, the camera zooming in every now and then at romance, abby—jinu.

jinu shakes his head, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of your bed where you are laying on it sideways, just enough to get that position that melts your very bones to the best possible ways you can't tell, it's the kind that's enough to send you sighing in relief at how much you don't wanna move right now.

"i see, well i am glad you are enjoying it." he smiles, walking towards you before kneeling in front of you. you lowered your device, finally taking him in completely. hair as pure as the midnight sky with a smoldering look—was it? you couldn't tell, jinu just looks like he is seducing you at every second that you now put all of his expression on smoldering by default. dressed in casual navy blue button up shirt and khaki shorts, to top it off, he is wearing bunny slippers which were initially yours had you not messed up the sizes.

in the first place why not indicate that the shoe measures on the front of the page was placed not on your favour? that was just diabolical of the seller to not add the description.

"yes?" you questioned, blinking at him once you realized that you've been staring at him for a bit of the seconds there, but the handsome lad simply chuckled through his nose, short and sounds more like a snort.

"why obsess over it when i am right here." sure the words started with 'why' but the way jinu said it sounds more like a statement; asking you to place your attention fully on him.

once.

twice.

you blink at him owlishly, expression more of a deer in headlight or was it a busted headquarter where your braincells are clocking out? jinu himself, your boyfriend, is asking for your attention at this very moment. sure he does this sometimes, asking for your undivided attention but it was more on the indirect side. like how he'd distract you with your favorite treats, cuddles, gifts, but never upfront.

you could still vividly remember him taking your hand to place a small gift on your palms, it was a cute charm that you've yapped about once towards him. "like it?" to which you gushed and lunges at him in excitement.

"jinu."

"yea?"

"..."

his hand, previously resting on his knee now touches your cheek gingerly. "finally done admiring the saja boys?" he questioned, side eyeing your phone for a bit before his eyes turn back on you, eyebrow raised in question to which you realized you haven't answered.

"not yet." you rushed, thumb clicking the off button of your phone and silencing the echoing song out. "not yet, i haven't." you murmured, lost in the way he looks at you, the way he seems to capture your breath as he nears close.

his hand now caress your jaw before they crawl up to space to hold the back of your head, so sweetly and gently as he pulls you towards him. "so i see." he muses, voice just as low as yours, eyes holding yours in a lock, as if searching for a slight bit of hesitance despite how many times you've done it now.

jinu wasn't used to this, grief still shivers in his bones, guilt and resentment to himself, but for now, he can drown it out with the silence of whatever this is.

and soon, his lips is on yours.

[moonstruckme]

hi, i was wondering if for the new girl au you could write about reader going on a date? maybe the tinder thing worked and all the boys are fussing over her before she goes, and remus feels strangely protective of her but is too oblivious to know why? if not all good <333

Thank you for requesting angel!

cw: some french slander (mostly to fuck with Sirius)

Who’s That Girl AU

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

You want to go straight to your room upon entering the flat, but first you need a snack. This is somewhat of a calculated sacrifice, because your whole way to the kitchen your flatmates stare at you like a zoo animal let out of its enclosure. Sirius has muted their film. 

“So,” says James after a moment, drawing out the o, “how was it?” 

“Bad,” you reply shortly. 

He makes a sound so disappointed you actually feel bad for him. You pivot with a bag of crisps in your hand to find James fully turned around on the sofa with his chin resting on his fist, pouting. 

“Well, don’t just stand there,” says Sirius. “Come, spill.” 

You sigh. “I’m tired.” 

“Too bad. You have to debrief with us, it’s in your lease agreement.” 

You give him a dry look. “Is it really.” 

Sirius mirrors you. “Read more carefully next time.” 

You heave another sigh, tearing open your crisps as you go to the end of the couch and curl up against the cushions. James immediately reaches into the bag for a handful. 

“Okay, so remind me,” Sirius says, taking a few from James’ hand, “which one was it that you were with?”  

You frown. “You make it sound like I have dozens of prospects. I’ve only been messaging with three guys.” 

“Malcolm, Tom, and Liam,” James rattles off. 

“Right.” Sirius waves his hand. “And which one of these dull names were you with tonight?” 

“Tom,” you say, crunching down vengefully on a crisp. 

“What was so awful about it?” asks Remus. 

“It was just—” You sigh helplessly. “Honestly, I sort of knew we weren’t going to get along. Even over text, he was dry, sort of boring. I had to ask all the questions. I only went because he’s French.” 

James lets out a startled sort of laughter. “Why?” 

“Because, you know.” You shrug. “It’s kind of a bucket list thing.” 

“Babe,” he laughs, “you can find French men all over London.”

“It’s no wonder he was a prick.” Remus is smirking now, too. 

“Hey!” Sirius objects as James nods his agreement. 

“If you’d told us you were going out with a French bloke,” he says, “we’d have told you not to bother.” 

“Every one of them is pompous, shallow, whiny—”

“Oh, fuck off,” Sirius snaps, scowling when James curls an arm around his neck to ruffle his hair. Remus looks to be hiding a grin. 

“Are you French?” you ask, confused. 

Sirius looks over at you despite James’ loose chokehold, managing to arch a brow. “N’est-ce pas évident à cause de ma peau impeccable et de mon aura cultivée?”

“Goodness.” James blows out a breath, sitting back to fan himself. “I will take you to bed right now.” 

“That,” you clarify. “That is why French men are a bucket list item.” 

Sirius looks smug. “Did he at least like your outfit?” 

“Um,” you hesitate, “he didn’t say—”

“Can’t be that French, then. No taste.” 

“—but to be fair, I don’t think he was paying me much attention.” 

“Definitely no taste,” James seconds. “What do you mean, he wasn’t paying you attention?” 

“He just seemed a lot more interested in talking about himself.” You roll your eyes, gratified when Remus makes a judgemental humphing noise. “It was all about his job, how much money he makes, stuff about cars. He was a big car guy.” 

“Uh oh.” James is smiling again. His eyes slide over to Sirius, who looks already prepared for a fight. “Cars, eh? And are you quite certain your date wasn’t Sirius wearing a hat?” 

“Jar.” Sirius slams his fist down like a gavel. “I demand a contribution to the jar.” 

“Sorry,” says Remus drily, “no.” 

“I may like working on my bike, but I know better than to talk about it! I won’t accept car guy slander in relation to my good name.” 

“Did you or did you not,” says James, with the air of a lawyer in a courthouse drama, “spend twenty minutes telling me about your new muffler?” 

“You fucking liked it, you prat.” 

You hide a smile behind your hand. It does make you feel immensely better coming home to this place of laughter and teasing after the awkwardness of silence across a small table, looking over a full pint of beer that your date ordered for you and you didn’t want. 

“He did actually send me a picture of the inside of his car before we went out,” you say, taking out your phone to show them. 

Remus groans. 

“See?” Sirius spreads his hands. “That’s the difference between me and car guys. I would never do that.” 

“Hold on, let me find it…” You scroll through your messages—large text bubbles of attempted conversation starters on your end, single-word responses and the occasional unsolicited selfie on his—only to gasp and drop your phone when the screen changes without warning. “Oh my god.” 

“What?” James and Sirius ask at once. 

“He’s calling me.” 

“He—Tom?” James’ eyes round behind his glasses. “Tom is calling you?” 

“Yes!”

“Why?” 

“I don’t know!” You toss the phone to Sirius.

He tosses it back to you like a hot potato. “Well, fucking decline!”

“Don’t decline!” says James. “Answer it!” 

“I can’t answer it! Why would I answer it?” 

“Because what if he needs something?” 

“What could he possibly need from her?” Remus asks, frowning. 

“I don’t know—what if—he might want to apologize for how things went. Maybe he was just nervous and he wants to try again!” 

You shake your head. You admire James’ way of looking for the best in people, you really do, but you don’t ever want to see that man again. You’ve worked yourself up too much about it. “I’m not answering it.” 

“Then give it to me.” He reaches into your lap before you can stop him, plucking up your phone. 

“James,” you hiss, as Remus makes a strangled sound and Sirius reaches to snatch the phone from him, but you all turn to statues when James presses a button and says pleasantly, “Hello?” 

You hold your breath. 

“Oh, hi. Tom, is it? I’m her flatmate. What can I do for you?” 

He pauses, listening intently while you and Sirius trade panicky looks. 

“Her lip balm?” James raises his eyebrows at you. You pat your pocket, wincing when the familiar shape of a small tube is missing. “That was kind of you to grab it for her. Right…well, I don’t think all women are forgetful. I wouldn’t say that.” 

You look at your flatmates like see? Sirius’ face screws up in seeming abashment for their gender as a whole, while Remus remains impassive. His eyes lack the warmth you’ve become accustomed to even when he’s frowning. 

“Yeah, sure, you can bring it by—” You jolt, shaking your head vehemently, and James’ eyes widen. “Erm, actually, you can keep it.” A pause. “Yeah, well, it’s just that she’s not in a state to be seeing anyone right now. She’s, um. She’s very sick.” 

You bend over, putting your head in your hands. Sirius reaches over James to pat your back. 

“Yeah, no, rather sudden. What did you have tonight, by the way? It’s really—I mean, are you feeling alright? She’s had her head in the toilet from the moment she got back. Really awful.” 

You hear Remus murmur quietly, “Alright, wrap it up.” 

“No, um, I don’t think tomorrow would work either. For one thing, we don’t know how long the vomiting will last, and for another…she’s…moving?” 

You look up, incredulous. 

“Yes.” James nods, seeming almost as if he’s reassuring himself. “She’s moving. Back home. Just at the end of the week, actually, and you know, um, you can’t bring lip balm on an airplane. Really, you can keep it. I’m sure she’d want you to have it.” 

“Why is he making it sound like I’m dead?” you whisper to Sirius, who only shakes his head, resigned. 

“No, she had a really lovely time with you—she managed to tell us that, through all the vomitting—so she’d…want you to have something to remember her by. Yeah, alright. You too. Thanks, mate.” James ends the call, blowing out a breath. “You owe me so big for that.” 

“I owe you?” you ask, astonished. “How did all that end up with me owing you?” 

“I got him to leave you alone,” James points out. “And he thinks he was your great British love affair. Everyone’s happy.” 

You make a breathless sound, locking eyes with Remus, who grimaces sympathetically. Sirius, however, pats James on the back. 

“Yeah, fair enough,” he says. “Well done, Jamie. Tom’s going to make out with that lip balm for weeks to come.” 

[shouyuus]

Knight!Vi has me in a chokehold rn I can’t lie..

Whether you’re a princess or a maid or whoever you are she’d be stunningggjejdjdjs

She’d protect you with her life istg. Can’t get enough of this woman. And when she’s all sweaty from training??

Or coming back from a battle and seeing you after not seeing you for a while???

I’m gonna collapse🫣

oof oof just thinking about knight!vi laughing and joking with the rest of the young knights, but turning into a blushing puddle the second she meets your eyes in the mess hall (all the men around her start whooping and wolf-whistling until she snaps at them to quit it because it's rude to act like that in front of the crown princess), looking back at you with a shy little smile and a lopsided shrug. you, cocking your head with a tiny wink, going back to listening to your father drone on about foreign politics.

knight!vi coming back from battle, victorious, her armor and chainmail stained dark with blood, the color already oxidizing to an ominous brown-black. there are streaks of something on her face, smeared across her cheek, something dark enough for your question whether it's blood or dirt -- her tearing off her helmet and nearly stumbling as she swings off her horse, her chest heaving.

you're struggling out from behind a row of guards twice the size that you are, relieved tears in your eyes when she finally drops down on one knee in front of you, one of her fists pressed to her chest in the customary salute --

"i'm back," she says, her voice a little hoarse, her words a little breathless, "just like i promised, princess," she adds, glancing up with a particular light in her eyes.

it takes everything in you not to kiss her right then.

instead, you straighten your spine and flatten your shoulders, your voice only shaking ever so slightly as you raise it above the sound of the whistling wind --

"good, and you must remember, you're always to come back to me."

vi's smile is tired and all too wide.

"yes, princess... always."

[theywereafairy]

Paper Rings

⋆˚࿔ Pairing:  Javier Peña x F!Reader

Wordcount: 5.6k

⋆˚࿔ Summary:

Javier brings you to a wedding in Laredo, his hometown, his past, his baggage. It’s the first time he’s brought anyone around like this, and the tension in the air is thick with small-town gossip and quiet judgment. But when someone makes a shitty comment about him, you don’t just defend him, you show them. What follows is slow, worshipful, passionate love making and the kind of soft aftercare only Javi could give.🤭

⋆˚࿔ Warnings:

Worship-level smut • established relationship • small town tension • public makeout scene • oral (f receiving) • PIV (unprotected) • grinding with clothes on • filthy talk • possessive Javi • “you’re mine” energy • praise kink • begging kink • Javier Peña being soft in love but still nasty in bed • post-orgasm aftercare • future marriage tease • overwhelming feelings and emotional vulnerability

⋆˚࿔ Author’s Note:

Hi besties 🥹 I wrote this one-shot after going to a wedding this weekend and couldn’t stop thinking about how Javier Peña would act if he brought someone back to Laredo. This man has me in a full chokehold and I need him to know what it feels like to be loved that deeply.

Hope you’re all doing okay and finding joy in little things. you deserve it. Sending hugs, hydration, and Javi smut to everyone who needs it. 💌 Would love to hear your thoughts, reblogs, or screams in the tags🫶🏼

You told Javi he didn’t have to take you.

You’d said it softly, the night he first brought it up, tracing the lines of his collarbone while his arm lay heavy around your waist. You could tell it was weighing on him, the idea of bringing you home. The hometown. The family. The questions. Not from you, never from you, but from everyone else.

Still, he asked. Told you he wanted to. Told you he wanted them to meet the woman he was with. His words, not yours. The woman I’m with. Like he still couldn’t quite bring himself to say girlfriend out loud, but every time his fingers curled around yours or his lips brushed the corner of your mouth in public, it meant the same thing.

So you said yes.

Now here you were, in a borrowed garden behind a family friend’s wedding venue, ankle-deep in gravel and stares. The sun had dipped low enough to cast everything in a gold-dusted haze, champagne flutes catching light like diamonds, laughter echoing off pergolas wrapped in string lights.

You stood there, half-finished drink in hand, and reminded yourself to breathe. The air was thick with the scent of roses and barbecue smoke, and still, still, you couldn’t stop noticing the eyes. The way they lingered too long. The brief glances exchanged between groups like they were passing a secret around.

A breeze ghosted over the lawn, catching the hem of your dress and brushing it softly against your shins. You smoothed it down with one hand, your fingers trembling just slightly. The music drifted up from the patio, slow and syrupy, a twangy country ballad you didn’t recognize.

Then he appeared at your side. Javi didn’t say anything at first, just rested his hand at the small of your back like he’d been waiting for the exact second you needed it. His fingers splayed warm and wide, grounding you instantly. The scent of his cologne hit you a moment later. Dark, smoky, familiar, and your body responded before your brain had time to catch up.

Javier Peña, in a fitted beige suit that should’ve looked too polished on him but didn’t. The shirt beneath was slightly unbuttoned, just enough to tease the hollow of his throat. His hair was combed back in a way that made you ache a little, like he’d actually tried. For you.

His eyes scanned your face like he could read the tension there, and maybe he could. Of course he could. He’d been watching you all night from across the lawn, you were sure of it. Watching the way the women tilted their heads when they looked at you. Watching the way the men did too.

You leaned into him without thinking. Just a little. And he pulled you closer without hesitation.

“Too much?” he asked, voice low, brushing the words against your temple.

You shook your head, swallowed hard. “Not with you.”

He smiled, just barely. It was a private thing, the kind of smile no one else got. The kind you’d seen in his kitchen at midnight or across his pillow in the soft haze of morning. And for a moment, the noise of the wedding dulled around you. Like none of them mattered. Like the two of you were a secret no one else deserved to understand.

But they were still looking.

You barely heard the man approach.

It wasn’t even someone you recognized, just another sharp-suited ghost from Javi’s past, someone who had probably once shared a beer with him at a high school football game, or nodded to him at a gas station before the war on drugs turned Javier Peña into something to talk about over breakfast tacos.

He said it with a laugh. That was the worst part. Like it was just some harmless joke tossed between old friends.

“Look at you,” the guy chuckled, sloshing beer over the rim of his glass. “Back in Laredo, showing off another knockout. Guess you always land on your feet, huh? One hot mess for another.”

It took a second for it to register. For the words to sink in. Your spine straightened first. Then came the cold flash of disbelief. Another?

You looked at Javi.

He wasn’t meeting your eyes. His gaze had dropped to the gravel like it was suddenly the most interesting thing at the wedding. Shoulders tense, jaw tight. His usual sharp tongue was nowhere to be found. No snide comeback. No smirk. No venom disguised as charm.

You’d never seen him like this. Never seen Javier Peña shrink. And it pissed you off.

This man, this man who held you like you were fragile and made love to you like you were made of fire. This man who touched you with reverence and kissed you like you were a prayer he didn’t think he deserved to say. This man who had lived, who had bled, who still carried ghosts he never spoke about, and some asshole thought he could reduce all of that to gossip and a cheap punchline?

Absolutely the fuck not. You turned, slow and deliberate, facing the man like you were squaring off in a ring.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice as smooth as the champagne in your glass. “Were you saying something?”

He blinked, faltered, maybe realizing just a little too late who he was dealing with.But you didn’t wait for an answer. You didn’t need one. Instead, you turned back to Javi, and without hesitation, cupped his face in both hands.

His eyes snapped up to yours, wide and confused, and you could see it, the hurt, the flicker of something raw that he hadn’t meant for you to see. He looked like he might say something, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You kissed him. Hard.

There was nothing delicate about it. No tentative brush of lips. No polite affection. This was a kiss made for headlines. A kiss designed to scorch.

You pressed your mouth to his like you were trying to fuse your body to his, like you were trying to prove something. That he was yours. That you were his. That every whisper and sideways glance and snide little insult meant nothing compared to the way he made you feel.

His hands found your waist in half a second, tightening as he groaned into your mouth, surprised but not resisting, not even close. His fingers dug in, dragging you closer, chest to chest. You deepened the kiss, parting your lips and letting your tongue glide against his with a slow, teasing stroke that made him shudder against you.

It was obvious how the tension melted from his shoulders and the kiss turned hungry. When his grip turned bruising, when his mouth slanted over yours like he needed it. Like he needed you. Right here, right now, under the fairy lights and the weight of small-town scrutiny.

You kissed him like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing, who wanted to be seen, who wanted them to watch. You licked into his mouth and moaned, just a little, just enough, and felt his breath hitch in response.

When you finally pulled back, his lips were swollen. His eyes were blown wide. His hair had come loose at the front from where your fingers had curled into it.

You turned, casually, to the man still standing there with his drink frozen halfway to his mouth. No one said anything. No one had to.

Javi’s hand slid to yours. This time, it was him who kissed you, softer now, but just as firm. Just as certain. And the silence around you was louder than any applause.

You didn’t leave his side after that. Not for the rest of the night.

Javi didn’t ask you to, didn’t need to. He stayed close like he was afraid if he let go, the crowd would close in again. And you weren’t about to let them. So you curled your fingers into his where everyone could see, laughed at all the right moments, and leaned into his side like you belonged there. Because you did.

And God, he felt it.

Every time you touched him, a hand on his chest, a brush of your lips near his ear, he melted just a little more. Loosened up. His shoulders relaxed, the corners of his mouth curled into that trademark half-smirk that made your knees weak. He was back to himself, but… softer.

Still, the comments didn’t stop completely.

“You two want a room?” someone muttered under their breath as you passed near the bar. Javi didn’t even flinch.

He just kept his arm around your waist and shot back, deadpan, “Nah. We’ll just use yours.”

You laughed, unabashed, and watched the man blink like he didn’t know what hit him. There was your Javi.

But even as the hours slipped past and he put on a good face, even as he leaned down to whisper teasing little things in your ear like bet you regret wearin’ that dress now, baby, or you keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna get real fuckin’ disrespectful about it, you could still feel it. The way he held your hand tighter than usual. The way he tucked you closer every time someone walked by too slowly or looked too long. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, not like a man showing off a prize, but like someone trying to memorize a moment he thought he might not deserve.

He needed you tonight, more than he’d ever say out loud.And you were going to give him everything.

The hotel was nothing special, beige walls, scuffed floors, a bedspread with a pattern that hadn’t been in style since the nineties. But to Javi, it was sanctuary. It was privacy. It was you, alone with him and no one else’s eyes on the two of you.

You could’ve stayed at Chucho’s, he’d offered. But there was already a cousin bunking in the guest room, and Javi had leaned into your ear with a low murmur that made your thighs press together: “I need you all to myself this weekend, cariño. No interruptions.”

So when you reached the door to your room, keycard in hand, you barely had time to blink before he had you pressed up against it. His palm slapped flat against the wood beside your head, his body crowding yours, the warmth of him sinking through your dress like fire.

You gasped, but you were smiling, both of you a little tipsy, a little giddy from champagne and lust and the afterglow of shared defiance. Your back hit the door and his mouth hovered just inches from yours, his eyes dark and wild, locked onto you like you were the last thing left on Earth worth looking at.

“You tryin’ to kill me in that dress?” he asked, voice low, almost amused.

“I thought you liked it,” you teased, breath catching.

“Oh, I fuckin’ love it,” he said, his lips brushing your jaw, then trailing lower. “Love it even more thinkin’ about you out of it.”

And then he kissed you. Not on the lips, not yet. He started at your collarbone, his mouth warm and open, peppering reverent little kisses across your skin. He dragged them slowly, one after another, up your neck, pausing to suck softly just below your ear before biting down, gentle but sharp enough to make your breath hitch.

You giggled, flushed and breathless, and he smiled against your skin.

“I can’t believe you’re fuckin’ mine,” he whispered, his voice ragged with sincerity. “Mine, baby. You…Jesus…you stood up for me today like it was nothin’.”

“It wasn’t nothin’,” you said, and he kissed your ear in thanks.

He finally reached for the key in your hand, unlocked the door behind you without even looking, and then you stumbled backward together into the room, lips colliding like magnets. The door clicked shut behind you. And then it was just the two of you, tangled in the dark.

Javi’s hands were on your waist, your ribs, your face, everywhere. Like he didn’t know where to touch first. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re too good for me,” he muttered as he kissed you again, deeper this time. “Too fuckin’ good.”

“Shut up and show me how much you want me,” you breathed against his lips, and that was all it took. He backed you toward the bed, mouth never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees hit the edge. Then he dropped to his knees.

You blinked, dizzy. “Javi…”

He didn’t even let you finish.

“Lemme thank you properly, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with heat as his fingers tugged your dress up your thighs, higher, higher. “Lemme take care of my girl.”

He pushed the fabric up around your hips and buried his face between your thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then - God.

His mouth was all heat and devotion, licking long, slow stripes through your folds like he was tasting something sacred. His tongue circled your clit, soft at first, featherlight, teasing. Then firmer. More deliberate.

“Fuck…Javi…” you gasped, one hand tangling in his hair, the other clutching the bedspread.

He groaned against you, the sound sending vibrations through your core. Loving it. Getting drunk on you.

“You hear that, baby?” he rasped, breath hot against your soaked skin. “That’s how wet you are for me. Fuckin’ perfect.”

He wrapped his arms around your thighs, locking you in place, and didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. He licked and sucked like he had all the time in the world, like this, you, was the mission now. His tongue flicked faster, rhythm steady, sinful, devastating, and when he moaned again, your knees nearly buckled.

“You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “Could spend the whole night down here, cariño. Just like this. My mouth on your pussy. You let me, baby?”

You could barely breathe, your body already arching into him, heat coiling tight in your belly.

“Javi…, I’m gonna—”

He didn’t stop. He tightened his grip, sucked your clit into his mouth, and that was it. You shattered, thighs trembling, hips stuttering forward as he groaned into your release like it was his own.

He licked you through it, slowly now, gently, like he was savoring the aftershocks. Like he was proud.

When he finally pulled back, his chin was glistening. His eyes were dark, burning with something more than just lust.

“Look at you,” he murmured, standing, kissing your stomach, your chest, your mouth. “My perfect girl. Took me so good.”

You whimpered, still shaking, already aching for more. And the night wasn’t even close to over.

He didn’t stop touching you.

Even as your legs trembled and your chest heaved from the orgasm he’d just coaxed out of you, Javi kept his hands on you like you might float away without them. One on your hip, the other sliding up your spine, gentle and grounding. His lips found the curve of your neck again, soft, reverent, like he was trying to press all his love into your skin.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “Took it so fuckin’ good, baby. You should’ve seen yourself.”

You whimpered, half-laughing, still trying to catch your breath. He was still fully dressed, his beige suit slightly wrinkled, his shirt damp with heat, and you were standing there, clinging to him, panties soaked, heart beating like a war drum.

He stepped back only enough to look at you, eyes flickering over your body like he wanted to memorize it again from scratch.

“Can I take this off you?” he asked softly, fingers already toying with the straps of your dress.

You nodded, and he smiled, a real one, wide and devastating, before slipping it down your shoulders with almost clinical precision. Slow, careful, like peeling open a gift he’d waited all night to touch. The fabric pooled at your feet in a whisper, leaving you in nothing but ruined underwear and trembling anticipation.

“Fuck me,” he breathed, running a hand down your side like he couldn’t help himself. “You’re perfect. You know that? Just fuckin’ perfect.”

You reached for him, fingers slipping under the buttons of his shirt, finally undoing them one by one, your hands greedy for skin. He let you undress him without a word, just watching your face, breathing heavily as your palms smoothed over the warm planes of his chest.

God, that chest.

Golden and dusted with bright hair, soft but strong, familiar from a thousand sleepy mornings and shirtless photos he swore he didn’t like you taking but never actually stopped you from snapping. You kissed just below his collarbone and felt the way his breath hitched, his cock pressing harder into the front of his slacks.

The bulge was impossible to ignore. Neatly contained but straining. A dark, wet patch had already formed at the tip, pressing through the fabric and smearing against your thigh as he rocked into you without meaning to.

You moaned, needy and involuntary.

He grunted, burying his face in your neck. “Look what you fuckin’ do to me,” he growled, rolling his hips against yours again. “This is what happens when you talk to me like that. When you stand up for me. Shit, baby, never knew I could get this fuckin’ hard just watchin’ you be mine.”

“Javi…”

He kissed you, hot and possessive, and kept grinding into you, rutting against your soaked underwear like it was the only thing holding him back. The friction was just right, dragging over your clit with maddening pressure. Every pass of his cock made your stomach flip, your breath catch.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “Feel what you do to me? I could get you off like this, fuck, just keep goin’, let you ride it, get you all messy before I even take it out.”

You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet his thrusts.

But then, finally, he stepped back, hands going to his belt, moving with a desperation that made your mouth go dry.

He stripped in one fluid motion. Pants, briefs, finally gone. And then there he was, thick and leaking and ready, eyes locked on yours like he was about to ruin you. He held out his hand without speaking. You knew the drill.

You leaned forward, lips parted, and spit into his palm. He groaned low in his throat, spreading it over his length with slow, deliberate strokes, eyes never leaving yours. Your pulse pounded in your throat.

“Can I go raw, baby?” he asked, voice like smoke. “Need to feel you. All of you. Don’t wanna miss a fuckin’ thing.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, please.”

He leaned in close again, nudging your nose with his, his cock brushing against your stomach, hot and heavy and so ready it made you dizzy.

“You’re so fuckin’ sweet when you beg, baby. Gonna make you beg again once I’m inside you. That okay?”

You nodded.

And then he reached down, lined himself up, and, slow, careful, possessive, started to slide in.

He pushed in slow. Painfully slow.

Like he wanted to savor every single inch, watch the way your mouth parted, the way your lashes fluttered, the way your fingers clutched his arms like they were the only things keeping you tethered to earth.

You gasped, back arching, body trembling, as he filled you inch by inch, dragging the head of his cock along your walls with torturous precision.

“Fucking hell, baby,” Javi groaned, jaw clenched, hips straining to stay steady. “You’re so fuckin’ tight for me. Like you were made for this. Made for me.”

You whimpered, burying your face in the crook of his neck, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.

He sank deeper, slow, steady, intentional, until he was fully seated inside you, cock pulsing against your walls, and you swore the air had been knocked out of your lungs.

“I’ll never get used to this,” he whispered. “The way you feel. The way you melt around me like that. Jesus, mami, you’re perfect.”

He stayed there for a second, not moving, just feeling you. His forehead pressed to yours. His hand brushing hair back from your face with something that almost felt like reverence.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice barely a breath.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Move, Javi. Please.” And just like that, something in him snapped.

“Oh, I love when you beg,” he growled, hips rolling forward with a slow, deep thrust. “Say it again, baby. Say it nice for me.”

“Please,” you gasped, voice high and breaking. “Please, Javi, I need you. I need you so bad.”

“Yeah, you do,” he grunted, thrusting again, harder now, his hands gripping your hips like he wanted to mold them to his. “You need this cock. Need me to fuck you nice and slow, let you feel it for days.”

You cried out, the stretch, the drag, the way he filled you completely, it was too much and not enough. The pace was maddening: slow, deep, unrelenting. His thrusts weren’t hurried. They were measured. Devastating. Like he wanted to reach every part of you and leave his name there.

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders.

And he loved it.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Hold on to me. Let me take care of you.”

He kissed your neck, your jaw, your lips. He couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop talking.

“You feel what you do to me? How fuckin’ crazy I am for you?”

“God, look at you takin’ me so good, so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

“This pussy’s mine, right? Say it, baby. Say it’s mine.”

You said it. You’d say anything he wanted.

“Yours,” you gasped, voice wrecked. “Always yours, Javi.”

That did something to him. His hips stuttered, his breath caught in his throat, and he buried his face in your neck with a low, broken sound.

“I love you,” he said, like it hurt. “Fuck, I love you. So much.”

You froze, then melted instantly, all your walls crashing down at once. That was all it took to send you spiraling.

“Javi, oh my god, I’m gonna…”

“Do it,” he whispered, hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling just right. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You shattered with a cry, clenching around him, body convulsing as pleasure washed over you in waves. He groaned, a long, desperate sound, and slammed into you once, twice more before spilling inside you with a curse, holding you so tight it bordered on worship.

For a moment, the room was just breath and sweat and the sound of your hearts trying to recover.

Then he kissed your shoulder.

“You think those bastards heard this and are jealous out of their minds?” he murmured, voice rough and teasing.

You laughed, shaky, blissed out, utterly ruined. “Shut up and hold me.”

You didn’t know how long it had been.

Minutes, maybe. Maybe more. The world felt far away now, dulled and quiet, like it had exhaled with you. The room was warm, lit only by the bedside lamp Javi had turned on earlier, casting soft gold across tangled limbs and wrinkled sheets.

You were still wrapped around him, skin to skin. Your leg draped over his hip, your cheek pressed to his chest, damp with sweat. His fingers traced soft circles along your spine, over and over, like he wasn’t quite ready to stop touching you.

Neither were you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice gravelly from sex and sleep and everything in between. “You okay?”

“Mmm.” You nodded, breath fogging against his skin. “Better than okay.”

He smiled, you could feel it against your forehead. That lazy, post-orgasm kind of smile that only came out when he was completely at ease. When he let the walls down.

His hand slid down to your thigh, massaging gently, then back up to the curve of your hip. “I wasn’t too much?”

You lifted your head, brow furrowed. “Are you serious?”

He just shrugged, shy in that rare way you’d only seen a handful of times. Like he was still surprised someone could look at him the way you did. Like maybe it still didn’t quite compute.

You leaned in and kissed him. Soft, slow, nothing urgent, just lips on lips, a quiet thank you.

“You were perfect,” you whispered.

He looked at you like you hung the stars. Then he tilted his head back against the pillow and sighed, the kind of long, content exhale that said he could stay here forever.

“When we get married,” he said suddenly, like it was the most natural thing in the world, “I don’t want a wedding.”

You blinked, lips parting. “Oh?”

“No guests. No tux. No church. Just you and me. Naked. In bed.” He grinned. “Maybe with cake.”

You snorted. “Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Tres leches,” he said immediately, tapping your hip. “Keep it cultural.”

You laughed again, heart full and aching. But then something stuck in your mind, the way he’d said it.

When.

Not if.

You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow so you could really look at him. “When?”

His eyes flicked to yours, a beat of silence passing. Then he nodded, totally serious.

“Yeah. When.”

Your throat tightened.

“Not if?” you asked quietly.

Javi reached up and brushed your hair back from your face, eyes warm and steady.

“Obviously when,” he said, like it was obvious. Like there was never a question.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just let your head drop back to his chest, your arm curling tighter around him. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together, thumb stroking the back of your knuckles.

And in that moment, wrapped in him, pressed against skin still warm from love, you knew. Knew he meant it. Knew you did, too.

Eventually, he spoke again, voice soft and close to sleep.

“Let’s stay like this forever.”

And you smiled, eyes closing.

“Okay,” you whispered. “But I still want cake.”

[psin314]

Murat has me on a CHOKEHOLD (especially that companion/npc murat, i havent stop thinking about it) and it got me wondering some possible dialogues he would say to rook (romantic or just friendly,idc. whatever he saying,im listening/silly). Most specifically,whenever rook or lucanis get hurt in battle! you know how lucanis & spite comments whenever rook get hurt? (something among the lines of "Rook! Hold on!" or "Rook needs us!") I wonder how murat reacts in situation where lucanis/rook is hurt (you can answer this only for the lucanis part if you want! i ship them A LOT. when the wedding/silly) (Oh by the way, how do you feel about someone possibly draw murat and then show you? i've been wanting to draw him ever since i saw his cute moustache. But i don't want to break one of your possible boundaries,so im asking for permission first!)

(If you got the ask sended twice,my apologies. You can ignore the other one!)

so, first, of course you can draw murat i'd love to see it! second, here's a little meme for the post cus i can't answer on tumblr asks without pics. x) (i have an urge to add a sillie)

some of murat's phrases during fights and banters when he's romanced under the cut!

during a fight, when rook kills an enemy:

- good job, rook! still worse than a crow, but at least something... - it looks like you remembered what i taught you. well done.

if murat is romanced:

- excellent as always, mi amor. - i'll think about this kill tonight… i mean, good!

if lucanis kills an enemy:

- i would kill them faster... - pffft! and this is tHe DeMoN of VyRanTiUm?

if lucanis and murat are together:

- ooh! you have to show me this move later. - damn! rook shouldn't know what this kill made me feel, lucanis.

if rook is hurt:

- aw, c'mon! it wasn't that hard to dodge! - rook, maker's balls, be careful!

if murat is romanced (same for lucanis/murat):

- rook/lucanis, please, hold on! - they will pay for hurting you.

banters

if murat is romanced:

d: murat, you looked like a sad beaten by life pathetic wet smelly old- m: davrin, closer to the point. d: - dog... but after rook, at least your eyes sparkled. m: your eyes sparkled..? that's it? d: yes. you still look like a sad beaten by life pathetic we- m: thank you, davrin, we get it. r: davrin, please, murat is a very good boy. m: hehehe- ahem. yes, i am.

if murat is romanced and there was a sex scene:

l: uhh, murat, can i ask you for something? m: what's it? l: i don't even know how to say it… um… can you be a little quieter with rook? m: aw, c'mon. what should you listen to at night then? r: murat... m: okay, sorry!🙄 but no promises. l: gracias. (spite: but! you-) ACHOO! r & m: bless you.

flirting with lucanis:

(triggers in rivain) m: oof, is it hot in here or is it just lucanis' fault? l: or you should wear fewer clothes. m: wait. are you flirting back? l: wait. were you flirting? r: sorry, boys, that was me. l & m: ... r: it is hot in here, murat. we're in rivain.

if lucanis and murat are together:

m: about the knife, lucanis... l: yes? m: thank you. really. l: i'm glad you liked it. m: one day i will gift you one too, but it will definitely be bigger. l: well, then i'll gift you even bigger one next time. m: and what will we do in a couple of years with a bunch of two-handed swords? l: ha… we'll open a weapon shop and leave the antivan crows. m: nice plan.

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yan bully had me in a chokehold. Could we possibly see their relationship progression? Pretty please?

Yandere Bully x Reader (Part Two)

An: This has actually been sitting in my drafts for a couple days. :D I hope you like it!!!

Part one

The empty locker room smells like sweat and old linoleum. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering slightly, as if trying to escape the weight of the silence. The air is thick and sticky outside, but the room is cool. Dean slouches against the metal lockers, the sharp scent of blood mixing with the stale air.

His face is already bruising. The knuckles of his right hand are split, blood oozing from the cuts, dripping onto the floor. His shirt is torn, sleeves shredded, and there’s a small tear on his jeans where something sharp must’ve caught him. He’s not entirely steady on his feet, but you can tell by the way he keeps glancing at the door that he's still ready for whatever comes next.

You don’t say anything for a long moment, not because you don’t want to—there’s just no point. There’s nothing to be said. You’ve seen this before. He’s been like this for as long as you’ve known him, and yet, this time, it feels different. He’s more… nervous than usual.

"You’re gonna bleed out if you don’t let me do something about that," you mutter, stepping forward cautiously.

Dean doesn't respond, but you know he hears you. He always does. His eyes follow you as you pull out the first-aid kit from the corner. The one that’s been sitting there untouched for years. It's dusty, old. A few of the bandages are frayed, but it’ll do. Everything with Dean is always a little bit broken, a little bit secondhand.

You kneel down in front of him, pulling his hand closer so you can clean the cuts. He winces, but he doesn’t pull away. He never pulls away, not from you. It’s as if the pain doesn’t matter when you’re close enough to touch. When you wrap the bandage around his knuckles, your fingers brush the rough edges of his skin. His grip tightens around your wrist, and you don’t flinch, not even when he digs his fingers in a little too hard.

"Stupid fight," you murmur under your breath, more to yourself than to him.

He grunts in response. "Didn’t start it," he says quietly, the sound of his voice gravelly, rough. "But I sure as hell finished it."

You glance up at him then, and for a second, the world outside seems to fall away. Dean’s face is almost childlike in that moment—eyes dark and wild, lips pressed in a thin line, but something in him is different. There's a vulnerability underneath it all that he never shows anyone else. You can see it in the way his chest rises and falls too fast, the way his shoulders stiffen every time someone walks past the door.

You focus on the task at hand, wrapping more gauze around the worst of the wounds. His skin is warm under your touch, like the heat from his body is soaking through you. You don’t think about it. You can’t. The weight of his presence is already too much. And yet, there's something you can't quite shake. The way he looks at you, the way he always has.

When the cuts are bandaged, you look up again, meeting his gaze. For a long time, there’s only silence between the two of you. The buzz of the lights. The rhythmic sound of your breathing. You don’t know how to speak past the suffocating tension in the room, how to bridge the gap between what you both want and what you both need.

"Why do you do this?" you finally ask.

Dean doesn’t immediately answer. His gaze shifts to the locker across from him.

"I don’t know," he says quietly. "I just... don’t like the thought of anyone else touching you."

You feel something in your chest tighten at his words, a mixture of butterflies and dread. Because you know Dean—his actions are never just about protecting. He doesn’t protect anyone. He controls. He manipulates. He consumes. And yet, there’s something in his gaze now, something raw that makes your breath hitch.

You finish bandaging him up, standing slowly, stepping back. Your eyes lock for a long, unbearable moment.

"Next time," he says, voice low, "I’ll finish it faster."

You nod, but you don’t say anything. You don’t know what to say. Maybe there’s nothing left to say.

He’s already made his point.

Masterlist

[idkyetxoxo]

One | Scorched Ruin | Shadow and Flame

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.8k

Warnings - Mentions of parental abuse, brief angst, sexual content (moderate to explicit?)

|| series masterlist || next ->

The fire in my veins was never gentle. It crackled, burned, raged like an autumn storm refusing to bow to winter's chokehold. 

I was born of flame and rot, of falling leaves and fading light—Beron's daughter, Eris's shadow, the youngest in a court that taught me silence was survival and obedience was love. 

But I was never good at either.

Wrath lives under my skin like a second heart, inherited, honed. I was carved into something useful, something obedient. But they should've known, Autumn doesn't die quietly.

And still, even with flame in my blood and steel in my bones, I let him touch me.

Azriel. Shadowsinger. Spymaster. My oldest mistake and my worst addiction. 

We've been circling each other for years, something savage and secret and always just shy of honest. 

He never asked for more. I never offered. That's how we survived it. Until tonight.

Tonight, I wear bruises like jewellery, sharp little lies inked into my skin. Tonight, I let him believe they're from another man, another bed. 

It's easier that way. Easier than letting him see what my father's hands really do.

But Azriel—he's never been good at pretending he doesn't care.

And when the fire finally catches, it burns hotter than it ever has before.

Rita's was the one place in Velaris Eris was reluctant to follow me. Not because he feared it, no, my brother feared very little but because it was too... Night Court for his liking. 

Too full of music and pleasure and freedom. Things we were never taught to enjoy.

Still, he tolerated it for me. As he always did.

Our visits to Velaris were branded diplomatic, though everyone knew better. Eris had something to gain. The Night Court had something to gain. Beron was the unfortunate middle piece both sides wouldn't mind watching burn.

And me? I was just the excuse.

A walking, talking prop labelled daughter of Autumn, dragged along so Eris could claim he was mentoring his little sister in the ways of politics, while really shielding me from our father's reach. 

A lie we both clung to without ever saying so.

I didn't mind the farce. Not at all. Not when the alternative was home.

Not when last week, Beron's temper had snapped after I'd accidentally interrupted a meeting meant for his Council. 

He hadn't appreciated the intrusion. He hadn't needed to say it, the bruises had done the talking. 

Words sharp as glass. Hands sharper still. His cruelty had been particularly creative this time, and I wore it now like a second skin beneath the fine dress I'd chosen.

The fabric did its best to hide the bruises but a few still dared to creep up, brushing my collarbone like a quiet scream.

Eris and I stood at the bar, my drink sweating in my hand while he flirted lazily with a beautiful female who looked like she wanted to climb him like a tree. 

I leaned on the cool surface of the bar and let my eyes wander over the crowd. Patrons spilling in and out in waves of laughter and sweat, music pulsing through the floorboards, some entering alone and leaving with someone else's mouth on theirs.

For once, I felt almost at peace. Distant. Unreachable.

Until I felt it. The shift in the air. The cold brush of shadows over my spine, like fingers made of smoke and secrets.

Azriel.

He stepped into the room like he'd been summoned, all quiet menace and coiled power, dressed in black as always, the blue glow of his siphons the only hint of colour. 

His shadows curled around him like jealous lovers, hissing and slinking along the floor. His eyes, sharp and unreadable found mine instantly.

Of course they did.

He approached the bar like a blade sliding into flesh, smooth, effortless and impossible to ignore. He stopped just opposite us. His gaze flicked briefly to Eris before returning to me, though he spoke to my brother.

"I would've assumed you'd turned in for the night," he said, voice smooth as midnight and twice as dangerous.

Eris smiled, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that arrogant, drawling way that meant trouble. "Is it so wrong for me to drink and bask in the company of a beautiful female?"

I rolled my eyes and finished the last of my own drink in one impatient gulp. "Pig," I muttered.

Eris chuckled, unbothered but when I glanced at him, his smile had faltered. His eyes shifted, not toward the female he was flirting with, but toward Azriel.

Or rather, where Azriel's gaze had gone.

I didn't need to look to know what he was staring at. The bruise. The one shaped like a wicked handprint just above my collarbone, dark and ugly and barely masked by the neckline of my dress.

Azriel's eyes didn't waver. Not even when I turned slightly to face him, heart thudding a little too loud in my ears.

"Problem, Shadowsinger?" I asked coolly.

His eyes lifted to mine. He didn't look ashamed to be caught staring. He never did.

"Curiosity," he said simply.

A muscle ticked in my jaw. I chanced another glance at Eris. His expression was unreadable, but I knew him well enough to know that look. Suspicion, coiled and quiet. 

His gaze shifted between the two of us—calculating.

And Azriel... why now? Why here?

We were careful. Always had been. Hidden touches in dark corners, stolen nights with no promises. No questions. So why was he questioning now?

"Nothing that concerns you," I said, voice clipped.

 His eyes narrowed just slightly. "One would think you were hiding something, perhaps a lover's mark?"

The silence that followed was a slow, smothering thing.

I could've laughed. Could've screamed. He had no idea. And I had no intention of telling him the truth, not with Eris standing a foot away, not with the memory of Beron's fury still etched into my skin.

So I leaned into the lie.

I straightened my spine, set my empty glass on the bar with a soft clink, and said with a smile far sharper than it looked, "Yes, well. The autumn fire in me runs deep. I do like it rougher than most."

And then I turned and walked away.

Eris groaned behind me, whether from disgust or resignation, I didn't care. Azriel said nothing. But I felt his eyes on my back. Burning. Piercing. Like he wanted to flay open the truth. Let him.

Let him believe what he wanted. Better a bruising from passion than the truth of what I was really surviving. Some lies are easier to live with than pity.

And I would never let Azriel pity me.

The walk back to the townhouse was quiet. Velaris at night was beautiful, soft light spilling through narrow streets, the hush of magic in the air. I moved through the dark like a ghost retracing old steps. 

This place was familiar now. 

The townhouse was where Eris and I always stayed during these visits. It was just distant enough from the river, from the court's central pulse, to feel like a bubble removed from reality.

A flick of my wrist had the fire roaring in the hearth the moment I stepped inside. I didn't bother with anything else. The silence was companionable. Heavy. Expectant.

I also didn't have to look to know he'd follow. Of course he would.

Especially with Eris planning to spend the night elsewhere, his distraction for the evening far more pliant than I'd ever be.

Upstairs, I let myself move slowly. Not to prepare for him but to prepare myself. For what came next. For the pull I always let win.

My nightgown slid over my bruised body like a whisper, the silk robe a poor shield against what I knew was coming. Still, I tied it anyway. Habit, maybe. Illusion.

When he appeared at the doorway, he didn't bother knocking.

"You know," I said, not turning from the mirror as I dragged a brush through my hair, "for a spymaster, you're rather foolish and brash."

His shadows flitted forward before he did, curling around the doorway, then slipping into the room with their own sort of urgency. Eager. Possessive. His silent entourage of smoke and secrets. 

They always reacted like this around me—like they wanted to devour me whole.

He stepped inside. "Eris has no idea."

I met his gaze in the mirror. "Eris isn't a fool. I know that may pain your inflated ego to believe, but my brother is no moron."

Azriel came to stand behind me, his towering presence dark and overwhelming. Our eyes met again in the glass, his brow raised.

"Are we really going to talk about your brother right now?" he murmured, his voice low, silken, as his lips brushed the curve of my neck.

Scarred hands reached forward, tugging at the sash of my robe, pulling it loose with a deliberate slowness that made my breath catch despite myself.

"Depends," I said, lifting my chin as heat curled in my gut. "Are you about to fuck all coherent thoughts out of my body or not?"

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against my throat as he whispered, "Don't I always, darling?"

He spun me in his arms before I could breathe another word. We collided chest to chest, and then his mouth was on mine, fierce, hungry, desperate. His hands roamed down my back like he couldn't decide whether to hold me or bruise me. Maybe both.

He lifted me effortlessly, carried me to the bed with practised ease, laying me out like I was something precious.

I wasn't.

But the way he hovered over me in the silver spill of moonlight... he looked like something divine. All tanned skin and hard muscle, shadows curling off his back, wings flared. 

Lust clung to him, thick and heavy as smoke.

I reached up, kissed the hollow of his throat, then slid my fingers beneath his shirt. The hard ridges of his torso twitched under my touch as I dragged the fabric up and over his head being mindful of his wings.

He was naked within seconds, breathtaking, lethal, mine for this moment and no one else's.

We tore at each other, mouths clashing, fingers clawing, breath mingling. I let him devour me. I needed him to.

He pulled back and stared down at me with that look. That look. That fatally ruinous look. His hands, slow and careful now, pushed up the hem of my nightgown.

And the air changed.

The easy grin slipped from his face as he peeled the silk up past my ribs, then higher. The bruises on my collarbone were nothing, just shadows compared to the map of pain painted across the rest of my body. 

Purple, yellow, angry splashes of skin. Fingermarks. Burns. Violence etched into my flesh.

His body went rigid. His mouth parted.

"Don't," I warned, my voice hoarse and sharp.

He tried anyway. "Who—"

I didn't let him finish. I surged up, wrapped my hand around the back of his neck, and dragged his mouth down to mine. Desperate. Savage. 

I flipped us in one smooth motion, straddling him, anchoring myself in the heat of his body before he could say anything else. Before he could ask.

I didn't want tenderness. I didn't want pity. I didn't want to explain how my father's hands had left marks that sex never could.

I just wanted to forget.

His hands gripped my hips as I rocked against him. His breath hissed between his teeth. Shadows surged, slamming the bedroom door shut behind us.

Questions could wait.

Right now, I just needed the pain to be replaced with something that burned a little less.

Or maybe a little more.

I watched every inch of him beneath me, bare, powerful, strung tight like a bow. His chest rose and fell with ragged breath as I settled into his lap, knees framing his hips.

Azriel's hands curled at my waist, his fingers twitching with restraint. As if he could still control this. As if either of us had any control left.

I ground against him once, slow and purposeful. His breath caught in his throat like a prayer half-swallowed. 

I leaned forward, my palms braced on his chest, and rolled my hips again, harder this time. His cock throbbed between us, aching and ready. So was I.

"Fuck—" he hissed, eyes slamming shut, head tilting back against the pillows.

"Eyes open, Shadowsinger," I whispered, brushing my lips along his jaw, biting down just enough to sting. "You wanted this. Now watch."

He obeyed.

A slight shift of my hips and I sank down on him with a gasp, my body stretching to take every inch. We both stilled for a breath, the kind that feels like the edge of a cliff.

Then I moved. Again. Again. And again.

There was nothing soft in the way I fucked him.

I rode him like I was trying to shatter something, his control, my silence, the ache under my skin that never went away. My nails scraped his chest, my breath ragged as I found my rhythm. 

Fast. Desperate. Almost cruel.

He met me thrust for thrust, his hands gripping my hips, his jaw clenched as if every movement was a battle not to say the things we'd both locked behind our teeth.

Our bodies moved like we'd done this a thousand times before—because we had.

My moans echoed off the walls, but I didn't stop, didn't slow, didn't care. His lips found my throat, my breasts, the curve of my jaw.

I clenched around him, panting, chasing release like it might kill the thoughts trying to creep back in. The bruises. The pain. The terror of what waited when this ended.

With a shudder and a gasp, my body locked down on his as pleasure ripped through me, a sob buried in my throat. He followed moments later, with a growl that was half agony, half worship, his fingers digging into my thighs as he came hard, deep inside me.

The silence that followed was thick. Sweaty. Muffled by our harsh breathing and the low crackle of firelight.

I collapsed forward, my cheek against his shoulder, neither of us speaking. He reached up slowly, fingers brushing my spine, gentle now, too gentle.

I rolled off him, breath still ragged, sweat cooling on my skin as I stared up at the ceiling.

The silence was deafening now. Not the charged, breathless kind that came before. This one was heavier, full of what neither of us wanted to say aloud.

I felt him shift beside me, and then the faintest brush of a finger along my thigh. Soft. Too soft.

"These look far too painful," Azriel murmured, voice low and almost careful, like he was testing the weight of each word before he gave it breath.

I tensed and of course he'd noticed. His gaze burned against my skin even after his hand fell away.

I sat up abruptly, pulling the sheets around my chest like armour, like the thin barrier might make him forget what he saw. What he knew he saw.

"Don't do that," I said, sharp as a snapped blade. "Don't try to make this into something it's not."

Azriel stilled, his expression unreadable but I saw it anyway. The flicker of something behind his eyes. Hurt. Frustration. Concern.

His jaw clenched. "I'm simply saying—"

"Do not say anything." My voice cut like frost. I turned to him, my chin high, my expression cold. "It is not my fault you can't satisfy my needs alone."

A lie. A vicious, calculated, necessary lie.

Because he could satisfy my needs. He had. Over and over again. 

There was no one else who knew my body better, no one who made me forget the world the way he did. That was the problem.

Azriel was a weakness. 

An ache I kept feeding, hoping it would stop hurting but it never did. And if he got too close now, if he started asking the right questions, pressing at the cracks in my mask.

I didn't know what would come spilling out.

"You're lying." His voice was quiet, but solid. Like stone laid at my feet. Unshakable.

"I have no reason to." I shrugged, standing and walking to the edge of the bed, keeping the sheet wrapped tightly around me. "You're nothing but a means to an end. Whoever I bed in my spare time and what we do has never and will never be your concern."

Silence.

When I turned, he was sitting upright, shadowed in moonlight. The muscles of his back taut, his wings tucked tight and his head bowed slightly as if my words had punched the air from his lungs.

But when he looked up, his face was impassive. Cold. The mask of the spymaster back in place, perfect and impenetrable.

He didn't argue. Didn't plead. Didn't ask for the truth. 

He simply stood, wordless, and began dressing, his movements too slow to be careless, too deliberate to be unaffected.

And then he left.

No slammed door. No final word. Just the low click of the handle, and then the echoing silence of the empty room.

I exhaled, long and shaking and let the sheet fall away from my body.

The fire had gone out now. All that was left were the embers, faint and red and dying.

I lay back against the cool sheets, pressing the back of my hand to my eyes to keep the sting from becoming tears.

There would be no softness. Not for me. I would not give him the truth.

So I stayed where I was—naked, alone, and trembling with everything I wouldn't say.

And told myself, again, that this was exactly how it had to be.

A/n - First part of this series is unlike my other one because we are diving in hard and fast!

Right now they're giving friends with benefits but it's more like enemies ish or people that aren't meant to like each other than anything resembling friendship.

I know Eris (or any Vanserra, really) wouldn't be casually hanging around Velaris like this but for the sake of this story, we're bending the rules a bit :)

As always, please let me know your thoughts or anything tbh. I love hearing from you all and I hope you enjoyed <33

Shadow and Flame tag list - @coffeebooksrain18 @jaybbygrl @slut4acotar @justtryingtosurvive02 @mortqlprojections @sheblogs @moonlitlavenders @windblownwinston @queenoffeysand @tothestarsandwhateverend @saamanthaag3 @metaphysicaldoom

[giuseppe-yuki]

secret admirer

1st grade teacher!max verstappen x 1st grade teacher! reader

w.c.: 1.9k

warnings: none :)

summary: a rose appears on your desk every day. who is it from??

a/n: i know it's edited but glasses max has me in a CHOKEHOLD!!!! anyways, mini fic while ya'll wait for the promised spiderman!au fic (i'm still working on it...)

mini accompaniment: good idea..?

picture credits from pinterest :)

there’s a single rose on your desk - a pretty swirl of soft pink petals that still has that faint sweet smell. 

it sits neatly on your stack of graded addition-papers, right atop aurelia's perfect-score paper. 

at first, you had thought that it was from one of you adventurous first-graders, jack or tina, who had climbed up onto the rose-bush hills and plucked a single flower to put on your desk. it wasn’t rare, of course, for your students to give you gifts. (you still had that rock that your student from a few years ago, logan, had given to you on your desk)

you had even asked your class, standing in front of all of them with the roses in hand, asking who had picked them.

they had all shared that devious look only first-graders could make, covering their giggly mouths with a hand, and refused to elaborate. 

only gabriel, or bubbles, as many called him, had raised his hand and said, ”it wasn’t us because i saw someone down the hall come in with a flower for you,” before isack, who sat next to him on the colored square carpet, slapped his glue covered hand in front of gabriel’s mouth and announced, “no, we didn’t see anything, missus teacher.”

weird. 

a white rose sits on your desk today, its pure petals almost glowing from the sunlight filtering through your window. 

you poke at it, as if it could just magically reveal who had placed it there. you even consider sniffing it really hard in a moment of desperation, as if the scent of the giver would somehow be there. 

however, the pitter-patter of sparkly flats and light-up shoes squeak through the hallway, accompanied by the loud chatter of your first grade students stop you from performing such a stupid-sounding act. 

they’re obviously not supposed to be inside where you are, sorting their coloring worksheets, but rather supposed to be outside on the play-yard with the rest of the first graders. of course, when have 1st graders ever listen to adults, anyways?

the scuffling of several pairs of shoes stop in front of your closed door. 

ollie’s voice drift through the cracks of the door first.

“you open the door,” he says in a whisper-that’s-not-so-quiet.

a second accented voice echoes through. “no you open the door, ollie, you’re the one who wanted to come here first!”

right away, you clock it as ollie’s inseparable best friend, kimi.

a third voice resonates through the classroom through the crack under the door. 

“don’t be a idiot, kimi, you both wanted to come back to the classroom.” 

doriane.

“hey! don’t be meanie, doriane, that is a bad word!”

”well, you and kimi both have cooties, anyways.”

the sound of someone bursting into tears. 

at that point, you shoot out of your chair, leaving the rose atop a quite frankly, badly colored picture of a dinosaur. 

slowly, you open your classroom door to find doriane and maya standing with their arms crossed, facing an angry-looking kimi who was holding up a bawling ollie.

”what’s going on here, guys?” you ask, crouching down to look them in the eyes. “why did you guys come back into the classroom when you guys should be out in the play-yard with your friends?”

ollie wipes the tears from his big brown eyes with the back of his hand before shooting forward, out of kimi’s grip. 

“i just wanted to tell you, that me, and maya, and kimi, and doriane were playing tag- and guess what!” 

“what,” you respond, just to appease him. 

“we heard- “ he looks around nervously- “that the teacher from room 33 down the hall called you gor- gor-“

”gor-jus!” maya interjects helpfully. 

kimi and doriane nod aggressively. 

“did he?” you respond slowly. “that’s very interesting, guys, thanks for telling me that. now go run along back to the playground, because you guys still have five minutes of recess left, okay?”

they beam, and echo you’re welcomes before scurrying back down the hall.

hmm.

a yellow rose sits on your desk this time, thornless, but with a single spiky leaf on its stem. it fits in the pot real nicely with the other two roses, even though they are different colors. 

you almost zone out looking at the flowers, before you feel a little hand grasping your shirt and pulling. 

jack stands next to you with a piece of paper and a shy smile. 

quickly snapping out of your trance, you scoot closer towards him on your wheely chair and lean forwards him. 

“hiya jack,” you say, encouraging him to speak up. “did you want to show me something?”

”yeah,” he says simply, before turning his paper around. 

it’s…something. 

“wow, that’s very nice, jack,” you respond, trying to decipher and piece together exactly what the five big pink and blue squares, two circles, and random black scribble on the side were supposed to mean. 

“it’s a car,” he states matter-of-factly. “it’s ‘cause i want to be a race-car driver when i gr-“

before he can finish his sentence, bianca runs up behind him like a secret-agent before shoving him out of the way. 

“hey, i want to show missus teacher my paper,” she snaps.

almost immediately, you leap up to catch jack before he stumbles and falls head-first into the trash can placed  next to your desk. 

“bianca,” you chastise. “we do not push, we wait our turn, okay?” 

she frowns, whispering a quick ‘sorry’ to jack. 

“that’s o-k,” jack says, smiling kindly, before walking away to show somebody his abstract shapes/car drawing. 

bianca shoves her picture in your lap the moment you sit back down.

it’s beautifully drawn, and you would definitely paste it on your “artist superstar” board in the corner of your classroom, except for the fact that there was two figures, one clearly with a rose in its hand, embracing another figure with a blue shirt and yellow-crayon colored hair. 

“that’s you,” she explains, pointing to the figure with the red rose. “and that,” she says, pointing to the mysterious other figure, “is your secret friend that likes you.” 

“oh!” you respond. 

right, okay. 

a velvet red rose shows up on your desk half-way through the next day. it’s in perfect bloom, petals opening to a perfect rounded shape. 

as pretty as it is, you almost forget about it, only because of the fact that your class was being well-behaved, unlike normal.

they actually listen as they sit quietly on their own little carpet squares, whiteboards in hand, as you begin your lesson on the three properties of matter at the front of the classroom.

it doesn’t last very long, however. you’re halfway through explaining how ice cubes can go from the solid form to the liquid form, when you start hearing whispering from the back row. 

liam, with, like, twenty goofy little lightening mcqueen stickers stuck all over his shirt, squeals in laughter as he scribbles something on his white-board, causing the kids around him to laugh. 

you sigh, setting down your own marker, before turning back around. time to confiscate whiteboards. 

“liam, please give me your white-board,” you declare as kindly as you can. 

“no!” he screeches stubbornly as he ferociously scribbles something on the board again.

you have to almost snatch the board away from his surprisingly strong grip with excess force.

on it, instead of the water droplet diagram like everyone else, he has drawn a big heart, complete with your initials, a plus sign, and a big fat MV next to it. 

what. 

gathering all the clues together from your students like you were some type of detective, you are certain you know who has been giving you the roses. there was only one person down the hall, in room 33, who always wore a blue shirt with blond-ish hair that had the initials mv. 

you stroll down the hall during recess the next day, when ollie and kimi and jack and all the little troublemakers are outside jumping rope and playing tag.

when you peer into the window of the 1st grade classroom located at the end of the hall, you spot a familiar man sitting in a swirly chair in the corner of the room. aside from you, he was one of the only other 1st grade teachers at the school. you hadn’t really talked to him much- just limited conversations in the teacher break room or quick greetings the hallways.

he’s scrunched over his desk, lamp setting his blonde hair alight into golden strands. the glasses that sit atop his nose slide down his sloped nose, which he quickly corrects by lifting his hand and pushing it back up to its correct position. 

huh. you suppose he was kind of cute. 

max, or mr. v, like all the students call him, jerks rather violently when you stick your head into the doorway his race-car themed classroom and wave a hello. the glasses he wears skew crooked, and the half-open can of redbull that he has on the corner of his desk almost goes flying onto the checkered rug that he has placed on the floor.

“oh, i’m so sorry, max, didn’t mean to scare you there!” you apologize, watching as he snatches the silver and blue can with lightning fast reflexes before shoving it haphazardly behind a stack of ungraded papers. 

“no, no, you’re okay,” he says much too quickly, fixing his glasses. “i was, just, you know, sitting around, um, here.” 

there’s a slight lisp to his voice that you hadn’t noticed before. it curls around you in a surprising yet comforting way. you kinda liked it. 

”right,” you affirm. “well, i hope you don’t mind me interrupting your, er, sitting around time, but i’ve been receiving this kind gift from a certain someone and i was wondering if you could help me find them.”

you reveal the small bouquet of multicolored flowers from behind you, tied neatly with a piece of ribbon from your supply bin. 

max’s eyes widen just a fraction behind his square-framed glasses. his cheeks flush a pretty pink. 

“oh!” he stutters out. “i-i-wouldn’t really know anything about that, um i don’t think.” 

max scratches at his neck awkwardly. 

you laugh. 

”max, i know it’s you. somehow, my 1st graders picked up on it before me, which is kind of crazy, but they kind of snitched on you.”

he turns even redder. 

“i’m sorry,” he blurts out. “i hope it’s not weird- it’s just that i think i really like you, and that my friend charles suggested i give you a gift sometime, but i keep getting caught up in the classroom but also get too scared to give you the flowers and i thought-“

“-max,” you say, cutting him off. “it’s okay, i don’t mind at all- i thought it was really sweet. i haven’t had a chance to know you very well, but i’d love to know you better. we can do my house, this weekend? i’d really like some tips on how to deal with rowdy 1st graders!”

you add in a reassuring smile.

”yes!” he snaps as soon you finish talking. “wait, sorry, i meant um, i would love to,” he quickly adds.

”great!” you beam. ”it’s a date then!”

he smiles shyly at you. 

“it’s a da-“

a sudden screech cuts off max halfway, leading the both of you to turn towards the doorway. 

somehow, ollie, kimi, doriane, and maya have snuck inside again. they stand there, wide-eyed, at the scene.

doriane points an accusing finger at you.  “ewww!!!!” she yells at the top of her lungs. “that’s disgusting! you’re going on a date with a boy! he’s gonna give you cooties!”