Omg I Love This

brb rereading this until i have it memorized

The Archivist - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: Weeks after discovering some ancient tomes you're unable to decipher, you reach out to the Ministry of Magic Archives for help decoding the timeworn pages. The last thing you'd expected was for Sebastian Sallow to show up, much less for him to be so... attractive. Had he always looked like that?

Alternatively summarized as Sebastian Sallow pursued a professional career as a book nerd and also happens to be really well versed in sex.

Word Count: 6,969 (LMAO)

Warnings: 18+. aged up characters, explicit sexual content, size difference, Sebastian wearing glasses again

Up on Ao3 here for your viewing pleasure

You honestly didn’t think you’d ever thrown on clothes faster than you did the day someone apparated into your living room with a deafening crack, followed by a crash and a muffled, “Shit, ow.” 

If you were to die, you weren’t eager to do so half-naked and half-asleep. 

After hastily tying your robe around your waist and stuffing your feet in a pair of deteriorating slippers, you cautiously stuck your head into the hallway, the unruly strands of your bed head sticking to your cheeks and poking you in the eye as you assessed the situation. 

At the end of the hall you could see a stack of books scattered across the floor, along with a previously organized collection of newspapers now strewn over the top of a prone body. Said body was stirring beneath the crumpled parchment, and you bit your lip and wished desperately for coffee as you weighed your options. 

Option one: it was a murderer and you should leave immediately. The only problem was that the hallway leading to the front door was now blocked. Shit. 

Option two: it was a burglar, and if you could remember where you’d left your wand last night, you could petrify the man in place until officials came to your aid. 

Option three: it was a murdering burglar, and you might as well attempt to find out as much as you could before you wound up gruesomely cut down so you could at least haunt the bastard. 

As the concealed figure attempted to sit up, you heard another thump as something fell from above them, followed by an irate groan, and you gripped the doorway to your bedroom tightly as you managed to call out a meek, “Hello?” 

All movement and noises in the living room ceased for a moment, the air still and silent. You swore if the intruder dropped so much as a pin, you would hear it. The pair of feet belonging to the unknown man dragged along the floor as he seemingly stood himself up, and figuring that no burglar would be such a noisy wreck, you took your chances and slowly made your way down the hall to take in the damage done to your living space. 

Bizarre as it was to be so civil with someone who’d essentially broken into your home, you rounded the corner and found yourself asking, “Are you alright?” 

You were met with your potential adversary as he turned around, and you were equal parts surprised and confused to discover that it was none other than Sebastian Sallow. It had been years since you’d last seen him, the two of you having gone your separate ways after graduation as you continued hunting down ancient magic sites and he pursued a career within the Ministry. The last letter you’d received from him had come in a little over a year ago, sadly informing you that his sister had finally passed, albeit peacefully. 

To find him now standing in the midst of your demolished living room was a shock in and of itself. 

“Sebastian?” you asked incredulously, your eyes raking down his disheveled but well dressed body. He had certainly grown since you’d last seen him, his long legs accentuated by pressed slacks, and the suspenders that wrapped over his sculpted shoulders left little to the imagination. The button up he wore was just shy of being too small for his broad figure, and when you glanced back up at him, you watched as he brought one of his hands up to his face to fix his crooked glasses. 

“Hi,” he said lamely, flashing you a somewhat sheepish smile. “Sorry for the mess– I, uh– well, I think I landed on something when I popped in.” 

Your eyes flicked down once more to the toppled stacks of books that now covered the floor, and your brow cocked of its own accord as you breathed out a laugh, “You don’t say.”

Still reeling from the abrupt wake up call, you could only stare dumbstruck as Sebastian fixed his clothing and picked invisible lint off of his shirt, then offered his hand to you. “Sorry about the books. And the, uh, language. I’m here about the old tomes you found?” 

As you accepted his outstretched hand and tried not to pass out from the firmness of it, you blinked and attempted to figure out what he was referring to. “Tomes?” 

“The ones you wanted looked over?” He let go of your hand to rifle through the small satchel strapped to his thigh, and it took a herculean effort not to drool over the sheer width of his leg. Merlin’s bloody balls… you’d been holed up indoors for too long. “You sent in this consultation request a few weeks ago,” he said, pulling out a small slip of parchment decorated in your familiar scrawl, and then it all started to come back to you. 

It had been nearly a month since, but during your last excursion to Scotland, you’d come across a set of unique, fragile tomes buried deep in an ancient magic site there. As curious as you’d been to read through their contents, the text within was hardly legible, and in truth, you weren’t even sure it was written in English. In a bid to still make use of the age-old books, you had reached out to the Ministry of Magic Archives to have someone potentially aid you in deciphering the timeworn pages. After almost a month with no response, you had simply shelved them all and moved on to planning your next trip.

“I completely forgot,” you muttered, taking the paper from Sebastian to read it over. “I kind of gave up hoping that the Ministry would send someone.”

“They weren’t planning on it,” he started to say, sounding conflicted as to whether or not he should continue. “But after I got my hands on the request, I took something of a personal interest in the case.” 

Jokingly, you teased, “You hold that much sway working in the Archives?” 

“I do when I’m the Archivist.” 

“You’re the Archivist?” Your jaw dropped comically fast, your eyes wider than saucers as you processed his statement. Suddenly you were looking at your former friend in a whole new light. In your mind, you had always assumed the Ministry’s Archivist would be… well, ancient. Old and withered, graying and feeble. Not youthful and– quite frankly– hot. “How did that happen?” 

Sebastian rocked back on his heels as he stuffed his thumbs in his pockets, the very picture of modesty as he shrugged, “It’s technically my trial period since the old Archivist just died a few months ago. But yeah, I guess my thirst for knowledge and reading habits paid off. At the very least it impressed the Minister enough for him to promote me.”

Eventually you managed to pick your chin up off the floor so you were no longer gaping at him like a fish, and you bashfully tucked a particularly stubborn strand of hair behind your ear as you cleared your throat and said, “Well, congratulations then. Glad to hear you’re doing well for yourself.”

Sebastian stared at you for a long moment before laughing softly under his breath, his hand sweeping through the front of his curly hair, “Thanks. But anyways, I can take a look at those tomes now if you’ve still got them?” 

“Oh, yeah, sure. They’re on the shelf by the couch, let me just get changed.” 

“No worries,” Sebastian said quickly, grinning widely as he moved around you further into the living room, his eyes roving over you momentarily. “I’ve got this.”

Did he just… check you out? No way, you thought, shaking the idea from your mind entirely. 

You tracked the brunet as he strode over to the cluttered shelf beside the sofa, watching intently as he moved a few books around until he found the unmistakable tomes propped against the wooden panels. With the utmost care, Sebastian carefully withdrew one of the three with delicate fingers, his touch featherlight and ever conscious of the fragile nature of the bound piece of foreign literature. As he thoughtfully deposited the book on top of the coffee table, you couldn’t help but admire how gentle he was being with it; with hands that big, you found his tender touch to be something of a contrast to his entire person. 

Shamelessly, you also found yourself wondering how those hands of his might feel against your skin. 

Beating back your lustful thoughts with a mental brick, you managed to say with an even tone, “I’m surprised you can tell what’s what in that mess of a shelf. I’ve been told I have a bit of a hoarding problem– most people can’t separate the floor from the walls.” 

“Well, I’m not most people,” he retorted, flashing you a dazzling smile from over his shoulder. “It takes a bookworm to know one. My old overseer at the Archives used to tell me I ‘had no shelf control’.”

The silence that settled over the room was utterly loud, and as Sebastian’s face took on the hue of a ripe tomato, you were fighting a grin with every fiber of your being. Your lips contorted into something resembling a downward smile while the Archivist-in-training turned back to the bookshelf, dragging a hand down his flushed cheeks as a pained groan weaseled its way out of him. “Please forget I said that. I’ve picked up on one too many library jokes in the past five years.” 

Sweet Merlin, he was dorky as hell. Please leave, excessively hot Archivist. Either leave or stay for about six hours and don’t go until I’m ready to let you.

To spare him his dignity and also because you needed to refrain from staring at his attractive backside, you spun on your heel to head into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?” 

“Please,” he sighed in agreement, sounding all too excited about the change in topic. 

“I’ve got tea, coffee, and… water,” you finished pathetically. The barren cupboards above the pantry nearly brought a tear to your eye, and you made a mental note to do some shopping later if you had the time. 

Sebastian set the second tome down on the coffee table at the same time he called out to you, “Tea is fine, thank you.” 

It took a smidge longer than normal to boil the water, seeing as you had to pause your efforts to find your wand buried beneath the piles of maps in your bedroom. Once you had it in hand, however, you whipped up two steaming cups of black tea and returned to Sebastian minutes later to hand his cup over to him. He took it graciously, plainly eyeing you up over the brim of the mug as he took a tentative sip, and your stomach flipped at the suggestive look he fixed you with. 

“I’m a little jealous, you’ve got one hell of a collection here. I almost wish I could take some of these old books off your hands.” 

“Mm,” you hummed around a mouthful of tea, swallowing pointedly. Sebastian’s eyebrow twitched minutely. “Well, I think it might be time for me to clean house a bit anyways. If you wanted to, you could always come back and take your pick of what you like.” 

His brows rose momentarily before settling, a muscle in his defined jaw ticking as he glanced between you and the tomes on the table. Then with a voice like pure sin, Sebastian smoothly said, “And what if I like more than the books?”

Shit, shit. Redirect. You fought to employ every ounce of self-control in your body so you wouldn’t just jump into his strong arms and straddle him right there, but you were acutely aware of a few facts; you looked like you had fought a Hippogriff in your sleep, you had sorely little on under your robe, and Sebastian's eyes had been devouring the noticeable outline of your collarbone for the last minute or so. Fuck. 

“Then it sounds, uh,” you started to say, struggling to form words with the broad shouldered Adonis across from you seemingly undressing you with his eyes. “Like we might be on the same page.” It was the truth– you were as interested in the Archivist as you were in the purpose for his visit– but once the unintentional pun registered, you rolled your eyes and dug the heel of your palm into one eye, swearing softly. To his credit, Sebastian just laughed, taking another hearty sip of his tea as you shyly smiled up at him. 

With more work to be done back at the Ministry and your tomes in hand, Sebastian dutifully let you know that while he couldn't stay presently, he would absolutely be coming back later that night. He followed you into the kitchen to deposit his cup beside the sink, intentionally reaching over your shoulder to set the mug down before letting his fingers ghost along the skin of your neck. Goosebumps broke out all over your body at the contact, and when you turned around to face him with the counter pressing against your rear, his hands came to deftly adjust the revealing neckline of your robe with a coy smirk tugging at his lips. 

“See you at seven,” he purred, leaving you a blushing mess in your kitchen as he stepped back, winked, then apparated away. 

—

By the time seven o’clock rolled around, you had bathed, gone to the market to replenish your sorry excuse of a pantry, tidied up the previously demolished sitting area, and started cooking dinner. Part of you felt like you were getting ahead of yourself with everything, but after spending the entirety of your day reflecting on the stolen glances Sebastian had sent your way and his rather telling comment in the living room, you told yourself it couldn’t get any more obvious than that. 

He had always been rather cute during your time at school, but something about seeing him grown and fully matured had ignited a fire in your veins that stubbornly stayed burning for hours. 

When he showed up five minutes early at six fifty-five with freshly washed hair and wearing a darker version of his earlier outfit, your doubts all but vanished. Clearly you weren’t the only one itching to make a good impression. 

Sebastian followed you into the living room, now noticeably cleaner than it had been earlier in the morning, and held up the bottle of wine he’d been holding at his side. “I know you’ve got tea and water, but uh. I figured why not. It’s Friday after all.”

You smiled softly and let your hands brush against his as you took the wine from him, curiously watching as his fingers flexed when his arm returned to his side. “Thank you. I take it the Archivist doesn’t go to work on the weekends, then?” 

“The Archivist in training doesn’t, but I’m sure my free time will be a commodity before long. I’m pretty sure the last one frequently slept under his desk at the Ministry Headquarters. What about you? Any drab desk jobs to speak of?” 

“Nope,” you said, gesturing to the couch as you turned to head back into the kitchen. “When I need the extra money I’ll help out Sirona at The Three Broomsticks, but for the most part my explorations and Professor Fig’s estate hold me over well enough. I’m hardly ever home anyways, so it’s not like there’s many expenses to keep track of.” 

“I see,” Sebastian huffed as he collapsed into the couch, spreading his long arms along the top of the backrest as he took in the neater state of the living room. “I’m guessing your adventuring is why there’s so many books in the first place. Have you ever thought about upsizing?”

“Hardly,” you set the bottle down on the kitchen counter and chanced a look at the man on the sofa, oddly pleased to see him so at ease in the midst of your cluttered home. “I’d much rather downsize the collection. I don’t even need the majority of what I have– I’ve read through it all ten times over.” 

He nodded, “Fair enough.” 

“Anyway, I imagined you’d be hungry, so dinner’s almost ready.” 

“Oh, damn,” Sebastian mumbled, sitting forward to run a hand through his drying hair as you flitted around the kitchen. “You didn’t have to.”

“Unless you planned on feeding yourself later, I think most shops will be closed by the time you leave,” you said pointedly, turning to hide your grin when you observed the brunet flushing bright red. Miraculously you resisted the urge to add ‘if at all’ to the end of your statement. You unearthed the corkscrew buried deep within the kitchen drawers and popped open the wine bottle, filling two glasses before striding back into the living room to hand one over to Sebastian. “Feel free to take a look at any of the books, see if any of them might be worth taking to the Archives.”

The larger man gave you a lopsided smirk as he took the offered glass and clinked it gently against yours, muttering his agreement before shamelessly ogling your retreating form returning to the kitchen. The cinched waist of your otherwise simple dress was incredibly distracting. He elected not to sift through the piles upon piles of books, opting to instead watch as you hummed to yourself and stirred something on the stove, which Sebastian was beginning to realize smelled pretty fantastic. He was grateful for the distance between you both so you couldn’t hear his stomach growling. 

Once the food was ready, you ate with comfortable conversation flowing between the two of you the entire time. You asked Sebastian what he did in his soon to be nonexistent free time, and you were surprised to hear that he had taken on the role of Feldcroft’s token handyman. In his own words, the muggle approach to fixing things was relatively therapeutic, and he loved getting his hands dirty almost as much as he loved having his nose burrowed in book pages. It explained his physical appearance, at the very least. Until now, you’d just assumed he had a habit of squatting massive stacks of books in the Archives when he was bored. 

In turn he had asked you about your hobbies, about the ancient magic sites you visited, and about living on-the-go so regularly. It was so normal for you now that you barely batted an eye at being away from home for weeks at a time, and you told him as much with a half-hearted shrug. 

Lazily, you swirled the remaining wine around in your glass, bringing it to your mouth as you murmured, “It’s not like there’s anything waiting for me here, so I don’t mind it.”

Sebastian watched you intently as you finished off your drink, taking in the pretty flush decorating your cheeks and the delectable way you licked your wine-stained lips in the moment that followed. “Anything, or anyone?” 

“Hm?” 

“You don’t have anyone to come home to? No pets, no kids…” he trailed off, the rest of his question dangling in the air like a lone cloud. Your eyes fell to Sebastian’s hand as he sensually ran his pinched fingers along the stem of his own glass, and his half-hooded eyes hidden behind his glasses said everything in place of the missing portion of his sentence. 

No lover, is what you knew he was indirectly asking. 

“Do you see anyone else here?” you teased, the sides of your mouth curling into a coy smile.

“No,” Sebastian retorted, pushing his empty glass away as he sat back in his seat, amusement etched across his handsome face. “Then again, it doesn’t hurt to check. Had to make sure I was reading things correctly.” 

You perched your elbow on the armrest of your chair and balanced your chin on top of your fist casually before asking, “Was that another one of your jokes?” Hoping that you looked more confident than you felt, you mirrored his position and crossed one of your legs over the other, taking immense satisfaction in the way the brunet’s throat bobbed at the sight of your legs outlined through your attire. 

Sebastian looked puzzled for a moment before realizing what he’d said, and he rolled his eyes at the same time an airy laugh spilled from your lips. “An accidental one, make no mistake,” he moved forward to the edge of his seat, leaning forward to play with one of the folds of your dress with his index finger. “But I have been thinking about you all day, and I may or may not have convinced myself that you’re way out of my league.” 

“You should be more confident,” you whispered, dropping your hand to clutch at the one the Archivist was inching towards your leg with. His fingers immediately spread to accommodate your smaller ones, and you tugged him a smidge closer so your noses were mere inches apart. Jokingly, you taunted him further by asking, “Did you still want to look at my book collection?” 

Before you could so much as yelp, Sebastian closed the distance between the two of you in a flash and pressed his lips to yours fervently, any lingering awkwardness falling away like leaves on a tree. His free hand came to curl around the back of your neck, holding you firmly against his mouth as he angled his head to the side to deepen the kiss further, and you couldn’t help but moan against him at the brutish feeling of his broad hand holding you in place. 

He pulled away just enough to brush a tinier, more delicate kiss against the tip of your nose before he sighed, “I really don’t give a damn about the books right now.” 

A budding Archivist not caring about books? The scandal, is what you wanted to say, but then Sebastian’s lips were back on yours, swallowing your pending comment with a ferocity that had your stomach churning wantonly. Those brilliant hands of his left your neck and your hand to trail along your waist, his fingers digging firmly into the bodice of your dress to pull you towards him, and you followed his guidance all too willingly as he urged you from your seat. Within seconds you were in his lap, melting against him as he ground his hips up into yours while simultaneously using his hands to rock you against his hardening cock, and a satisfied groan emitted from him as you allowed him to move you as he pleased. 

In-between kisses, Sebastian managed to croak out, “Bedroom?” 

You barely managed a nod, too enthralled by the man under you to form actual words, and at the same time you dove back in for another heated kiss, Sebastian looped an arm around your back and the other under your ass as he stood up, lifting you with him as though you weighed nothing. Instinctively you hooked your legs around his hips, letting him haul you along to your bedroom while your hands flew to his neck to clutch at him ardently in a bid to keep your mouth glued to his. His ability to multi-task was something to compliment later on, because he kept walking and working his mouth over yours with a finesse that bordered on inhuman. 

The next thing you knew you were being thrown down on the mattress, bouncing in place briefly before you had to bite your lip to stifle a curse as you watched Sebastian fucking crawl up the bed towards you, predatory and sexy as hell. As soon as he was within reach, you grabbed for one of his suspender straps and pulled him closer, kissing him once again and moaning eagerly when you felt his hand grip at the seductive curve of your waist to squeeze before he settled on top of you. With his knees on either side of you, it was impossible to overlook the feeling of his achingly hard cock pressing down against your leg, and Sebastian groaned loudly when you tried lifting your hips to convey your impatience. 

“Someone’s excited,” he murmured against your swollen lips, grinning to himself as you worked to catch your breath. “Have you been thinking about me, too?” 

“Yes,” you gasped, your train of thought momentarily derailing when Sebastian moved so his chest was pressing against your clothed breasts, his hips flush with yours to better grind against you. “Don’t you own a mirror?”

Instead of replying to your thinly veiled compliment, Sebastian dipped his head into the crook of your neck to nip and kiss his way along your jaw with a rumbling moan, the force of his ministrations forcing your head back against the pillows. He was as eager as you were, that much was certain. As he rutted his concealed cock against your thigh, you heard and felt him shudder against you, and in an attempt to silence himself, the Archivist’s plush lips latched firmly onto a patch of skin under your jaw to suck a mark there. 

The stinging sensation of him biting down had your eyes fluttering shut, your entire being relishing in the light pain his teeth bestowed upon you, and Sebastian blindly reached for your wrist to pin your arm above your head. The dominant display had you voicing your approval in the form of a low moan, enjoying how being stretched out for him allowed for his other hand to rake down your side to start bunching up your dress. His movements didn’t cease as he lifted his hips slightly to free up the rest of the fabric trapped beneath him, and he expertly collected the material into a disheveled heap below your navel. When his dexterous fingers ghosted along the waistband of your undergarments, your next breath caught in your throat and caused you to gasp shakily. 

You felt as Sebastian’s lips curved into a smirk against your spit-slick skin before sitting back on his heels to murmur, “You’re so noisy.” 

Through his lashes, he watched as a brilliant flush swept up your neck to cover your face, and you timidly tried to hide your cheeks with the back of your free hand. “S-Sorry,” you stammered, but the man above you was having absolutely none of your self-consciousness. 

Your mediocre shield was wrenched away from your face and pinned up alongside your other hand in an instant, and you blinked up at Sebastian in blatant surprise as he leaned menacingly over you. “Don’t stop,” he implored you, biting his lip as he took in the sight of you beneath him. “I love it. 

The brunet secured your wrists into one of his hands so he could drop the other one back to your aching center, swiping two of his fingers up your slit through your underwear to feel the wetness that had collected there. The sensation left you breathless, another choked gasp weaseling its way past your lips and earning a dark chuckle from Sebastian. His digits moved up to slide beneath the fabric blocking his path, and a low groan sounded from him as he felt how truly soaked you were from his efforts. Without looking away from your pinched features, he gingerly slid a single finger in, biting his lip hungrily at the way your lips parted and your head rolled to the side when he began steadily pumping in and out of you. 

When you felt his thumb begin to rub against your clit, your eyelids fluttered shut from the intense pleasure that washed over you, pulling a strangled whimper from you. “Fuck, Sebastian–”

The hand he had securely wrapped around your wrists tightened a fraction to draw your mind out of the gutter, and he roughly gritted out, “Look at me, darling– open those pretty eyes for me.” You couldn’t help but oblige him when he referred to you so sweetly, and when you cracked your eyes open once again, his body seemed to shudder with delight as he growled, “So fucking perfect. My name sounds damn good when you say it like that.”

With his gaze burning into yours and the close proximity between the two of you, you didn’t think the overwhelming euphoria you felt could get any better. That is, until he added a second finger into the mix. The initial stretch was felt only briefly before his thumb pressed against your sensitive bundle of nerves, the persistent ministrations against your clit muting any discomfort and leaving you arching brainlessly beneath him as that hot, incessant feeling in your gut roared to life. It was tantalizing, and your hips bucked off the mattress in an attempt to chase his movements and reach the climax you were utterly desperate for. 

“Please, please,” you begged mindlessly, your desire to come so potent that it was almost painful. “Please, Sebastian, please.” 

“Already?” he tsk’d mockingly, shaking his head minutely as he eagerly wet his bottom lip and removed his thumb from your center. “I think you can hold on a bit longer, don’t you? I’d much rather end this with my cock, if it’s all the same to you.” 

The lack of friction sobered you up instantly, and the lustful haze that had clouded your mind cleared enough for you to blink blearily up at him, a small frown playing on your lips. “Really?” 

Sebastian cocked a brow at you, as though daring you to tell him he was being unreasonable. “Would you rather this end with my hands?” 

You tried to roll your hips up into his hand before relenting rather quickly, and you muttered, “F-Fine. Just hurry up, I might throttle you if I have to wait any longer.” 

Sebastian grinned wickedly at the way your back arched when he curled his fingers inside of you before torturously withdrawing them. A small sigh slipped from you when he let go of your wrists and slid away to hastily begin shedding his clothing, taking care to be gentler with his glasses as he set them down on the nightstand, and once he was wholly bare before you, the only thing you could do was stare. 

His physique was mind boggling; toned, defined muscles made up every inch of his torso, accentuated by broad shoulders that you were convinced didn’t belong anywhere near someone who worked in a glorified library of all places. His skin was sun-kissed and peppered with freckles, a testament to the aforementioned physical labor he claimed to enjoy. It hadn’t made much sense to you before when he’d told you– forgoing magic to use his own hands to help fix things. But if a habit like that gave a man a body like his, you would never doubt his preferences again. 

All of Sebastian looked positively divine, including his cock. Thick, hard, and twitching tellingly, it arched proudly against his taut stomach, the head violently red and already leaking beads of pre-cum in response to the situation at hand. You swallowed thickly when you realized that that would be inside of you, and you were suddenly grateful that he’d told you to wait. Not to discredit his fingers or anything, but you had a nagging feeling that you would enjoy his lower parts far more than his hands. 

Ignoring the nervousness that settled in your stomach, you sat up to quickly pull the sleeves of your dress down your arms, wriggling out of the attire quickly before throwing the bunched up material to the floor. As you reached down to slide your underwear off, Sebastian returned to kneel in front of you and stopped you by lightly pushing you flat against the pillows, then ran his hands along the plane of your stomach. 

“Allow me,” he said chivalrously, taking care to gently slip his fingers under the waistband and sensually remove the material entirely. With nothing else separating you from him, Sebastian took his time eating you alive with his eyes, letting his hands drag up your thighs and squeeze at your knees before pushing your legs apart so he had space to siddle forward. The blunt head of his cock bumped against your slick cunt, and a barely there shudder ran down your spine in anticipation. 

It took a good amount of self-control for you to let Sebastian press into you achingly slow, his eyes pinching shut while his teeth savaged his bottom lip, and when he was finally sheathed inside of you fully, the brunet was practically shaking with the desire to fuck your brains out. He waited, though, his palms sliding from your knees to your upper thighs to dig his fingers into the skin there, raking his hungry gaze over you while he gave you a moment to adjust. 

You appreciated the sentiment, because Merlin– he was big. It was impossible to overlook every delicious inch of him pressing against your inner walls, the subtle grinding of his hips stretching you out more and more to the point where your breath continuously caught in your throat. It felt good, though. Good enough to leave you wondering why you’d never sought him out when the two of you were still in school together. 

At some point, however, you realized Sebastian was fucking with you. It probably had something to do with the repetitive, shallow thrusts he teased you with, and when you craned your neck up to look at him, he was already staring at you with a wide grin splitting his face, his tongue poking out between his teeth. 

“W-What?” you grumbled, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Are you going to make me beg or something? I already said please.” 

“I was just enjoying the face you were making,” Sebastian said, rocking his hips just enough to leave you arching towards him. “You look like you’re trying really hard to keep it together. It’s cute.” 

“I’m flattered,” you breathed out around an airy laugh, then wriggled your hips down in an attempt to bait the Archivist into moving. Mercifully, it worked. 

Sebastian gave a throaty moan, leaning forward to brace one hand on the side of your waist while the other gripped at your thigh tighter, and he withdrew his cock languidly before plunging back in. Your breathing hitched and your head fell back against the pillows at the abrupt sensation, and the sight of you so obviously enthralled by his efforts was what expelled the remainder of his patience. 

Holding onto your thigh with bruising strength, Sebastian fell into a steady, toe-curling pace. He pulled you onto his cock with every deep plunge, digging his feet into the bed to lend some force to his thrusts, and his reward was the sound of your shaky voice reverberating off of the bedroom walls as your spine rounded. You keened loudly, overcome with both the feeling and the sight of Sebastian– because not only was he deceptively good at rendering your mind into a puddle of mush, he looked amazing while he was doing it. The muscles in his arms rippled as he supported himself above you, his brown curls falling into his face as his head hung heavy between his sculpted shoulders, and when your arousal had you clamping down on his cock harder, those full, kissable lips of his fell open around a guttural groan. 

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he grit out through his clenched teeth, gazing down at you with lust-dark eyes that made your blood burn hot in your veins. “So bloody gorgeous– like a fucking work of art.”

His praises left you whining in earnest, and you didn’t bother to keep your voice down in the slightest. With every sinful noise that escaped you, Sebastian’s hold on you seemed to intensify, and his thick cock filled you harder with every desperate pump of his hips. His ragged breathing left you craving more of him– all of him– and you rutted against him as much as was physically possible in a bid to take him deeper. 

Sebastian picked up on your desires wordlessly, and he shifted his hold on your thigh so his hand was looped around it to better pull it to the side, giving him the room he needed to spear into you with wicked precision. It also allowed him to discover what you sounded like crying out for more, your voice reedy and strident within the four walls of the bedroom, and when he shifted his hips down to achieve new depths, your moans echoed around him. He had to be hitting a good spot. 

“Right there, Sebastian, fuck– right there–” 

Your lower half was positively shaking, and Sebastian was honestly at his limit. He sat up momentarily before grabbing both of your legs, watching as you blearily tried to figure out what was going on while he pulled your knees over his shoulders. Moving over you swiftly and urgently, he bent you back and rammed his thick cock back into your tight heat, animalistic grunts sounding from him as you arched tight and cried out, but you were barely given the space to breathe before he was fucking you hard– hips bucking rough and deep and so fucking good that you were left screaming and gasping helplessly at the sheets. 

Sebastian pinned you to the bed and pounded into you, his own moans dripping loud from his lips as his hands grasped at the sweaty, flushed skin of your waist, pulling you close while he filled you over and over and drank in your noisy pleas for more until your back was arching clear off the bed and your thighs were shaking. You were barely holding on, your climax from earlier roaring back to life in your gut and rendering your tongue a lead weight in your mouth.

Forming words was damn near impossible, but you still managed to babble out, “Like that, Sebastian, fuck, just like that– I’m close– please, I’m–”

He obliged you instantly, keeping up his pace while he brought his hand between your legs to thumb over your bundle of nerves, his hips angling upwards with every deep, precise plunge. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, you watched through your slitted eyes as he bent forward to press a chaste kiss to your parted lips, swallowing your breathy whines with a satisfied expression playing over his face. “Come on, darling. Let’s hear how you sound falling apart on my cock, yeah?” 

As if you even needed the encouragement. 

Every muscle in your body tensed as a wave of unparalleled ecstasy crashed over you, and your hands flew to Sebastian’s shoulders to absentmindedly attempt to grasp at something to ground yourself. His movements didn’t stop as you writhed beneath him– milking every possible noise out of you with unconcealed fervor– and it was only when you sagged into the sheets twitching and whimpering that Sebastian let your legs drop to the sides so he could wrap his arms around you to give you the last of his deep, quick thrusts before he was coming too, your name tumbling over his lips as he fell alongside you. 

“Fuck,” Sebastian murmured directly beside your ear, still draped in a boneless heap on top of you as you trembled against him. One of your hands slid up to bury your fingers in his tangled curls, and you mumbled something unintelligibly into the crook of his neck. He pulled back slightly to hear you better, “What?” 

Your eyes were still glazed over as you came down from your post-coital high, “Are the Archives chock-full of sex books or something?” 

Sebastian smirked tiredly at you, pulling out gently before collapsing beside you with his arms still wrapped securely around your waist. “One or two. Why?” 

You stared up at the ceiling in a daze and shook your head softly to yourself, “Because you’re a little too good at that. It’s kind of scary.”

“Good scary or bad scary?” 

“Good scary,” you clarified, turning over so you could face the brunet and smile softly at him. The way his entire face lit up at the sight of you would live on in your mind for years to come, you were sure, so you wistfully said, “We should do this again sometime.” 

Sebastian paused, leaving you worried for a short second until he wriggled in a way that let him press his hard cock against your stomach, and he closed the distance between the two of you to give you a chaste kiss on your nose before grinning mischievously. “Like right now?” 

You raised your eyebrows in silent surprise before laughing playfully, rolling over onto him before taking his face in your hands to kiss him deeply. It was a sweet moment– tender, affectionate, and heartwarming. It only ceased when you let go of his cheeks to move down his larger body, already itching to put your hands to better use. 

The only thing that stopped Sebastian from staying holed up within the warm, comfortable confines of your bedroom with you forever was the imminent arrival of Monday, but Saturday and Sunday were days well spent. You were rather disappointed when your time together came to an end– enough so that you actually pouted when Sebastian had slid out from beneath the covers to get ready for work. Thankfully though, the Archivist was as unwilling as you were to call it quits after everything, and following a heated, lengthy kiss, he promised to come back as soon as he was able. 

It only took him eight hours to find himself back in your bed, but you knew then that it would be impossible to stay away from him for very long from here on out. 

Hi ;) I'm sorry it's me again 😅😭I've been having an overabundance of fic ideas lately... So... What about reader doing something super nice and cute for Billy's birthday ? He isn't used to it, his family has never remembered his birth date, let alone celebrated his birthday, so when he sees that reader actually remembers his birthday and does something very meaningful to celebrate it, he just ends up crying because of how beautiful the present it : I don't know what the present could be though, like maybe she sings him a song that she wrote for him ? Which is surprising since she has social anxiety which shows how much effort she put into making this day memorable for him. Really choose whatever you think it's best. Thank you !!!

billy vs. the grinch

billy hargrove x fem!byers!reader

word count: 1,084

warnings: swearing, fluff

a/n: hi, my love! please don’t be sorry! i appreciate you trusting me with your ideas. this is really sweet. i hope that you enjoy what i came up with and that it’s what you wanted. <333

————

Billy’s fingers are gripping your belt loops so hard you’re afraid the denim might rip. You push open the front door, the wood cold on your fingertips.

Billy’s been on the verge of tears since seven forty-five this morning, when you hopped down your front step and launched yourself into his arms. “Happy birthday, gorgeous,” you’d said.

He’d only told you his birthday once, right after you met. That you remembered it was making his heart grow, what was it, three sizes? Isn’t that what the Grinch said?

Fuck, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that you were taking him home where he’d get to spend time with the only people he’d felt loved by.

Billy stays behind you after you’re inside like he’s never been here before.

“Is that my birthday boy?” Joyce’s voice carries to the both of you from the kitchen. You keep moving, pulling him along since he refuses to let you go.

Your mother has flour in her hair, and she’s wearing an apron with ladybugs on it. You’re pretty sure Will picked it out for her at some point.

When she sees him, she claps her hands excitedly, smiling brilliantly. She looks so young.

“Hi, Billy! Happy birthday, sweetie.”

She pulls him in for a hug, which he accepts. Joyce Byers has this thing with her hugs. They make everything feel like it’s going to be okay.

“Thank you,” Billy mumbles. You run a hand up the curve of his spine as if to say, It’s okay. You’re not bothering anyone. This is happening because we love you.

When she lets Billy go, Joyce kisses the crown of your head. “Hey, baby. Jonathan picked up pizza. I figured that would be okay?”

You assure her that it is.

Will and Max enter the kitchen from where they’d been in Will’s room. They’d biked home today so that you could spend some time with Billy.

“Happy birthday,” Will says. “You know you can buy lottery tickets now?”

Max snorts. “He wouldn’t have the money for them. He spends it all on cigarettes.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me today or something?” He asks her.

“I was going to give you a hug,” she tells him. “Unless you’re immune to that sort of thing.”

You take Will’s hand, walking over to look at what your mother has been up to, just long enough to give them a minute. Their relationship has improved exponentially in recent months. It’s nice to see them finally have each other to rely on.

On the counter sits a cake in a glass pan. It’s strawberry flavored, which you can see from the pink tinge it has, and there’s chocolate frosting smeared over the top of it.

Happy Birthday, Billy is written in a sloppy scrawl across the top, two big number candles sitting above his name. 18.

Later, after the six of you have demolished it, Billy tells Joyce that it’s the best damn cake he’s ever had, and that she’s not allowed to fight him on it. She obliges.

Billy told Will and Max to pick out a movie because it would stress him out too much. They did, and you all sit around the living room, devouring that too.

Billy thinks about how he’s never felt safer. He enjoys just sitting in this room with these people who he knows care about him, even if it isn’t exactly the group anyone expected him to end up hanging around.

When the movie’s over, you lead Billy down the hall and into your bedroom. “Sit, pretty please. I have a present for you.”

“I told you not to get me anything,” he says.

You tap his knee. “Since when have I ever listened to what you tell me to do?”

Billy chuckles and it makes you smile. You place a manila envelope in his lap.

“Sorry. Didn’t really have anything to put it in.”

“I don’t give a shit about how you wrapped it, baby.” You feel yourself go warm. It doesn’t matter how many times he calls you that—it always has the same effect.

“Open it.”

You sit down on the floor in front of him, the carpet squishing under your legs. You prop your head up, settling your arms on his knees and under your chin.

You watch as he pulls a sheet of thick paper out of the envelope.

Billy’s eyes widen just slightly and his breath hitches.

“Baby.”

It’s a drawing of the Camaro.

You sit up a little more so you can point the specifics out to him.

“I borrowed Jonathan’s camera to take a picture of it one day a couple weeks ago. And I dug out my best paper too.”

You run a finger along the lingering pencil marks. “I tried my best with the blue. I don’t exactly have the most extensive colored pencil collection in the world, and I’d already gone through mine and Will’s, so it’s not perfect, but. It’s still pretty blue.”

First you sketched the drawing, as best as you could, and then you colored it just the same. You used a thin pen to outline it when you finished. It’s simple, but you’re happy with it.

Billy runs his thumb over where you left your signature by the back tire. When he looks up at you his eyes are glossy.

“You drew this whole thing just for me?”

“‘Course I did, Billy.” You wipe away the tear that’s just managed to slip out. “I love you and stuff.”

He tosses his head back, laughing. You kiss his cheek, over a patch of freckles, and he blushes.

“You like it?” You ask.

He sets it down beside him. “Are you kidding? I fuckin’ love it. Thank you, sweetheart.”

Billy is even more touched when he thinks about how it’s not often that you draw. You love to do it, but it’s not something you think you’re that great at. He disagrees by a long shot. So the fact that you took the time to do this means the world.

When he hugs you, he tries to put all of this feeling into it, and you make sure to rub up and down his back as a reminder that it’s okay for him to be emotional about this. You’re sure he wants to fight it.

“I love you too, by the way,” he says into your hair.

You pull back and kiss him. He tastes like chocolate.

“Happy birthday, pretty boy.”

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

yes PLEASE

baby wake up, new Rhysand art just dropped

🎨 by ignartcio

Camellia: Popia x f!reader - Chapter 2

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: You start work on Elizabeth's diary, and finally get a good look at Papa.

Word count: 5.5k

A/N: Hey hello, I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's a bit of a monster, but worth it, I promise!

Warnings: Mentions of reader having religious trauma

AO3 Link / Chapter 1

~~~

You’ve been hunched over this damned diary all day. 

Sister Imperator was right. None of the Abbey’s translators or archivists would have been able to read Elizabeth’s writing because she had written in a cipher. With no spaces between words and with no obvious keyword to decipher her entries, the first page of her diary looks like nonsense. Just absolute gibberish. 

But to you, it isn’t. 

With each passing hour you spend at a small table in the restricted room, you admire Elizabeth more and more. She was smart as a whip and even more clever. You figure that, if she wanted her diary to be kept secret, she could have simply destroyed it. Burnt it, ripped it, buried it, dipped the whole thing in black ink—anything surely would have been easier than creating a cipher which has no discernable pattern. 

She didn’t destroy it, though. She wrote on each page, front and back until the entire book was filled, and then she hid it. If something is truly never meant to be found, it won’t be. Which leads you to believe Elizabeth’s diary isn’t a diary at all. It’s a record. 

A record of what, you have yet to be sure. It is secret enough for Elizabeth to want it to be discovered someday, but only after she is long gone. That intrigues you enough to sit hour after hour over this book, trying every word you can think of that might be the key to the cipher. So far you have crossed off ‘Satan’, ‘Lucifer’, ‘Beelzebub’, and other aliases of the Dark One. You hadn’t expected those to work, because Elizabeth seems smarter than that, but you had to try just to rule them out. You also tried words like ‘chapel’, ‘altar’, and other imagery of the Satanic Ministry, with no luck. You thought perhaps the first five letters of the entry were the key to the second five, or vice versa. You tried again with the first six letters, the first two, three, four. Nothing. 

The only words you have been able to read are the dates of each entry, the month and the day, which she wrote in the top-left corner in plain English. Those were not much of an accomplishment to decipher.

You sigh and sit up straight for a moment. Your back is sore after hours of slouching and writing. The once-crisp notebook under your pen is nearly half full of incorrect keywords and mistranslations. The small window on the far wall of the restricted room has grown dark and no sounds echo to you from the hollow of the atrium. 

You’d gotten up to find something to eat (and to uncross your eyes) during the dinner hour. Tonight you opted for a hot meal but decided not to stay in the refectory. You don’t know if food is even allowed in the library but all the Siblings who work there were at dinner, so you snuck it in anyways. You aren’t careless, though, so you ate your dinner at a different table, far away from the one where Elizabeth’s diary and your notebook sit open. That had been a few hours ago. 

As far as you can tell from the small window in the door, the lights in the library have been dimmed for the night. No one came and fetched you to tell you that it was closing, so you assume it stays open at all hours. Your own desk lamp is the only source of light in the restricted room. 

You rise from your workstation and move towards the closed door. Such an enclosed room tends to get stuffy and humid, and it’s still too chilly outside to open a window. You gently prop open the door to let in the relatively fresh air of the library. No one said you couldn’t keep the door open when you’re inside the room, only that the door must be locked when you aren’t. 

Returning to your desk, you can already feel the cooler air drifting through the bookshelves. You’re content to work for a few more hours like this. It feels wrong to give up for the night when you have nothing to show yet. It feels wrong to stop working when you have something to prove, and somewhere to return. 

The night here is eerily silent. At home in Marseille, if you open your dormitory window and sit on the end of your bed to look out over the water, you can hear the soft lapping of water against the marina docks. If the wind carries just right, you can also hear the creaking of masts and cables as the sailboats list back and forth in the water. Sometimes the gulls stay out at night during the summer months, calling for one another from their perches on a bow pulpit. The breeze carries the saltiness of the water and the sweetness of the hillside wildflowers into your dormitory, illuminated only by a small desk lamp and the moon—

A sound from outside the room breaks you from your reverie. Your consciousness whips back to the present, to the Abbey. The ghostly scent of salt and flowers fades, replaced by old leather and dust and ink from your pen. 

You raise your eyes to look through the open door when you hear another sound. There’s no one visible to you—whoever they are must be between shelves, looking for a late-night romance novel to put them to sleep. 

You haven’t figured out why the romance section is so tucked away yet. Though, perhaps if erotica is shelved nearby, the librarians would want any wandering hands to stay hidden. Not that lust is shameful here—it’s the Satanic Ministry, it’s actually encouraged—but the library is not the place to get hot and heavy. 

Knowing that someone is nearby distracts you terribly, and you decide to stop for the night. The little analog clock hanging next to the door reads past midnight. At this hour, you likely won’t get much done anyway. You need sleep and a proper breakfast to let your mind work. 

You take the time to gently wrap Elizabeth’s diary in the white linen and return it to its lockbox. The rest of your things don’t take long to gather, having only brought the one notebook and a few pens, plus your empty dinner box. You close the door behind you as you exit, fishing through your habit pocket to find the key. It and the key to your dormitory are affixed to a single keyring which jingles as you fumble with it one-handed, but you lock the door successfully and turn to make your way to the staircase. 

Rather, you try to make your way. 

As soon as you turn around, a figure emerges from the bookshelves. You promptly run into him, which sends your materials to the floor and your mind reeling with apologies. “Oh, je suis vraiment désolé—Er, I’m so sorry!” you bluster, holding your now-empty hands out to plead for forgiveness. You kneel to gather your things into a messy pile, then stand and finally meet the eyes of the poor soul you’d accosted with your body. “I should have been more careful, but it’s late so I thought…” 

They’re the same eyes you’d met yesterday, in the refectory. Still striking, still surrounded by black, but up-close and more relaxed. And no white paint. Just the black upper lip and the black eyes of Papa Emeritus the Fourth. 

“It’s, eh, it’s quite alright, Sister,” Papa says with an awkward little laugh. You notice he’s not wearing his robes or his mitre. In fact he’s not wearing anything that might remotely indicate that he’s the Antipope. He wears a simple black t-shirt and red sweatpants, and gray fuzzy slippers that have the eyes and whiskers and pink nose of a rat which you thought looked cute when you’d knelt down. 

But he’s still Papa, and you still barreled into him like a brute. 

You try to smile but it feels more like a grimace. “Still, I shouldn’t have just…” you gesture with your free arm. “I’m sorry. Are you alright?” 

Papa pats his chest like he’s searching for injuries. You hit him hard, but not that hard, and it makes you laugh softly. “I’m fine. Quite good. Still in one piece,” he says. “Are you? And why are you here so late?”

You blush. “Oh, does the library close at night? I’m sorry, no one came and told me, I just assumed…” 

“No, no,” Papa reassures you, waving a hand in front of himself. “No, it doesn’t close. But it’s usually empty at this time of night, you see.” 

You nod in understanding. “It is pretty late.” 

“It is,” Papa echoes. “So… pardon my asking, Sorella, but why are you still awake?”

“I was, um,” you try to explain, looking down at the messy pile of translation work cradled in the crook of your elbow. “I was working on Elizabeth’s diary, but it may take longer than I expected.”

Papa’s face seems to light up at your mention of your work. “Oh! Forgive me, yes, I should have known,” he rushes out. “You are the, eh, visitor? From Marseille?”

You nod and give him your name. He repeats it softly to himself, as if to remember it. You doubt he will, but you won’t hold it against him—there are many, many Siblings at the Abbey and many names to remember. So if he manages to distinguish you from the rest of the crowd, you will be pleasantly surprised. Not to say you don’t have faith that he could, but… well. You’re running yourself in circles. 

He narrows his eyes slightly, but pauses for a moment. “I saw you yesterday, at dinner,” he tells you. 

So much for not remembering a face in the crowd. You mentally kick yourself. 

“Ah, yes,” you chuckle nervously. “I’m not the biggest crowd person.” Papa chuckles. “Yes, I noticed. To be honest, neither am I.” 

That’s hard to believe, coming from him. To be Papa is to be a figurehead, a symbol of unwavering faith and devotion to the Olde One which the entire Satanic Ministry worships. One must be a bit of a crowd pleaser in order to be successful in his position. “It doesn’t seem that way, Papa,” you tell him. “You command a room very well, from what I’ve heard.” 

A smug little grin grows on Papa’s lips, and it suits him. Smiling suits him. “So word of my immense charisma has traveled all the way to Marseille, yes?” he asks, mostly teasing. But a small lilt in his voice betrays that he really does wonder. What does this foreign Sister think of him based on word of mouth alone? And does his person size up to his reputation? 

You laugh. “It has,” you say. “Forgive me if I have a hard time believing you are uncomfortable in a crowd.” 

Papa tuts his tongue, his grin growing into a fond smile. “You should have seen my brother.” There’s a small sparkle of reminiscence in his eye as he says this, and you wonder which of the three other Papas he speaks of. You’ve heard different stories about all of them. 

His eyes drop to the papers and notebook in your arm, then back up to your face. “But, eh, you are settling in well, Sorella?” he asks. 

You can tell he wants to change the subject, so you let him. “Yes, Papa, thank you,” you smile. 

“That’s not very convincing.” 

You release an airy laugh and drop your head. He can see right through you. “It’s very different here,” you say. “Marseille is… small. Cozy. Secluded. Not to say that I don’t like it here, because it really is very nice—”

“It’s crowded,” Papa cuts you off. It’s soft, and not intended to be rude, but to agree with you. “And big. I understand.”

Your shoulders drop, but you hadn’t realized they were raised in the first place. “It’s not home,” you find yourself admitting. 

He nods. “And so you work late into the night because you do not want to sleep in an unfamiliar bed.” 

You stare at him for another beat. He seems to know what you’re feeling even before you do, because yes, your bed here isn’t the same as the one back home, and suddenly you’re very close to crying. Don’t cry, don't cry, don't cry…

“May I tell you something, in confidence?” Papa asks. His voice is low and gentle. It soothes you. His eyes search your own, flicking back and forth between them, and you begin to understand how this slightly awkward man in rat slippers is able to enrapture an entire chapel of people. 

You nod. 

“I miss being a Cardinal,” he tells you. “Truly, I do. Becoming Papa has been the only goal I can ever remember having, ever since I was old enough to care. But as soon as I ascended I…” He pauses. His mouth opens and closes, like he’s trying to decide whether or not he should finish his thought. 

He sighs. “What I mean to say is, There is no shame in missing where you used to be.”

You hold his gaze for another long moment, wondering what it is he was going to say. His words linger in the silence between you and you let them. As soon as he became Papa he… what? 

“Thank you, Papa,” you say quietly. The moment feels almost intimate, like he’d confided his biggest secret to you. But for all you know, he tells every Sibling he comes across the same thing. It’s his duty to counsel everyone under his roof, visitors included. 

No, you chastise yourself. Papa doesn’t seem like the kind of man to have practiced lines for serendipitous meetings… but you are still learning not to assume the worst of people. You had been far too young when you learned not to trust anyone, even those deserving of it. But Papa… he seems genuine, and it’s all you can do (for yourself and for him) to believe that he is. 

You realize that this is the natural end of your conversation. That now is when you should say goodnight, nice to meet you, see you around, but you don’t want to. You can’t tell if it’s because you’ve been on your own all day, or because it’s late and you’re tired, or because the air around him seems to grow warmer and more… comfortable. Papa radiates an aura of peace that you haven’t felt since you received Sister Imperator’s letter nearly a week ago.

“If I may ask, Papa,” you start, just as the silence begins to grow awkward, “what are you doing awake at this hour?”

Papa’s eyes turn down, and a small smile graces his lips. “Ah, I was just looking for something to read,” he says, and you nearly laugh at yourself for asking such an obvious question. Of course he’s looking for something to read. The two of you are standing deep in the bowels of the library. 

Oh, who are you kidding? Papa likely came here to find a book in peace, not speak to some foreign Sister. Who are you to keep his attention? 

“I see,” you say, in your practiced voice. “Well. Good luck, and I hope you find something, Papa.” 

Before you can blurt out any more feelings to him, you turn and walk briskly towards the winding staircase that leads you to the first floor. 

~~~

Copia watches you retreat, slightly confused and halfway ready to call your name to make you stay. Something had changed in your demeanor just before you left, and he wants to ask if you’re alright, or if he said something wrong and caused you to close yourself off like that. Was it his little comment about missing the past? No, no, it couldn’t be—your eyes had been wide and searching, but you weren’t offended. Your brow had furrowed but not out of disgust. 

He’s not as clueless as most people think he is. Just because he has a hard time finding the right words to say what he’s thinking doesn’t mean he’s stupid. In fact, Copia prides himself on his ability to read people. His ability to speak as eloquently as he does in his head… that’s another story. 

When he’d first seen you in the refectory yesterday, you had already been looking right at him. He was curious about the straggler who’d wandered in so timidly. Your face isn’t one he’d seen around the Abbey. If he had, he would’ve remembered you because frankly, you’re striking. 

Copia doesn’t know why he hadn’t connected the dots sooner. It seems obvious that a brand new Sister should appear only weeks after Sister Imperator mentions bringing someone in to translate the document that had been found. Your presence had been a single talking point during some meeting or another, and if he’s perfectly honest, most Clergy meetings seem to blend together into nonsensical mush when he thinks back on them. Your mention of Elizabeth’s diary had reminded him of a few vague details. But the rest of that discussion, unsurprisingly, slips his mind. 

He finds himself feeling guilty. He’d been at that meeting, he knows for certain. The paperwork to confirm your temporary transfer had landed on his desk and he’d signed it. He must have. Your file must have been sent over from Marseille ahead of your arrival, why hadn’t he seen it?

Copia runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. He should have welcomed you to the Abbey himself. He should have sought you out and personally offered his hospitality, because he knows what it’s like to be across the world from home. He knows how lost and alone you feel. He’d felt it himself, after he transferred to the Abbey as a newly-appointed Cardinal. 

I miss being a Cardinal, he’d told you. And it’s true, he does, but he misses being an Archbishop more. He held less sway within the Satanic Ministry as an Archbishop, but he was allowed to stay in Italy. His home. 

As soon as he’d ascended to the rank of Cardinal, Sister Imperator had called him to the Abbey as a permanent transfer. Sure, his brothers had all been transferred from Italy one by one as they were called up to the Papacy, so he had family at the Abbey. But they had all been busy, constantly, and so had he. 

You’d told him you miss home, and a very strange, very tender part of him wants to comfort you. 

~~~

You replay your conversation with Papa all the way back to your dormitory. Stupide, stupide, stupide… 

He told you that he’s not much of a crowd person, and then you go and tell him that his Abbey doesn’t feel cozy enough for you? And you nearly knocked him over in your haste to return to a bed that you told him isn’t as good as the one in Marseille. What a way to thank him for opening his home to you! Thanks, Papa, but here are all the reasons why your Abbey sucks.

“Fille stupide,” you mutter to yourself. The sound echoes off the walls of the dark, empty corridor. The wall sconces are dark for the night, so the only illumination comes in the form of pale blue stripes of moonlight along the tiled floor. 

When you finally reach your dormitory and softly shut the door behind you, you take a moment to breathe. You’d been walking rather briskly in order to get back. Your fingers clench so tightly on the edge of your notebook that your fingernails are white, and your joints creak as you release your hold. The slap of the spiral-bound book seems loud when you drop it onto the small desk below the window, reverberating around the room. There are no posters, no tapestries, no curtains to absorb the sound like there are at home. 

You loathe the sound. You loathe the echoes. You loathe the tip-tapping of heels on the pristine floors of the Abbey. You loathe the muffled sounds of laughter coming from a dormitory a few doors down. You loathe how desperately you want to find something to hold onto here, something that feels personal. And you loathe how you crave familiarity despite the fact that you’ll return to Marseille as soon as that little book is translated. 

You practically rip your habit off—a habit that is uniform in France, but sets you apart here—in favor of your sleep clothes. Climbing into the small bed, you begin to recite your prayer in every language you know. It’s a habit you’d developed as soon as you began learning a second language at the ripe age of nine. Only then, the prayers had been directed at the cruel, unforgiving Catholic God. 

Salut Satan, notre Ténébreux juste et indulgent…. Ave Satana, il nostro Tenebroso giusto e indulgente…. Salve Satanás, nuestro justo y perdonador Oscuro…. 

You continue until you’ve exhausted all the languages you know, and then you start over again with a different prayer. And again. And again, until somewhere in the middle of your Portuguese Hail Lilith you drift to sleep. 

~~~

You wake the next morning in a much better mood. Perhaps last night you’d just been frustrated and overtired from working from dawn til far past dusk, but the bright birdsong from outside sounds happier today. It follows you from your dormitory, down the corridor and to the main hall, where the sounds of the breakfast hour echo out into the large space. 

You could walk into the refectory if you wanted, without feeling intimidated (at least not as much as the day you arrived), but you don’t have much of an appetite this morning. Instead you take your time walking the length of the main hall. There are sculptures in spaces between the wood benches that you hadn’t noticed before. You find one you recognize, and it doesn’t surprise you that the Abbey houses a replica. 

La génie du mal is a welcome sight. The Marseille Abbey also keeps a replica, although it is slightly smaller than this one. It’s a depiction of a fallen angel chained to a rock, with a crown held loosely in one hand while the other runs through his hair. His stone face is solemn but the bat-like wings splaying from his back seem to welcome you, as if saying, Hello child, do you remember me? 

Yes, you do remember. You remember being eleven years old and traveling to Liège at the whim of your parents. You remember touring Saint Paul’s Cathedral and pretending to marvel at the Catholic imagery that you didn’t understand (or care for) at the time. Every depiction of Jesus on the cross looked the same. Every statue of a veiled Mother Mary reminded you to be chaste and pure and subservient to a God who thinks you a lesser being. 

And then you’d seen him in the chapel of the Cathedral, placed at the back of a pulpit which wrapped around a stone pillar. The four sculptures of saints (whose names you don’t bother to remember) stood at the front of the pulpit, facing in towards the pews, as if standing guard over the sculpture. La génie du mal was tucked into the back, hidden from view, but you knew something must have been there. Why else would not one, but four saints be guarding a single pillar, when there were dozens lining the interior of the chapel? 

So you’d slipped from the watchful eye of your parents while they were distracted by the tour guide, and rounded the pulpit to see the backside. He was there, carved in white marble and stationed in the niche between two curved staircases. The elaborate stained-glass windows cast speckles of yellow, blue, and violet over his body, and he glowed in the sunlight like he was a real angel fallen to Earth right in front of you. 

You visited him a lot, afterwards.

You learned later that the pulpit was commissioned to represent “The Triumph of Religion over the Genius of Evil,” but you thought—and still think—that it was executed rather poorly. The four statues facing inward protect only the Cathedral from La génie du mal, but he, facing outward towards the windows, can see the rest of the world. Anyone looking into the chapel for refuge or guidance would only see him, colorful and bright, through the holy scenes of the stained glass. 

You jump nearly ten feet in the air when a voice beside you snaps you from your thoughts. “Beautiful, isn’t he?” 

You look to your left and catch the mismatched eyes of Papa. You hadn’t even heard him come up beside you. “Oui—ah, yes,” you say, swiftly correcting your French to English. 

“You know,” Papa says, looking back to the marble replica, “the original was commissioned because the first version of it was too, eh, sexy.” 

You do know, but the fact makes you laugh anyway. “The first version is nothing compared to this. It makes me think that the artist made this version even sexier, just to spite the Catholics. And to avenge his brother.” 

Papa turns to you fully now, with his hands clasped behind his back. He wears a smart black suit adorned with an elaborate grucifix on the lapel. It’s a far cry from the sweatpants and t-shirt from last night, but no less comfortable. You can’t help but notice that the suit is tailored to perfection. 

“His brother?” he asks. 

You nod. “The original sculptor was the younger brother of this artist,” you explain, gesturing to La génie. “It’s a bit of a slap in the face for them to ask his own brother to redo his work. I can imagine they both felt a little slighted.”  

Papa chuckles. “Perhaps just a little.” 

A brief pause falls between the two of you, and you begin to wonder just how long it will take for the silence to grow awkward. So far you haven’t reached that point. Not with Papa, at least. 

“It would have been nice to have the original piece,” Papa says unhurriedly. “I can’t imagine the Catholic Church would have agreed to let us buy it.” 

You turn to look at him briefly, letting out a small laugh. “If the price was high enough, I’m sure they would have,” you say with an almost imperceptible edge of bitterness. “But I do think its place at Liège is where it belongs.” 

“Have you been?” Papa asks you, his eyebrows slightly raised as he turns to meet your gaze. 

“I have,” you answer. You don’t elaborate further on the nature of your visit. “That’s not to say I don’t believe it would have a good home here, Papa. I just think that the irony of its placement is lost on the Catholics.” 

He asks about it, and you explain. His eyes never leave your face as you talk. You don’t feel scrutinized like you had under Sister Imperator’s gaze, though. Papa’s eyes are warm and interested and you could swear they almost glow in the morning light. He nods and hums with each point you make, seeming genuinely intrigued by your argument that La génie holds more influence facing outward rather than inwards. 

It’s a subject you’re passionate about. La génie had set you on a path towards the Satanic Ministry that day. By age eleven you already knew you didn’t want to be Catholic despite your parents’ efforts to instill their beliefs on you, but you didn’t know exactly what you believed in. Until you saw him, solemn and still, his magnificence hidden behind a stone pillar at Liège. 

Despite Papa’s careful listening, you realize you must be rambling and cut yourself off. “Sorry, Papa. I don’t mean to talk your ear off.” 

“Oh, no!” Papa says, shaking his head. “No need to apologize, Sister. I enjoy listening to you speak.” 

Heat blossoms over your cheeks. You almost miss how his own face flushes a slight shade of pink. Almost. 

“Eh, I mean—” Papa begins to fiddle with his own fingers. “What I mean to say is that you make a lot of good points. Yes.” 

It’s obvious that he’s nervous over the comment he made. It was straightforward and a little flirty, and you know that in the bright hall he can most likely see the pink beneath your skin. Maybe he hadn’t meant for it to come out quite so… well, flirty. Or maybe he thinks he overstepped a boundary, that he said something he shouldn’t have? It was just a comment about listening to you talk, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Satan, why are you so flustered all the sudden? 

You give him a small smile. “Either way… thank you, Papa. I should, uh—”

“Yes, me too—”

“Right, have a good day,” you say, a bit quicker than is necessary, and turn on your heel to start towards the library. 

~~~

Once again, Copia finds himself watching you go. 

Rationally, he knows that you’re not upset with him. You didn’t leave because of something he’d said or done that made you uncomfortable. If that was the case, he hopes that you’d tell him. He would hate for you to feel unwelcome or upset, especially because of him. 

But oh, how your eyes shone while you spoke about La génie. 

Hearing footsteps approaching from his right, Copia turns and finds Terzo looking rather smug as he strolls towards him. He wears a big, stupid grin on his face and looks at Copia like he’d just discovered the stash of sweets on the bottom drawer of his bedside table. 

“And who was that?” Terzo asks with feigned innocence. He comes to a stop next to Copia and clasps his hands behind his back. They both stare at La génie. 

Copia chews the inside of his cheek. “Who was who?” 

Terso tuts his tongue. “Oh, don’t be coy with me, fratellino. We both know I’m talking about the Sister you were just ogling.” “I wasn’t ogling,” Copia protests. Terzo is always teasing, always nudging, always subtly poking fun at him for no reason other than he finds it fun. That’s what little brothers are for, Terzo says. To poke fun at, and to teach the ways of the world. “And we both know that you know who she is.” 

“Ah, yes, I do know,” Terzo says with a shrug. “But I wanted to hear what you had to say.”

Copia looks at his brother. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Terzo says, “you seemed quite invested in that conversation just now. And then you turned a very obvious shade of red, and she walked away. Forgive me, I’m a gossip.” 

Copia laughs. “There’s nothing to gossip about, Terzo. She told me about this sculpture and where the original is housed. That’s it.” 

Terzo tilts his head, leaning in slightly. “That does not explain why you both were so red in the face, fratellino.” 

Copia sighs and runs a hand through his hair. So it was obvious, even from down the hall. “I… may have said that I like listening to her speak.” 

“Oh,” Terzo says flatly. He sounds almost disappointed. “I thought you might have told her something else.” 

“What? Why?” Copia asks. “Was that a weird thing to say?” 

Terzo chuckles, shaking his head. “No. It’s a perfectly good compliment. But you both turned so red that I thought you invited her to your chambers.” 

Copia nearly chokes on his own saliva. “Wh–what?” he sputters. “Terzo, I barely know her.”

“Well, I wouldn’t think so with the way you were looking at her!” Terzo says, his voice pitched higher to his own defense. “‘My darling, you speak so beautifully, it is like birdsong in the early morning. I simply cannot resist the way you look—’” 

“Stop—”

“‘—in the sunlight. Your eyes shine so brightly and your mouth moves so gracefully—’” 

“Terzo, I—”

“‘—that I can’t help but wonder what it might feel like on my—’” 

“Okay,” Copia throws his hands up. He storms off towards the refectory for breakfast. 

Terzo’s laugh echoes through the main hall as he jogs to catch up with Copia. “What? I’m only saying what I thought you said.” 

Copia hadn’t said any of those things to you, but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t thought them. It’s true; your eyes did shine in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and your mouth did move gracefully. Although those parts of you are attractive to him and he’d readily admit that you’re beautiful, it was the way you spoke that caught him. You seemed to forget your timidness, your reservations. You spoke freely and enthusiastically, like you’d forgotten you were speaking to Papa and instead spoke to a friend. Copia wonders if La génie holds some significance to you outside of just being an interesting sculpture. 

Copia resolves to ask you the next time he sees you, and he finds himself hoping that it’s soon.

this is all i want,,,, the INTIMACY i mean come on this is so lovely

you’re welcome, sweetness [remus lupin x reader]

He nibbled up your hand, the delicate skin of your wrist, laughing at your ticklish giggles until he was skipping your sleeve to rest his teeth at your pulse point.

“Beg me not to,” he murmured, lips touching your neck with each word.

summary: you can’t reach the top of the cupboard, but remus can. lucky you

wordcount: 2.3k

tags: it’s just smut, nsft, marauders era, young remus but you could read it as older if you liked, fem reader, maybe implied short reader but not that short lol <3

requested by anon here ! thanks anon

The wine glasses were driving you mad.

You and Remus didn’t even like wine, they’d been a gift from Marlene when you moved in together. You’d spent the whole day cleaning up for Christmas, and the only thing that remained was those damned glasses high up on top of the kitchen cupboards.

You tried reaching up on your tip toes and couldn’t quite get there. Resigned, you used both of your hands to hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter. You twisted, getting your knee under you to balance precariously when Remus cleared his throat. You flinched, sitting back down.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” you said.

“I guessed,” he said. “These?” he asked, leaning over you to grab them without any effort expended.

You let yourself sit back down, effectively sandwiched between Remus and the cupboard behind you. “Yes,” you said, eyes tracing Adam's apple. You swallowed.

“You knew I’d be home. Was it really necessary to climb up on the counter? You could’ve hurt yourself.”

“Uh-huh.”

Remus set the glasses aside.

He looked down at you, properly looked down at you, noticing the look on your face. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes. I could’ve hurt myself. Sorry,” you said, reaching a hand up to his face. He caught it before you could, pressing your fingertips to his mouth.

“You don’t have to be sorry for that, sweetness.”

“I don’t?”

“If you keep looking at me like that, you might be.”

You exhaled raggedly, pressing your shoulders back as much as they would go into the cupboard. “Like what?”

“Like you want me to eat you alive.”

“Won’t you?”

He nipped the pad of your finger and you shrieked in delight.

“No, Rem, not the biting!”

He nibbled up your hand, the delicate skin of your wrist, laughing at your ticklish giggles until he was skipping your sleeve to rest his teeth at your pulse point.

“Beg me not to,” he murmured, lips touching your neck with each word.

“Please don’t,” you whispered, meaning to say please do.

He bit down anyway. You laughed and cried out, pretending as though this was some great suffering you must endure. He soon turned from play-biting to suckling, abusing the skin there until it was red and hurting in the best way, your hands curled into fists.

He kissed the mark he’d left behind.

He moved down to catch your mouth and you denied him. “What, you’re shy now?”

The way he said it, so taunting, like he knew every little thing you were thinking had you closing your legs on impulse around his thighs. He trailed his finger up the line of your jaw, nudging your face across to lead you to his mouth. Your lips touched and he kissed you slowly, as though savouring the taste of you, other hand dipping under the back of your shirt to leverage you closer by the small of your back.

You opened your mouth, wrapping your fingers around his forearm where he held your face in an attempt to force him closer. You were sliding down just a little, the centre of you aligning with the end of the counter so that you were touching.

You squirmed, probing with a gentle hand down between you to feel the thick fabric of his trousers, his hardening dick. You palmed him, overjoyed at the catch in his breath. He broke the kiss to spite you, looking down between you at your working hand.

He let out a slow breath between his teeth. You were light-fingered, only gracing him, never enough to provide what he wanted. You moved to the waist of his trousers, unbuttoned and unzipped them with nimble fingers to pause at the waistband of his boxers. You traced the edge, slipped one finger underneath to flick the elastic against his skin.

He put his hand over yours and guided it down until your hand was covering his dick. You shifted, using your thumb to caress the underside. He twitched and proceeded to jerk himself off with your hand in between like a buffer whilst you watched with an open mouth, tightening and untightening your grip when the mood struck you.

A pearl of precum beaded at the top of his dick. You took your hand from his grip to rub your index finger against it, feeling your own desire pooling against the silk of your underwear, your abdomen growing hotter with the seconds.

You stuck your tongue out half an inch and brought your finger to your mouth, licking the pearlescence away.

Remus watched, his eyes closing just enough that his dark eyelashes were almost touching. He was so lovely. You straightened out to kiss his cheek.

“Where’d you want me, handsome?”

“Why not here?”

“You’re tall but not that tall.”

“The table, then?” he asked, hardly giving you time to agree before he was lifting you up to lay you out on the kitchen table. It was sturdy enough to take your weight. You wriggled back until your knees were supported, lifting your hips to shrug off your trousers. Remus helped work them over your ankles.

He pressed a single digit to the crease of your cunt, underwear already stuck there by the wetness that had spread from all the moving around. You gasped, widening the gap between your thighs to grant him proper access. You pulled your shirt over your head while he was busy, too distracted to realise he’d lined himself up.

He rubbed the head of his dick against the damp fabric, laughing whilst you moaned. You hurried to remove them, feeling them slip down and off one ankle to hang around the other, inches from the ground.

Remus spread you open with one hand, cooing. “You have the prettiest cunt.”

You felt instantly scandalised at his comment, covering yourself up with one thigh. He pushed you open again, leaning down to kiss your stomach, the top of your cunt, the bud of your clit.

“Remus,” you complained, flushed.

He retreated, looking mildly apologetic, moreso eager. He found your opening, pushing a finger inside so slowly it made you whimper. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to watch his own ministrations or your face, moving swiftly between the two. A second finger joined the first, his ring and middle finger working in tandem to stretch you out, spreading to form a V shape inside you.

“Please, Remus,” you said.

“You ready?” he asked, pulling his fingers out.

“Yes.”

The mess of you that was on his hand transferred to the skin of your thighs as he pulled your body down to the edge of the table, cunt right against his hard cock. He rubbed up against you without pushing in, palms braced on the backs of your thighs to keep your centre bared open.

Your fingers caught the edge of his shirt, not quite close enough to pull it up and off of him. He did as you wanted in a swift motion so that you were both naked and breathing hard.

“You’re so fucking lovely,” he said, hair tousled, eyes bright, hands gentle on your skin.

“Please,” was all you could manage, overwhelmed and eager, spurred by the subtle movement of him sliding up into your core.

He loosed go of one leg to guide himself into you, his lips parting at the very moment he pushed into you. He made a sound not far from a laugh, grabbing a hold of your leg again to pull you up and onto his dick. Your eyes closed, head moving to one side to rest on the table, lips pressed together hard to stop the sound you were going to make.

“Now that’s just not fair,” Remus said, hand sliding between your cheek and the wood of the table. He was pressing in, almost to the hilt.

You looked at him through bleary eyes.

“Alright?”

“Yeah,” you breathed.

“Good,” he said, pulling out. He pushed in again, again, the sound echoing around the empty kitchen again. It was all you could focus on, the sound of his hips brushing yours, his shaky intake of breath, how the slick between you was dripping down your thighs.

He snapped his hips forward and you saw stars, hand moving to where your bodies met in reaction, almost like you would push him away despite that being the last thing in the world you wanted. He grabbed your hand, pressing it to the back of your thigh. You took the cue, holding your leg up.

His now unoccupied hand explored your cunt, pulling you open where he was thrusting into you with a life-ruining smile on his face. He gasped, moving his hand to push circles into your clit like he knew you liked with two fingers, shaking his head when you wiggled away from his touch.

After a moment it tickled less and you stopped moving, relaxing under his touch.

His pace increased and with it the amount of force, your whole body moving up and down the table with each thrust. He encouraged you up onto your elbows to wrap his arm around your shoulder blades, bringing your face into his chest. He rutted into you and you felt each one as though it were in your stomach, the constant thud thud thud impossible to recover from. You wrapped your arms around him from under his armpits, pushing your hips down in sloppy circles.

You realised you’d been making a small sound every time he pulled out, like a loss, and tried to stop.

“Come on, dove, let me hear you,” he pleaded.

You shook your head. He slowed down, staying inside you to fuck little bursts that made you feel like you might burst yourself. “Ah, Remus-“

“That’s the sound,” he murmured, mouth close to your ear.

You obliged him mostly because you couldn’t control yourself. He let you drop back down onto the flat of the table, let your legs fall down so that they were dangling an inch from the ground . When he thrusted in it felt different, tighter.

You let you head lol back, let his praises wash over you as he reshaped you around him. “So fucking good for me,” he said, concentrating his efforts on your clit, thrusting disjointedly.

Encouraged by your embarrassing gasps for air, he thrust down so that you could feel the line of his head in your walls, feel it hit the barrier at the deepest part of you. Your body rocked against the table, wood creaking dangerously.

You could feel your approaching climax like white noise that suddenly grew louder, coil tightening in your core until white hot sparks had you breathless, a high strung mutter of “oh, god,” escaping you without warning.

You tightened around him, forcing him to stop. He hung his head at the feeling, the pseudo-contractions. When he did move again the drag made you feel as though you could cry, shuddering.

You clambered up into a sitting position and pushed his chest up. “Sit in the chair,” you said. He did as you asked, torso clammy with sweat, dick glistening with shared wetness and twitching at the sudden lack of contact. You hopped down off the table and climbed into his laps, legs on either side of him.

Euphoria moved you as you slid onto him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. His head tilted back, rolled. You would’ve laughed in pleasure that he was so undone by you if you weren’t so thoroughly turned on by him. You kissed the exposed skin of his neck instead, hoping to return the love bite he’d gifted you earlier while you rode him.

His hands ran the length of your torso, crossing them until you were as tight to him as you could be. You could feel his chest expand when he breathed.

Your mouth popped off of his neck. He had indulged you, let you do what you liked, but as soon as you finished he was kissing you, rolling his hips up into you. Your hair was falling in his face and he didn’t care, fingertips pressing that little bit harder into your spine so you knew he was close.

You clenched down on him and pulled up slowly.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck. Again dove, please.” His voice was rough.

You did as he asked before letting yourself fall down into him as far as you could, feeling like he might split you open, to wiggle and grind your hips into his as hard as you could. You babbled into his skin. “Gonna cum in me? Fill me up, please, please Rem, please.”

He groaned, pressing your face into the side of his neck and squeezing you tight as he finally came, spurting up into you, hips lifting to meet you. You sighed happily, dotting little kisses all over him as he rode it out, not bothering to unseat yourself, content to let him twitch and shake inside you.

He let you out of the security of his arms to assess your face, gather your hair and throw it over one shoulder. “Sorry, I gripped you too tight,” he apologised, hand at your neck.

“That’s okay,” you grinned at him, bringing both hands up to cradle his face adoringly. “Thanks for getting those glasses down for me.”

“You’re welcome, sweetness.”

<3

my masterlist

tag club :3:

marauders tag list @marimorena06 @glimmering-darling-dolly @siriuslystfu @thatblackravenclaw @etneufaled @thatonecomfyjumper @lupinlust @touchdeprivedwh0re @vi0letblu3s

if you want to be added or removed please let me know, thank u tag club!

this is real and i'm not accepting to believe otherwise

i have nothing to say except i’m coping !

LMFAO BRO

If texting were a thing in the 1890s pt 5

Sebastian: do you love me Ominis: ????? Ominis: was that meant for MC Sebastian: no it was meant for you Sebastian: MC and Poppy say they love each other all of the time and you NEVER say you love me Sebastian: aren't we best friends? Sebastian: haven't i known you for years? Sebastian: why don't you love me Ominis: why does it matter Sebastian: wow so that's how much i mean to you Sebastian: i'll remember this

Sebastian: MC do you love me MC: uhhh like in what way Sebastian: as a friend Sebastian: the way you love Poppy MC: oh then no. not like that. Sebastian: wtf do you all hate me???

Sebastian: we're settling this rn Sebastian: so neither of you love me huh Ominis: did i say i don't love you??? i don't think those words came out of my mouth Sebastian: YOU BASICALLY DID YES MC: i never said i didn't love you. i just said i don't love you the way that i love Poppy. big difference there I think Sebastian: so you DO love me? MC: can we talk about this outside of the group chat with Ominis pls Sebastian: ?????? do you hate him MC: no wtf Sebastian: then why can't he be here MC: ugh seb pls Ominis: i'm not saying it sorry Ominis: i hate verbalizing love Ominis: makes my stomach hurt Ominis: makes my body cringe Ominis: makes me wanna throw up MC: you weren't hugged enough as a child Ominis: lol ur right Sebastian: so that's it???? you won't say it and MC won't say it in a group with you either. because she hates you. thanks a lot Ominis. MC: that's actually not true MC: he's my best friend. i love you Ominis. Ominis: love you too Sebastian: WTF???????

Disarmed | Bucky Barnes x Reader

After the events of the GOTG holiday special, I think we all know where this came from and where it’s going…

I have not been able to stop thinking about how this actually went down for Bucky. And it makes me sad.

Warnings: violence, injuries, pain, blood, Bucky’s arm, home invasion

No answer followed your knocking. Just silence. No movement from inside the apartment. 

Another round of knocks echoed through the quiet hall. Again, silence. 

“Buck? It’s me…”

You leaned against the door, listening for any sign of life. And finally, soft steps made their way in your direction. A deep sigh came from behind the wood. 

Checking in on Bucky like this always made you feel like a bit of a bother. You never wanted to irritate him or make him feel like a child. But you liked knowing he was alright. And he never seemed to mind. He even welcomed your unannounced drop-ins. Bucky liked knowing that someone- anyone- cared about him. He just couldn’t believe you, of all people, were that ‘someone’. 

The metallic rattling sound of Bucky undoing his door’s chain brought a smile to your face. Sure, he’d gone radio silent. He’d ignored your texts and calls all day and skipped out on your lunch plans. But he had a lot on his plate. And even as he worked through his issues and eliminated some of his mental load, more problems often materialized out of nowhere. And so, you granted him grace. You didn’t chastise him or nag him for drawing in on himself. He was doing his very best, and you only wanted to help.

Bucky tentatively pulled open the door a sliver, granting you a view of only half his body. He looked tired, dejected. But he smiled when he saw you- he couldn’t help it. “Hey, doll…” 

“Hey, I was-” You noticed a large scrape running the length of his arm, a bruise resting below his eye. “Woah- what happened? I just saw you yesterday…” Anxiety flooded your system- he was okay less than twenty-four hours ago. How did this happen? And when? 

Keep reading

I randomly started thinking about this fic again after like at least two years and I'm re-obsessed and couldn't find it in my reposts so I'm re blogging it again :)))))))

Just One Kiss Masterlist

(photos not mine, storyboard very much mine)

Series Summary: Bucky Barnes has been chasing after you since he was ten years old, but you’re determined not to give in. How long can you hold out when all he’s asking for is just one kiss? (40′s happy ending AU)

Series Warnings: Language, excessive amount of fluff, slow burn, mutual pining

Part One - The Beginning

Part Two - A Walk Home

Part Three - Moving Day

Part Four - A Dance

Part Five - Girls’ Night

Part Six - The Fight

Part Seven - Christmas

Part Eight - The Question

Part Nine - First Date

Part Ten - Afternoon in the Park

Part Eleven - Last Date

Part Twelve - The Goodbye

Part Thirteen - The First Letters

Part Fourteen - Broken Silence

Part Fifteen - Finale

Epilogue Pieces

Bonus Material Masterlist

Looks Like We Made It

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: Bucky ponders whether your paths were always meant to cross, if fate was what brought you together. You offer a different perspective.

Warnings: Bucky’s POV, established relationship, fluff, flirting, sexual innuendos (no smut).

Author’s Note: Divider by @saradika-graphics

I’m back with a Bucky fic!! Finally 🥹 this instalment is part of the Love In The Woods Collection ❄️, but can absolutely be read as a standalone 🤍 hope you enjoy, friends x

Bucky loved to reminisce. 

And it wasn’t in favour of gone days or that he didn’t enjoy the present — because Bucky couldn’t adore living in the moment more if he tried. 

Rather, he held a fondness of the journey the two of you had taken over the years; how life played its funny little tricks to make sure everything turned out as it should. 

Bucky wasn’t a believer of God, didn’t hold much faith in destiny or fate or a path already paved by a higher power. 

But holy fuck when he looked at you, it was impossible to imagine that there wasn’t any kind of influence to your souls finding each other and intertwining for eternity. 

Either that, or he was a lucky man. 

The thought ricocheted in his mind as he watched you from the bar, dancing to an old 80’s song. Your moves were sloppy and you were singing the lyrics all wrong. Yet, you threw your head back and laughed without a care in the world and for a countless time, Bucky was blessed with the avid reminder of just how much he loved you. 

Of course, he was always aware of his affections. There wasn’t a day that went by where Bucky questioned himself. But in certain moments, when the full measure of his feelings came rushing in all at once, he’s knocked off kilter once more and suddenly his love for you is so overwhelming that it’s hard for him to breathe. 

Magic was laced in everything you did. From how you greeted your friends with pure happiness no matter how often you saw them to the way you sat by the fireplace, swaddled in the masses of blankets you owned, and hummed in bliss at the taste of your homemade hot chocolate. 

It was simply extraordinary and Bucky couldn’t picture a better way to describe you; there was no one else who could make the mundane feel ethereal. 

Bucky’s life may have been simple. But it was yours and his. There was nothing more remarkable than that. 

Natasha knocked against the wood of the bar, gently pulling Bucky from his stupor. “Gonna gawk at your girl all night, Barnes, or are you planning on joining her any time soon?” 

“Wife.” He corrected instantly, though his tone held no animosity, only awe. “She’s my wife, Nat.” 

Natasha chuckled, shaking her head with a grin as she refilled Bucky’s glass. “And doesn’t everyone and their mother know it.” 

Shrugging, Bucky lifted his drink to his mouth and sipped, the whiskey smoothly burning his throat. “You look at her and tell me that I shouldn’t shout it from the damn mountain tops.” 

She did so, glancing over at you with a fond smile. “Then you’re a wise man, Barnes.” 

“Maybe.” His eyes gravitated over to you. He had already looked away for too long for his own liking. “Or I’m just a really lucky fool.” 

It was that moment your gazes locked from across the room. The music played on, the patrons of the bar continued their conversations. However, the world stopped spinning on its axis for Bucky and he wasted no time in taking advantage of the little pocket of time spared for the two of you. 

Parrying his way through the sea of bodies, Bucky made his way towards you, gaze never straying, focus never drifting. He reached you by the vintage jukebox and instantly weaved his arms around your waist. 

“Hi, there,” you grinned, snaking your hands around his neck. Bucky shivered. “I was wondering when you were gonna come over.” 

Bucky bumped his nose against yours. “‘M sorry, baby. Wanted to sit back and watch you for a little while.”

“You’re forgiven.” You teased your lips over his, whispering your wicked hymns against his mouth. “It’s hard to be annoyed at you when you look this good.” 

“That right?” Your outward appreciation of him never failed to fill him with a smug confidence. Compliments from you made him feel like he was on top of the world. “The jacket workin’ for you is it, Dolly?” 

You looked up at him with hooded eyes, licking your lips. “Sure is, handsome. I wonder whether it’ll work for you tonight when it’s the only thing I have on.” 

All the blood in Bucky’s body rushed down to his lower region, hardening his cock in his jeans and weakening his knees.

He groaned, deep and raw. “Fuck—You sure know how to kill a man.” 

Creating a gun with your fingers, you pointed the barrel against Bucky’s chest and mimed a gunshot to the heart. He couldn’t help how his heart stuttered as you winked and whispered a soft boom. “I’m dangerous for the heart, Bear. Haven’t you heard?” 

That you were. “You’re the talk of the town, sweetheart. But I want you anyway.” 

And suddenly, the heated lust dialed down to a tender intimacy. Something only lovers could appreciate. “Very smooth.” 

Bucky began to guide you into a gentle sway, hugging you tighter until any space between you was diminished. “I aim to please, Wife.” 

The name rolled off his tongue so easily. He wasn’t ashamed to say he called you by it as often as he could. It could have been interpreted as a sense of ownership to others. But those who knew the two of you understood that Bucky just couldn’t get enough of reminding himself — and everyone else — that you had married him. 

A true pinch me moment. 

If your smile was anything to go by, you savoured it just as much. “You like saying that, don’t you?” 

Bucky beamed. “All the damn time, you have no idea.” 

You kissed him. A slow, drawn out peck that swallowed his stomach whole like a blizzard. He wasn’t sure if he could ever get used to that feeling; how you continued to steal his heart years on. 

“I still can’t believe you’re mine,” Bucky confessed, eyes closed with his forehead resting against yours.  

Your brows furrowed and you let out a shocked laugh. “What are you talking about, silly? Does the cabin or the ring not seal the deal enough for you?”

“‘Course it does, Dolly.” As if anything could hold a candle to the pillars of bliss that was your story. “It just doesn’t feel real sometimes, y’know? Like surely someone as amazing as you can’t have come into my life without circumstance. Someone must’ve been having a good day when they made you my soulmate.” 

“Are you drunk, Bear?” You giggled. 

“No, darlin’.” Bucky may not have been drunk, but you sure did make him feel like it. “Just wanted to let you know how much I love you.” 

You fell quiet as you slightly backed away. Eyes turned inquisitive, you observed him and Bucky felt more naked than ever. For once, he was clueless to what you were thinking and the unease had him desiring his long forgotten whiskey. 

You finally settled his nerves. “Can I ask you something, sweetie?”  

Bucky swallowed the dryness of his throat. “Anything.”

“Have you ever considered that there’s no other reason as to why I fell in love with you other than that I like you?” 

Frowning, Bucky voiced his bemusement. “Well, I would like to think so.”

You shook your head fondly. “As a person; your personality, your humour. You’re kind and sweet and thoughtful. You're not too bad on the eyes either.” Fingers tangling into the roots of his hair, you coyly pulled before soothing the sting. Your attempt at some lightheartedness before you resumed. “I enjoy spending my time with you, Bear. None of those are miraculous things. You are just you, that’s what love is.”

Though Bucky recognised you were trying to make a point, the pinnacle of your moment wasn’t reaching him. He was silent, struggling to connect the dots in his head. 

You sighed softly. “Believe it or not, I don’t need you, Bucky.” 

The revelation was one he hadn’t expected and for a minute his stomach pitted. Pouting, Bucky attempted to mask his slight hurt. “Ouch.” 

“Oh, stop it. I’m not finished, you big lug.” You smacked his chest playfully. “What I mean is that I’ll never need to rely on you to make me happy. It implies that I have no autonomy and I stay for all the wrong reasons. I’m not some estranged princess, whose only purpose it is to find a prince to save them. I’ve lived a life without you and I was content. But it’s because of you that life is much more fulfilling and it’s because of you that I spend every waking moment thankful that we met.” 

A spark of peace brightened Bucky’s eyes, the bigger picture finally revealing itself and your message becoming clear. You must have caught the subtle undertones of his relief as your lips curved into a smile. 

“I choose to love you, Bucky. I choose to be by your side every single day for the rest of our lives. And I think that’s a lot more meaningful than the idea that some greater good already decided our fate. Instead, out of any other choices we could’ve made, we chose each other.”  

You were right. You were so completely right that Bucky cursed himself for not comprehending it for himself. Because of course, what was better than the act of fortifying a bond so strong that you didn’t have to rely on anything other than knowing what you felt for each other. That your care and warmth of the other was enough to keep your relationship solid rather than depending on the notion of destiny.

No. You and Bucky had created something so stunningly special by yourselves. And he was an idiot for ever thinking anything else.  

Standing in Nat’s bar, in the middle of the dance floor by the vintage jukebox, the world came rushing back in. The music, the chatter. It was reality — tangible. And it was the outcome of your own doings. Better than anything the universe could have concocted for you. 

“In the future, when you think back to each memory of us, remember that there was nothing binding us together. I just wanted to be with you.” You booped his nose, a delicate glisten in your eyes. “Know now, I’ll want you forever.”  

Bucky cleared his throat, discreetly trying to blink away the tears that threatened to break the surface. Even so, his voice cracked with an overload of emotion. “You’re somethin’ else, Dolly.” 

You sniffled, not as willing to hide your sentiment. “Nope. Just me. And you love me all the more for it.” 

“I do,” he breathed. “God, do I fuckin’ love you, more than you could ever know.” 

“Well,” you grinned, as beautiful as always. “We’ve only got the rest of our lives for you to make sure I do.” 

Your excited squeal of laughter echoed around the bar, your friends and family cheering as Bucky swept you off your feet and gathered you into his arms. His smitten smile rang loud for everyone to see, but his soft promise was dedicated to you alone. “Then I best get makin’ good on that then, sweetheart.”