#Blooming thoughts(oil painting)

[vizuart]

[murdockparker]

Our Cottage

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: A first anniversary is nearly as important and memorable as the wedding day—if only she had remembered it. Or, at the very least, hoped her husband also forgot. Knowing her husband? Unlikely.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: fluffy fluff!! cheesy as cheese gets I'm afraid, mentions and illusions of sex but no smut (sorry babes maybe next time)

A/N: Another self indulgent fic for me myself and I. You're welcome to read it if you want I guess—I have nothing else to say about it

__

The room was too fragrant. 

Maybe it was her sensitive sense of smell that had awoken her, but something about the near ten bouquets that adorned her bedchambers led her to believe that both could be true. 

“What in the world?”

“Good morning, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree said, knocking unceremoniously on the door. “I do hate to intrude on your beauty sleep, but I was instructed to beat the drapes and I’m afraid this is the last room I have left to do.”

“No, no,” (Y/N) groaned, sitting up in bed, “I bet it’s time for me to rise anyway. Can’t sleep the day away.”

“You’re much more forgiving than Mr. Bridgerton,” Mrs. Crabtree smiled, entering further into the bedchambers. “As much as I miss the young master’s presence here at the estate, if he found out that I awoke you early,” she laughed quietly, “I reckon the mister and I would be packing our bags before nightfall.”

“Oh please,” (Y/N) peeled the covers off of her body, stretching her legs, “Benedict loves you both dearly��”

“But he loves you more,” the woman points, making good work of taking the drapes off the wall. “Why, do you think Mr. Bridgerton would purchase the same amount of flowers for me?”

She looks closer at the bouquets—all full of a different variety of blooms. Most filled with her favorites, but a handful were a collection of his favorites as well. “Why did Benedict purchase all of these flowers, anyway? It seems excessive…”

Mrs. Crabtree’s smile seemed secretive at first, fading in realization after looking Mrs. Bridgerton in the eyes. “Oh, my dear, you’re serious.”

“Benedict is usually known for romantic gestures,” (Y/N) said indifferently, “I do not recall a time he did something quite like this, though.”

“Well, I can recall a time Mr. Crabtree and I had to clean up a shocking amount of paint and a few precarious handprints across his study…”

She wished she was still in bed, wanting nothing more than to pull the covers over her bright red face. It was one of the many nights of their honeymoon—Benedict had the bright idea to try and paint with their bodies instead of brushes. She thought he had the decency to clean it all up in the morning. She thought, anyhow.

“I-I’m sorry you had to clean up such a mess,” (Y/N) said, praying the apology could transcend lifetimes. “I will be sure to let Benedict know he needs to be more careful with his oils.”

“Oh, your love keeps me young, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree said. “But as I was saying—do you really not realize why your husband had purchased so many flowers?”

“Not a clue.”

“Perhaps it isn’t my place,” Mrs. Crabtree said slowly. “But you and the master have been married for a year now.”

“Yes, yes,” (Y/N) waved. “Nearly year of marital bliss—”

“A year ago, today.”

“Today is… surely not…”

Noticing a perfectly placed card in the bouquet on her nightstand, she grabbed it and quickly sped over the looping font.

~

Dearest,

I hope these blooms find you well, I instructed the Crabtrees to be extra careful in their delivery this morn. As exquisite as the flowers may be, and I insisted on their exquisiteness, they could never hold a candle to you. Light of my life and song of my heart, how pleasantly perfect the last year has been. 

Happy anniversary, my love.

Yours forever,

B

~

Their anniversary. Their first anniversary, and she had completely forgotten about it.

“Mr. Bridgerton is still visiting Kent until this evening,” Mrs. Crabtree explained, as if the young missus didn’t know. “I’m sure that provides ample time to prepare something for his arrival, at the very least twelve hours give or take.”

“How could I have forgotten?” (Y/N) was beside herself, forgetting her anniversary? Her first anniversary? Surely it wasn’t an omen of some kind. She was holding onto his note rather tightly. “What kind of a wife am I?”

“Not a terrible one,” Mrs. Crabtree said. “Why, I recall forgetting quite a few of my anniversaries as well.”

“Not your first one though, correct?”

“Well, no—”

“We need to go to town,” (Y/N) said determinedly, flinging her closet open, eyes scanning over every sensible dress she owned. “I need to figure out a way to top whatever spectacle my husband has planned for this evening.”

“I’ll call for a carriage,” Mrs. Crabtree sighed, knowing full well that the drapes will not get finished this afternoon.

_

“If we were in London, why, I’d have hundreds of choices on what to get Benedict,” (Y/N) said, skimming through the few booths at the market. Life out in the country was agreeable, favorable even, but it was moments like these that she truly missed the convenience of living in such a populated place. “I just do not see how I am to make a gift with anything here.”

“Perhaps, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree said, carrying a basket full of fresh fruit and veg—taking every opportunity of the market while they’re out, “perhaps you should try gifting something from the heart?”

“What to wives usually get their husbands for the first anniversary?” (Y/N) asked absentmindedly, fingers running over a healthy pile of apples.

“I find that most women in your place have the pleasure of gifting news of an heir right around or before the year mark,” Mrs. Crabtree said, a hint of a smile dancing on her lips. “I don’t suppose you can surprise Mr. Bridgerton with such news?”

Her face went red. “No. Decidedly not.”

“Shame,” Mrs. Crabtree clicked, “I was rather hoping to be doting on a babe sometime soon…”

“What did you give Mr. Crabtree for your anniversary?” (Y/N) tried to change the subject, ignoring the perfect thought of a little baby with Benedict’s eyes. Perhaps they would have her nose? Her smile?

“Well,” the older woman’s face lit up, “our Henry was the best kind of gift—for me or Mr. Crabtree. I wish I could be more help in that regard, dear.”

Defeated, (Y/N) threw a handful of apples into her basket. The apples weren’t even all that good this time of year. Perhaps she could convince Mrs. Crabtree to bake a pie. Either way, a snack for the horses and their hard work this morning.  

“Please forgive me for speaking out of turn, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree spoke quietly, “but your husband loves you dearly, I am quite sure he would be most content with any gift you give him.”

“Oh I am sure he would be well suited to accept anything I made or purchased,” (Y/N) agreed. “I rather think I could sneeze on a piece of parchment and he’d write to the National Gallery to induct it into their collection.”

“He would,” Mrs. Crabtree agreed, holding back a laugh.

“Why did I marry such a thoughtful man?” (Y/N) groaned, fist clenching tighter on her basket. “I am destined to be in this predicament every year until the day I perish, aren’t I?”

“To be in a happy marriage, ma’am?”

“To have to deal with my inadequacy for gifts,” she corrected. “We are but a competitive match, after all. Chess is a blood sport with us,” (Y/N) laughed, recalling the last time they had played the game. They both were of the same mind, irritating as it were, it was as if they were playing themselves. It usually ended well regardless, with one under the other in the bedroom. “He probably has been planning something since we were wed, I’m sure. How do I ever top such a thing?”

“Might I suggest the baby narrative again?”

“Mrs. Crabtree, I know you mean it in jest, but it really sounds like my only option at this point.”

“I cannot help my need to see perfect little Bridgerton babies around the estate,” Mrs. Crabtree said cleverly. “But I also know when that day comes and you and Mr. Bridgerton do end up having children, it will be the most welcome of presents. Just, not this year, hm?”

“No,” she sighed, “not this year.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Crabtree nodded. “Perhaps we should head back to the estate?”

“I suppose,” (Y/N) sighed again, kicking a stray rock off of the path. “No use in sulking at the market when I can sulk in the comfort of my own home and await my perfect husband’s arrival with his perfect present.”

“Chin up, dear,” Mrs. Crabtree laughed, putting the baskets away in the carriage. “It’s endearing that you care so deeply about Mr. Bridgerton's gift. I’m sure whatever you land on will be just perfect.” A tease of sarcasm, a tease at her young missus. 

“You’ve made your point,” (Y/N) grumbled, hopping into the cab. “Perhaps I should just accept defeat.”

“Oh, well now that won’t do,” Mrs. Crabtree admonished playfully, closing the door behind her. The carriage begun moving home. “You yourself said you were a competitive match, and I for one would like to see Mr. Bridgerton bested. All men need to be reminded that the wife is the true head of the house from time to time.”

(Y/N) snorted. How she cared so deeply for the staff here in the country, the Crabtrees were always a breath of fresh air. “He’s well aware.”

“Remind him anyway,” Mrs. Crabtree said absentmindedly.

As if struck by lightning, Mrs. Bridgerton knew exactly what she could gift her husband.

_

Benedict was exhausted. His family’s bad timing is never lost on him, needing his immediate attention at Aubrey Hall for one reason or another. His mother’s correspondence begged him to come urgently, a matter only meant to be discussed in person rather through letters. With a heavy heart he left his wife behind, knowing he’d only be gone for a handful of days anyway, even if he would be missing the majority of their anniversary day. 

Benedict grinned wickedly. They still had plenty of the night, however.

When he originally had purchased My Cottage, he never expected to share the less-than-humble estate with anyone else, but like it was meant to be—and he had a very good reason to believe it was—(Y/N) made it her own and took to the country as well as he thought. She had even made fast friends with the Crabtrees, who, by all regards, Benedict thought of as family. 

“Mr. Bridgerton,” Mr. Crabtree greeted, nodding to the young master exiting the carriage. Anthony had sent for him with a family transport—knowing Benedict would not want to leave (Y/N) without—all the more reason for his brother to agree to come to Aubrey Hall. “Welcome home, sir.”

“Crabtree,” Benedict nodded back, jumping down to the dirt path.

“How was your family, sir?”

“Dreadful,” Benedict groaned. “Made even more taxing by the two entire days of travel there and back. Do they not realize how far Wiltshire is to Kent?”

“I am sure the viscount is well aware,” Mr. Crabtree said, treading lightly. “I am also sure that they would not have called upon you for a small matter, either.”

“No,” Benedict sighed, rolling his shoulders. The trip had been a long one, his muscles ached. “It was a good reason for my visit, but it still pained me to be from my wife for so very long, especially today.”

“Ah, well, your missus has not been herself since you left,” Mr. Crabtree said. “I am quite sure that seeing you will be a happy reunion indeed.”

“Please ensure that you and your missus find your lodgings in the cabin, this eve,” Benedict said, as if the thought just occurred to him. Asking his staff to stay at the cabin by the pond became a regular occurance, especially after his marriage. “It is my anniversary, after all.”

Mr. Crabtree smiled. “Already done, sir.”

“Excellent,” Benedict said, trying his best not to grin from ear to ear. “Have a good night.”

“You as well, sir.”

Benedict knew that dinner would be waiting for him inside, Mrs. Crabtree probably having already made his favorites. After his day of travel, he was ravenous—more for food in this very moment than anything else, but he would settle for his wife, too.

“Darling,” Benedict called out, removing his boots by the front entryway. “Your fantastic husband has returned!”

Silence.

“Darling?” He called again, only to be met with the ticking of the grand clock in the foyer. “Playing hard to get, it seems…”

A shimmering of light caught his eye. Candlelight was emitting from his study, his studio, flickering from the crack under the door. 

Odd.

“(Y/N)…?”

He opened the door cautiously, only to find his wife hunched over an easel. She had a streak of blue paint on her right cheek, a smidge of green right across the bridge of her nose. Benedict couldn’t recall the last time he saw something so endearing. 

“Oh! Benedict!” (Y/N) said, nearly jumping five feet into the air. “You’re home!”

“I am,” he laughed, shutting the door to the study. “What’re you doing in here?”

“Cooking,” she deadpanned, posing with a hand on her hip, painters pallet in the other. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“After all my begging to get you to pick up a brush, you decide to do it whilst I’m away?” He pressed his hand to his chest. “I cannot decide if I am touched or hurt.”

“It was meant to be a surprise!” (Y/N) laughed, setting the pallet down. “A gift for you.”

“A gift?” Benedict mused, walking closer to his wife. “And what did I do to deserve such a gift?”

“You married me,” she said simply, wiping her hands of any wet paint. They were still covered in a kaleidoscope of colors, but all dried down and hardly worth the effort to clean at the present moment. “A year ago today, I gather.”

“Oh yes,” Benedict said knowingly. “That is today, isn’t it?” His wife grinned up at him, looking more beautiful than the day he met her, a day he could have sworn was burned into his mind forever. 

“So I’ve been told,” (Y/N) said. “I hate to admit, but I started on this later that I would have liked, only working on it for the last eight hours—” 

“You didn’t happen to forget our anniversary, did you?” Benedict crossed his arms, his voice teasing.

“Of course not!” She lied, keeping her voice even. “You are just an impossible person to make a gift for, that is all.”

“Ah,” Benedict clicked. He did not believe her, but forgave her all in the same breath. “I see.”

“So it is not yet finished—”

“May I see it?”

“No, not yet,” (Y/N) said, turning the easel away quickly. He couldn’t have possibly seen what it was from where he was standing, anyway.

“What if…” Benedict crossed the room, carefully opening the closet in the wall. “We showed them together?” He pulled a similar sized canvas from the contents of the closet, covered in a plain white sheet. Of course he painted her something, it seemed only right. She married an artist, after all.

“Yours is going to be much better than mine,” (Y/N) said, nearly melting into the floor. “I will feel inadequate comparing our work.”

“Nonsense,” Benedict scoffed, walking back towards his wife. “They were both made with the same amount of love, I’m sure of it.”

“Perhaps…”

“Come on,” he said, nudging her arm with the corner of his canvas lovingly. “On the count of three?”

She nodded. “One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

She spun the easel around just as Benedict removed the cover from the canvas in his hand. 

Laughter filled the room.

“Oh my darling, I could kiss you,” Benedict said, voice full of love, his eyes not straying from her canvas for a moment. “Granted, I have wanted nothing more than to kiss you since I arrived—”

“Out of everything we could have painted,” (Y/N) giggled, brushing hair out of her face. “We picked the same subject?”

On both canvases laid a landscape rendition of My Cottage, one obviously more well-done than the other. Benedict’s gave a sense of perfect imperfection, something worth hanging in a gallery or museum. (Y/N)’s, while being done by the hand of a novice in only a handful of hours, gave it the sense of home, the shared feeling the couple had every day at their estate.

“We share the same mind,” Benedict surmised, setting his work on a neighboring easel, putting both side-by-side. “What a stunning collaboration on our end.”

“You jest,” (Y/N) pushed Benedict playfully. “Yours is far superior to mine. A toddler could have done better work.”

“Nonsense!” Benedict said, pulling his wife into his side, kissing her temple. “You obviously put such care into it, no matter how lopsided the left side of our home may be—”  

“Benedict—”

“It’s brilliant, my love,” Benedict sang, turning (Y/N) to look directly at him. “I couldn’t have asked for a better gift.”

“Truly?”

“Well, I fear I am still waiting on my welcome kiss…” Benedict sighed.

“Needy, needy man,” (Y/N) bubbled, rocking on her toes to reach her husband’s face, all but happy to oblige. 

After a total of four days apart, the kiss was one that was worth waiting for. Saccharine sweet and slow, it was welcoming, it was home. Much like their first kiss, Benedict idly wondered if (Y/N)’s lips were always meant to be captured in his own—as if they were quite literally made for each other. 

“Oh dear,” (Y/N) giggled, pulling away from her husband’s embrace, thumb rubbing soothing circles on his jaw. He needed to shave.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” 

“Paint,” she said, swiping her thumb across his cheek. “Entirely my fault. I’m not even sure how I got it on my face to begin with…”

“Hardly the first time,” Benedict quipped, leaning back in to kiss her once more. 

“Do you really like it?” (Y/N) asked, resting her head on his shoulder—their attention somehow turned back to the canvases. “Or are you lying to me?”

“I would never lie to you,” Benedict said. She believed him. “But, I do suppose a few more hours would boast well to the quality…”

Another playful slap to his arm. 

“Where are we to hang yours?” Her hand grazed his masterpiece. He must have finished it ages ago, hiding it away for just the right moment. “The entryway gets too much sun—” 

“What about our bedchambers?” He offered. 

“No, I want our guests to admire your work of Our Cottage,” she hummed, focusing her attention to the beautiful wreath he lovingly added to the front door. She loved adorning their door with fresh flowers, a detail he surely could have overlooked, but still included anyway. “Perhaps in the drawing room?”

“Our Cottage…” Benedict mumbled happily. “I think it’s high time we changed the name to that, don’t you agree? Seeing as it is no longer ‘my’ anything, not with you here.”

“Considering it still is not a cottage in the slightest, I have a few disagreements on that alone,” she teased. Their estate was nearly the furthest thing from a cottage, nearly a small mansion. “But yes… Our Cottage seems fitting.”

“And where will we hang your masterpiece?” Benedict pulled her tighter into his side. “Shall we hang them side-by-side? Allow our guests to see just how talented the Bridgertons can be?”

“Oh I am quite alright with stowing this away until forever,” (Y/N) laughed. “No guest needs to see this poor attempt when the true artistry falls onto you.”

“Poppycock!” Benedict dismissed. “My wife worked very hard on this, I refuse to just ‘stow it away’.”

“Well, then where do you suggest we hang it?” She said, trying not to smile, his praise flooding her senses from her head to her toes. 

“I may have a few ideas…”

_

The wondrous scent of flowers filled their home once more, something that happened more and more frequently in the summer months, when flowers of all sorts were in season. Benedict made sure he outdid himself from last year, adorning each room in their home with at least two bouquets each, rather than just a load in their bedchambers. His reasoning? They only get the once to celebrate their second anniversary, might as well make it special.

“Should we move this one?” (Y/N) asked, holding a rather large assortment in her hand. “I would hate for her to be overwhelmed by the scent…”

“Darling, she’s fine,” Benedict said, grabbing the bouquet from his wife. “But, if you insist, I shall make an exception on this room.”

“She’s a baby,” (Y/N) giggled, watching her husband clumsily run across the hall to place the bouquet in their bedchambers. “I do not think she has the capacity to admire such a thing yet.”

“We want our daughter to be well versed, do we not?” Benedict said, returning to the nursery. “Best we start her on the language of flowers as soon as we can. An educated lady is a respected lady.”

“You’re impossible,” (Y/N) grinned.

“So I’ve been told.”

“God, she’s so perfect,” she said, looking over the crib with a look one could only describe as lovestruck. “How did we manage to make such a beautiful thing?”

“You did most of the work,” Benedict said, suddenly beside her. “I only showed up the once, if I recall.”

“Oh hush,” (Y/N) leaned up against him, feeling the warmth of his body touching her own. “A perfect anniversary present.”

“She’s been quite the gift the last few months, I’ll give you that,” Benedict hummed, his fingers lazily rubbing shapes on the top of her arm. “But I’m afraid that title still falls to the gift from last year.”

Framed perfectly atop the crib of their precious baby girl was the rendition of their home, the one (Y/N) had worked so hard on a year prior. While it had looked a bit more polished after Benedict offered his wife some very well needed advice, it was still lopsided and patchy, but very much full of love. He had hung it two weeks later, after it had completely dried and framed, causing his wife to sob tears of joy on the placement. 

Their daughter was born only nine months after.

“Our Cottage,” she sighed happily.

“Our Cottage,” Benedict kissed her temple, looking down at his daughter and back at his beautiful wife. “Happy anniversary, my love.”

[dorcas4meadowes]

thinking abt daughter of aphrodite reader decorating lukes face w/ kisses in different shades of lipstick🫶🏻🫶🏻

Lipstick Smudges - Luke Castellan

Pairing - Luke Castell x Aphrodite!reader

Warnings: kisses

W/c - 1k

Masterlist (this was such a cute request <3)

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The Aphrodite sanctuary were the epitome of beauty, but it would be nothing if not for its inhabitants. Its delicate walls were adorned with oil paintings and a collection of mirrors, reflecting the children who called it home. A majority of the interior were carved marble with streaks of grey and gold, including the pillars that held up the roof that were enhanced with flourishing blossoms. The flooring harmonised with the column structures and quite adamantly noted the arrival of heels against its solid surface.

Mary Janes were the only sound that were produced when you entered your dainty cabin, your skirt lifted over your thighs with each step and your heels ceased to be heard when you drifted against the comfort of your seat. You veered towards your vanity and skimmed your fingers against the veneer, admiring the new possessions you had acquired since you last return to your cabin.

The surface was embellished with blooming tulips from you Demeter admirers, dark chocolate from your siblings - who had a fondness for the treat - and seashells from Percy who noticed you love for the sea's gift.

Grateful for your offerings, you reached for you signature perfume and allowed the subtle hints of cherries and wild flowers to enchant your clothes and those who ventured too close.

You broke of a piece of the chocolate and let you esteemed appearance to muse your glowing features, matching your movements through the mirror. 

You readjusted the ribbons that were weaved through your hair, reaching into your draws to touch up your exterior. You dusted a deep blush along your cheeks and leant for a gloss which had seemed to have additional companions. You were confused at the increase of lipsticks, but that didn't pose you from setting them on your desk.

You received plenty of tokens from unknown campers, but this gift seemed too particular to be from a stranger. You slipped the lid off of one of the cases and took no time to apply the creamy formula against your lips, astonished at the specific shade which complimented you greatly.

"Thought you might like them". 

You peeled your eyes away from your vanity and found your boyfriend leaning against the door frame, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"I do, very much, thank you" you chimed, placing your feet on the marble to float into his arms. His hands rested against the small of your back as you planted a kiss on his cheek, the mark reflecting the crease of your lips.

You never questioned where he got your gifts from, you preferred to linger in the feeling of being doted on and he took the pleasure in spoiling you. He sought out pearls and dewy lotions, sun kissed flowers and dresses which reached just above your thighs, he made you feel adored.

You were an angel, a breath of fresh air and he never once let you feel anything other than purely cherished. You were an embrace from the Elysium, the triple repeated numbers on your thighs only reinforcing the notion of your soft voice and gentle hands. He often toyed with the pleasuring thought that only his eyes would see your tattoo, that only his fingers would graze against the skin of your thighs and that the numbers were your shared secret.

"Wanna come in?" you asked to which he nodded, he would rather throw himself into Tartarus that reject an invitation to your cabin. You linked your hands together and tugged him into the room and closed the door. You pulled him towards your desk and sat him amongst the golden swirls and satin ribbons.

His hands took not time and settled around your waist, toying with the hem of your skirt while his arms swayed with your movements. He admired your busy eyes flutter around your space delicately as your reached for a lipstick behind him and applied a generous layer to your lips blending a lighter shade into the deeper tone. He was unaware of your next move, but he knew he would do anything if you asked with your lips.

Everything slowed when you draped your arms around his neck and brushed a kiss just above the previous stain, coming to a stand between his stretched legs. He felt you smile against his jaw as trailed deliberate kisses down his neck, leaving small bites along his skin.

"Can you pass me the darker one?" you questioned, your breath against him.

 He wordlessly agreed and let a hand fall from your side and retrieved you case, slipping it through your fingers. You set a warm kiss on his other cheek, and grew to cover the thin scar on his skin, a small laugh leaving your lips as you decorated your boyfriend in your kisses.

Luke relished in the feeling before it stopped. "Do you need something my love?"

You nodded mindlessly and took his prying hands off of your waist, "My shoes are digging into my heels" you replied.

You know you didn't have to say much to have Luke leant to your ankles to unstrap the attachments while your fingers found his curls, playing with a few coils as he individually lifted each heel from your feet to place them beside your desk. His head slowly rose.

"Better?"

You smiled in response and peppered a few more kisses against his dizzy face noting how his skin had been tinted by pinks and reds.

"My pretty boy" you gleamed, pulling away, his thumb wiping smudged colour off from under your lip. "Wait one moment".

"What?"

Within a few moments you had evaporated from his arms and were reaching into one of you sisters draws, you rummaged until you found an old camera and brought back to your desk and to your boyfriend. "Smile" you mused. Your fingers eagerly gripping onto the polaroid as it came from the camera, you shook it lightly and handed it to Luke.

"I hope this comes off" were his only response as he took you back in his arms and held you close.

You were an angel with a sweet smile and he were a boy with soft curls and a mind full of thoughts. You were the perfect couple, the perfect combination of wits and ambition, but nothing could truly ever be as fragile as love. It was a drug which made your world rose and trusting, but the repercussions of this action are not for you to worry about, at least not at this moment of time.

What could possibly happen? Nothing with your boyfriend at least, he wouldn’t’ even hurt a fly let alone a scorpion.

The sweet memory of your day was encapsulated in the picture which was later weaved between the space in your mirror and it's frame, highlighting your affection for the boy and subsequently and your biggest anguish.

_________

Taglist:

@prettyinsatiable @daisydark @creamsweets @auttumnsayshi @y0urm0m12 @ashr0

[gloomwitchwrites]

By the Belt (3 of 4)

Mechanic John "Soap" MacTavish x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: married couple, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series

Soap needs a distraction, and you’re going to give it to him.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // by the belt masterlist

It’s Sunday. John’s shop is closed on Sunday.

Even so, he’s always working on something, his hands unable to lean into idleness for a moment. They desire something to hold, to tinker and learn and explore.

It’s the late afternoon, and you stand in John’s personal garage located at the back of your shared property. His actual shop is nearby, just a mile or so down the road. This is sacred space. The place he goes to work on all sorts of personal projects. You are off to the right of him beside his knees. John is on his back, partially submerged beneath a lifted car.

That always makes you nervous, even though you know he’s careful about his safety. You always imagine the machine keeping the car aloft breaking, sending the vehicle down to crush him. The car itself is vintage, a special project that John has been working on for months. The paint is stripped and its mostly bare bones.

Beneath the car, you hear John sigh heavily. He rolls out from under the car, the wheels on the rolling bed squeaking as he does so. When he notices you standing there, he immediately grins.

“Hello, wife,” he croons, sitting up and draping his forearms over his bent knees.

“Hello, husband,” you reply, matching his tone. His smile widens and a warmth blooms in your cheeks. “Thought you could use a break.”

Grinning, he pushes up to standing, crossing his arms over his chest. “What kind of break?”

With boldness in your blood, you reach out and slide your fingers in the belt loops of his dirty jeans. John stumbles forward, nearly knocking into you. That grin briefly transforms into surprise before settling into a sultry smirk.

“Oh, aye. I could use a break.” He leans in, your mouths meeting in a lovingly gentle kiss that warms you right down to your toes. When he breaks apart, that lovely grin is back. “But I’d hate to dirty your pretty skin with my hands.”

You tug on his belt again, smiling. “What if I want to get dirty?”

John laughs, his stained, oiled fingers hovering just shy of your skin. “You sure, love? Because I can do that.” Your answer is a brief yank on his belt. John shakes his head. “I warned you.”

You unthread your fingers and John makes a turn-around gesture. You comply, eagerness in your bones.

“Bend yourself over that table.” John points directly in front of you. It’s a workbench. There are a few tools but they’re off to the side, leaving the middle completely open.

Stepping up to it, you place your hands flat on the surface, bending forward, the angle forcing you up on your toes. John leaves you there. Lingering. Hanging. You have no idea if he’s watching you and enjoying the sight, or if he’s simply turned around and walked right out of the garage.

But you have your answer when John’s voice floats toward you.

“Lift up your dress,” he instructs, some rasp in his tone. He does not touch you, but you feel his presence. He’s close. You swear that you can feel his heat of the backs of your thighs as you reach back with both hands and lift your sundress up to your hips.

You are exposed to him. Utterly bare.

“Fuck. You dirty girl,” croons John, and you know exactly what he sees—or rather, what he doesn’t. “All bare under there. You knew what you were doing. Didn’t you?”

You did. You absolutely did.

Still, John does not touch. You hear the soft crinkle of his jeans as he goes down on his knees behind you, his warm breath brushing lightly against your pussy as he exhales.

“Spread for me a bit.” You shift your legs apart slightly. “Good,” he praises. “Like that.”

The moment you’re in position, John’s tongue parts your pussy with a slow stroke. He begins at your clit, moves upward, dipping the tip of his tongue into your sex before retreating. His hands rest on the table on either side of you, unmoving. Staying true to his word, John isn’t dirtying your pretty skin, but doesn’t mean he might not lose some control and touch you anyway.

Really, that’s what you want after all.

Using just his tongue, John traces circles, swirls up and down your sex, moves in languid motions that have you guessing. Every nerve is burning up like a sparkler. Your husband is teasing you, and fucking enjoying that he’s doing so.

He leaves nothing untouched, nothing untasted. Whimpering, John lightly kisses your clit, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. It’s not nearly enough.

“Stay still,” he chuckles, when your hips buck with wanton irritation. “Let me finish my meal.”

John’s mouth promptly returns, and you know you’re done. Utterly done. Brain dead. Air rapidly leaving a balloon. He sucks on your clit, then penetrates you with his tongue, only to do it all again. With each, he sucks just a bit harder, bordering on painful pleasure.

The next one has you nearly coming off the table.

“I’m gonna fuck you after this, love,” groans John. “Bloody hell, you’re sweet.”

He dives in and your nails dig into the tabletop, your voice cracking as you orgasm. You feel his smile against your flesh before his mouth disappears from it, only to be replaced by the familiar sound of unzipping jeans.

The head of his cock presses at your entrance but doesn’t penetrate. John lightly guides the head back and forth through your slickness, the sound of it echoing loudly in the garage.”

“Will you be a good girl and take it?”

You nod enthusiastically, strands of your hair shifting to stick against the back of your neck. “Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

With a low moan, John starts to press in, your body not resisting, only wanting him inside. You both groan loudly as he bottoms out. Adjusting, John places his hands firmly above your head, anchoring himself.

He breathes deep, and reaches for your wrists, one at a time, trapping them against the table. John rolls his hips, thrusts lightly against you. It’s the perfect angle. You feel everything.

John increases the pace. Those light, almost shallow thrusts become languid and long, hitting deep when your bodies come together. From there, his thrusts turn sharp, a smacking pace that stings your flesh. You hardly care. John’s cock inside you is heaven, the thing just to ease the lust in your bones.

Every stroke is lovely, sending shivers of pleasure through your limbs. Your little moans become breathy exhales, your words leaving your lips silently, delivered only to the quietness of the air.

John’s head dips, his lips brushes over your exposed shoulder as he continues to thrust. “Gonna come inside you, love.”

It is not a question, and you will always say yes even if he asks.

His last few thrusts shake the table, the legs scaping against the concrete just before John holds his hips flush to yours. The groan as he finishes comes from deep within his throat. It’s a primal sound.

Glancing up, you watch as his grip on your wrists shift. He’s left some of that grease behind from working on the car on your skin. He said he wouldn’t mar it, but he couldn’t resist, and that feels like a victory.

John presses a kiss to your shoulder, and you tilt your head in his direction, seeking his gaze, even as he keeps himself inside you.

“Good break?” you murmur.

John chuckles. “Oh, aye.” He shrugs, nods toward your wrists. “But we need to get clean.”

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[s3thwrit3sstuff]

NO BUT I NEED SATORU AND SUKUNA INSIDE OF ME RIGHT NEEOOOWWWWW I CAN TAKE THEM.BOTH!!!!!

❝ Darling, won't you just plead, or should I begin to bleed? ❞

Heian Era!Sukuna Ryomen x ftm!reader x Heian Era!Gojo Satoru | alternate universe, NSFW | sub. bottom. reader (AFAB) | NOT PROOFREAD | wc: 5.4

warnings: mentions of murder, dub. con (Gojo Satoru), power imbalance, size difference, threesome, fingering, handjobs, blowjobs, anal sex, spit roasting, triple penetration, tummy bulging, improper use of RCT , marking, possessive sex, degradation, one of Sukuna's cock gets bigger out of spite, unrealistic amounts of cum, AFAB terminology (reader's genitals are referred to with cock, dick, hole, boycunt, boypussy, clit)

“Call off your dog, Sukuna,” he snarls. Sukuna’s grin stretches obscenely and he throws his head back to laugh. Satoru hopes to have hurt your ego — from the tall tales he’s heard of (Y/N), you were known to have a haughty air about you. Satoru is sorely disappointed as he hears you chuckling along with Sukuna. In any other situation, the sweet sounds of your laughter would’ve made his heart flutter. But it’s mixed with Sukuna’s cackling so intricately he shudders at the very thought.

“Come, dog.”

authors note: heed the warnings!!! * YN is described as having long hair because of the heian beauty standard (hair colour and texture not mentioned)!

When the sun sets over the horizon and tucks itself past the peaks of those great mountains, it isn’t unusual for the sounds of burning to follow. Little slivers of suns swaying on top of wax or dancing across oil. Naturally, the burning comes with smoke. Casual tantalizing curls emitting from the evershifting flame; make you wonder if the sun steams and smokes.

Does it stay in the darkness, its company being the dancers of its creation swirling with it to the crackling of its flames? Afterall, if the sun is the king of flames, it would make sense that he has his own concubines.

Your eyes pull away from the sprouts of candles at the edge of the throne. Leaning your head back, you now gaze up at the king of curses as he breathes in the flavourful, addictive, smoke from the burning tobacco and exhales it into the air. He swallows the ghostly concubines. Stealing another king’s treasure. It was like him; he was the true king, after all.

Sukuna pays you no mind. He had called you to lounge with him, had Uruame prepare you for a night of passion despite not yet touching you. He had simply tapped his lap and you filled out the space by cushioning your head on his big thigh.

He’s dressed in auspiciously white garments, the expensive material has you wondering what’s in store for the both of you. The King of Curses does not need primping. Even so, he is dressed loosely. The mouth on his stomach is visible and one of his sleeves threatens to fall from his shoulder. The hand holding the smoke pipe allows itself to be pushed while the lower pair holds onto your hips. He stares down at you, his four eyes glinting silently in question. You’re practically kneeling on his lap and you barely reach the bottom half of his lips.

“Do you recall how many people I’ve killed for their insolence?” his tone is drawled out, a tinge of amusement hidden behind the baritones. “Yes, my King. I’ve always enjoyed watching you destroy them,” your hands curl around the bulging muscles of his chest and you trace up the tattoos he has to reach his shoulders.

Sukuna takes you in. Uruame had outdone themselves. You’re dressed in his favourite colours. Nothing too restrictive, the layers were enough to entice but not to invoke annoyance. Japanese politeness and grace are interwoven into every stitch despite your less-than-innocent gaze. You’ve always had the prettiest eyes; he remembers jesting that he’d pluck them out to put into a jar just so he could see them every day. They trial the shape of your lips, painted with the shades of flower petals that bloom in the light of the heavens; he thinks the irony is all the more poetic.

Your mouth and heaven do not go hand-in-hand. It’s pure sin. From that wicked, silver, tongue to your saccharine-sweet smile to that spine-shivering laugh.

You were hell-born. Just like he was.

Gently, you slip your digits under the fabric of his shoulder and he watches you and your actions impassively. Four eyes give him more room to admire you with, whatever part of you. He imagines you mean to smooth out the — imaginary — wrinkles as your palm slips up and down his broad shoulders. Your touching earns a firm squeeze to your hips, his hands are so large they cover the entirety of your back. And when they squeeze it makes your eyes flutter. He could snap you in half with just one hand. Barely use any of his strength — Sukuna could kill you as an afterthought, toss your beautiful body aside, and never think of you again.

But he doesn’t.

“You are getting impatient, boy.” The hand on his chest could feel that rumbling. Your throne — his lap — moves and you let yourself be placed according to his will. Sukuna sets you back on his lap and splays you out with a look. You stretch out on him — if you were a cat your tail would’ve curled coyly into the air just under his chin.

“It is late, Your Grace.”

The only lights left were from the candles and pools of oil ignited.

“You are passion and flame and I’ve been prepared for you to alight.”

He thinks your flowery words are adorable but unneeded. Sukuna props his face on his knuckles as he gazes down at your exposed legs. They’re practically glowing and the scent of oil entices his cocks. The mouth on his stomach splits and his tongue curls over the teeth there - you giggle at the sight.

“You want me to fuck you,” he smirks sharply, “and I am telling you to wait, brat.”

“For what?” You prop yourself on your elbows, brows pinched. “The servant that prepared me has his head tossed into a hole and yet I can still feel his little prick inside of me.”

Taking Ryomen Sukuna’s cocks was not an easy feat. For the common man, a few fingers and oil would do. For a beast that is your king, a generous pour of oil and a man pumped with herb aphrodisiacs was needed. None of the men would ever reach completion and neither did you — Sukuna would not allow it.

They would fuck you but once Uruame felt that you were stretched enough to gape, they’d pull the man away and bring him to the courtyard. A hole would be dug and the naked man would be beheaded. His penis was tossed in there to be buried and forgotten. No one should live to tell the tale of preparing Sukuna’s precious concubine. They should be honoured they were chosen but they’ll never be seen again. Those poor bastards. At least they were useful before they died.

Mirth sparks in his eyes.

“I spoil you,” and at that, you bashfully turn away. “I deserve to be spoiled.”

A greeting comes from across the long hall. The servants next to the doors rise from their bowed positions and it slides open to reveal Uruame and a man touched by frost behind them. Uruame is kneeling, and the man is not.

“Your Grace,” Uruame bows deeper.

“The head of the Gojo clan, Gojo Satoru. As you requested.”

His skin was pale and his hair paler. You’re certain if the sun rose he’d turn all but translucent. The flicker from the candles attempts to cast shadows across his small face but they cannot darken those sky-blue eyes. Uruame had announced he was from the Gojo clan but, you’ve only ever seen such blue eyes from white men — he doesn’t appear to have been sired by one. You doubt they’d even let the head of their clan be of a mixed race.

Gojo Satoru is a freak of nature. He is a curse in the shape of a man.

“Does he not know how to bow?” Your purring tone is gone. It’s cold as Uruame’s technique. Sukuna eases it back with a deliberate squint of his eye.

“Bring him in. Then leave, Uruame.” They bow deeper (if that was even possible) and after Satoru steps through, Uruame is hidden by the sliding doors once again.

“Have you reconsidered my offer, sorcerer?” Satoru’s brows are furrowed, and his long sleeves hide his hands but from the flex of his shoulders you know they are clenched.

Rising from your throne you make your down the platform. Every step exposes your delicious thighs and legs and it is so indecent it makes Satoru’s ire falter. The sleeves of your outfit drag onto the floor and it weighs down the fabric around your shoulder; your neck and your clavicle down to the whisper of your chest has Satoru’s ears blush.

You walk in a half-circle to his right, your eyes set into a glare that disappears as slips from his eyesight. Satoru knows he should not let you get behind him but turning his head away from Sukuna seems more damning. Sukuna says nothing of your less-than-inviting nature, his silence prompting Satoru to speak. “To serve you or die?” he scowls. “The Gojo clan will not serve you, Ryomen Sukuna.” Sukuna sighs, placing his smoke pipe down as he frowns. “So you have come all the way here to waste my time and to die. So typical of you sorcerers.”

“If you wish for my clan to serve you, we require more than empty promises.” Satoru’s tone was akin to the sound of the first arrow whistling through the wind, the growl he let out being the twang of the released drawstring. Regret beads down the back of his neck as he feels the sharp edge of a curved dagger pressed against the hill of his throat.

“You ask my king to fulfill wishes? Do you think him a genie?” the shape of his teeth familiarizes themselves as his jaw clenches. The blade is a cursed object, it mewls and groans faintly; the opal colour breathing as it soaks in his blood.

“Call off your dog, Sukuna,” he snarls. Sukuna’s grin stretches obscenely and he throws his head back to laugh. Satoru hopes to have hurt your ego — from the tall tales he’s heard of (Y/N), you were known to have a haughty air about you. Satoru is sorely disappointed as he hears you chuckling along with Sukuna. In any other situation, the sweet sounds of your laughter would’ve made his heart flutter. But it’s mixed with Sukuna’s cackling so intricately he shudders at the very thought.

“Come, dog.”

With a curl of a finger, Satoru is able to breathe. You make your way to Sukuna, kneeling as you reach the top of the platform and crawl right onto his lap. The dagger slipped under the fabric around your waist.

“You are certainly an arrogant man, sorcerer. Your haughty clans fail to have taught you any diplomatic manners.”

“Diplomatic?” Satoru barks out a laugh. You narrow your eyes, bemused. “You’re a tyrant, King of Curses! The villages you’ve burned to the ground, the clans you’ve wiped out! Diplomacy? You’re taking the piss!”

Sukuna spots the curls of your lips and when glance up at him, he concurs that you do deserve to be spoiled because the two of you share the same thoughts.

This Satoru, this stubborn man; he would make a fine collection for both of you if he could survive a night.

“You require more than my word to serve me? Very well.” The nudging from your side earns him a purr and with your back turned to Satoru, you shed the fabrics. Blue eyes watch in confusion as they watch you kneel and push away the clothes from Sukuna’s shoulder.

“My darling dog has been hungry. He’s insatiable, every part of him.” One of his hands holds your chin and turns it so Satoru has a clear view of your side profile with your lips pushed forward.

“From his painted lips.”

Another hand slips down the waist of your outfit and it gives way to show the small of your back. Nearly the entirety of your back is marked from Sukuna’s lips, teeth, nails, and hands like a canvas of artwork.

“To his tight holes. You cannot see it, sorcerer, but he is clenching around the tip of my finger. Hungry.”

The hilt of your dagger is askew but neither paid it any mind. There’s more rustling and you’re almost completely naked as you obediently let yourself be displayed.

“Ah!” The wet squelch of a tongue makes your back straighten and your fingers spasm as they tighten their hold on Sukuna’s robes.

“His useless cock is already leaking.”

“What are you asking of me, Sukuna?” Satoru speaks through gritted teeth. But his skin is so pale it betrays his weak resolve. Those reddened cheeks and ears, the racing heartbeat; Sukuna doesn’t need four eyes to know that Satoru’s dick was interested in whatever is being offered.

“Fuck my darling boy and your family will not be cursed by me while they serve me, Satoru.”

“W — What?” he sputters. Meanwhile, you’re all but melting as the sounds continue. He sees your ass trembling as your expression melts in pleasure.

Sukuna arches a pointed brow as his hand tugs the clothes of your body and it flutters onto the ground in a fancy display. There you are. Naked as the day you were born. Satoru should look away; but how does one pull their sights away from a body carved by the devil? Angelic in all the wrong ways, temptation sticks to your skin like perfume and Satoru is not a saint but he feels as though a single touch would damn him. In fact, just looking at you is dangerous.

“Are you a virgin? Or is my concubine not to your taste?”

Your nail digs through Sukuna’s shoulder. So his large tongue sweeps below your drenched cunt to soothe your irritation.

“I warn you to answer that question with caution, Gojo Satoru,” you hiss out.

“Perhaps he’s not a fan of men,” Sukuna reasons. “Common men perhaps. Are you calling me common, My King?” the squelching sound of your nails digging in makes streams of crimson slip down Sukuna’s skin and the sight of it has Satoru gasping (again).

“Put your claws away, boy. As if I would sink my cock into a common man. No, I take you like a proper bitch. This body may be different, but this tight hole?”

Satoru watches a tongue appear from Sukuna’s palm. The pink muscle pushes in and the rim of your asshole easily gives in, back arching further to assist. "And this?" Satoru sees the dexterous muscle from his stomach curl. A tongue larger than any he's ever seen, squirming its way inside of you from the front, and it makes you gasp airily in pleasure as it eagerly wriggles deeper.

“A body made to be fucked, to be left leaking with cum for days. And it is rare, Satoru, for it to leak with cum that isn’t mine.”

Satoru takes a tentative step back, shame coursing through him as he tears his eyes down.

“This is — This is dishonorable — “

“If you walk through that door, Satoru, you’ve sealed the fate of your clan to be erased forever.”

You moan as his tongue grows longer and those bloody fingers wrap around Sukuna’s thick neck. The mask on Sukuna’s face, the eyes on it, narrow the tiniest bit.

“And you’d offend my concubine greatly. He’ll enjoy murdering each and every one of your clan members for the disrespect.”

The candles shudder as the wind blows through the slits of the wood. It causes the flames to dance and the shame Satoru is experiencing to be swallowed down. He is frozen there for a moment, your sighs of pleasure like a siren call to hell. Sukuna’s great tongue hides behind a row of teeth, the grin most likely identical to the one he wears on his face, as Satoru approaches the steps of the platform.

“Come, Gojo Satoru.”

Climbing up the stairs was akin to walking to the gates of hell. Satoru can see the sheen of sweat on the back of your neck. He wonders if every part of tastes like heaven. Your tears, your slick, your sweat, your cum, your blood. Without even laying your hand on him once and you've already destroyed him, (Y/N).

"Kneel." Sukuna's words are a vow. An agreement. If Satoru's knees had settled onto the wooden floor, he'd have sealed the fate of his entire clan to serve under Ryomen Sukuna. His pupils quake, taking a sharp intake of breath as he tries to steady his heart.

Your hands invade his vision. The palms of Sukuna's concubine are soaked in crimson — was that why they were so soft? Your nails still have Sukuna's blood and the feeling makes spiders crawl up his spine.

"Gooseflesh rippling?" You whisper as your naked body finally earns his focus. You're in a puddle of your clothes, kneeling before him. Tilting your head, you surge upwards and press your forehead with his. His eyes may be haunting but yours are unforgettable.

It reminds him of the first time he'd ever peered into the darkness of the woods behind his clan's estate. How the light never reaches past the woodline. The silence. The way his brain made up shapes and faces and beings and curses and you.

In that memory, there you are. Between the mighty trees, what little light did reach you making your eyes reflect it back; as if you didn't have a soul yourself and all you can do is pretend.

"Kneel, boy." You say and Satoru's knees buckle.

The thud that resounds was final. Your grin is terrifying. Sukuna looms over your shoulder and his eyes are glowing with excitement.

Gojo Satoru had made a deal with two devils.

"Good sorcerer," your face comes closer and your lips acquaintances themselves with his. They're pillowy and soft. Blood rushes south despite Satoru's conflicted feelings. If he pretends you're not who you are, perhaps he can delude himself into thinking you're someone he loved; a man he wishes to devour; Violet eyes, black hair, upturned eyes with a voice that'd make angels sigh.

That image disappears as he feels your fingers wrap around his throat. You say nothing. But the second Satoru's eyes shoot open, he sees the unamused expression on your face.

"Now, don't get yourself killed so early on in the night, Satoru," Sukuna muses out. His lower hand reaches to grasp the nape of your neck and it squeezes hard enough for Satoru to hear your bones wheeze under pressure.

"Come here, darling." You turn away with a huff.

Satoru doesn't know what to do with himself so he is content to watch as you undress Sukuna. The King of Curses watches, enraptured by your movement as his torso is now bare of anything. The mouth on his stomach, that monstrous tongue, wets your chest and you simply shudder but continue your task.

"My concubine can be rather pouty when he isn't paid attention to. Best to not let your mind wander, Satoru."

You scowl, bending over to mouth at Sukuna's crotch as he holds the back of your head. The sight of your dripping cunt and ass has Satoru's cock rising to attention.

"How dare he even do so. I'll slice his cock off," Sukuna thinks the sight would be amusing but he simply guides your head lower.

There were rumours of Ryomen Sukuna's endowment.

If he had another pair of everything, did that mean his cock was the same?

Satoru wonders how you aren't split in half as he sees Sukuna's cocks twitching in your grasp. They're thick and heavy, bumping into each other as they perk up from your attention. The tip of it is nearly bright red, angry, and demanding a hole to sink into. The veins on it must make you keen often because you tongue at them with a pleased grin.

"Satoru." He tears his eyes away from the sight. Sukuna smiles at him, ignoring your pleased groans as you take the tip of his cock in your mouth while your hand strokes over the other.

"Feast, Satoru."

The command is so simple yet so vague. Satoru can't quite comprehend it. So he stares at Sukuna then at you, kneeling before your King with the most obscene noises coming from your mouth. There was no way the phallus could even comfortably rest on your tongue, each the length of your face and as thick as your wrist.

It must be uncomfortable. He must have other concubines for this exact reason. There was simply no way you alone could please him.

Your head rises from between your shoulders, and a long stroke from the base to the tip of his cock has Sukuna exhaling through his nose; he sees you bob up and then down. A minute gagging noise slips through but then you widen your knees and somehow you dip your head low.

"That's it, darling. Take your fill."

He wasn't lying when he said you were greedy. Satoru pushes himself to stand and Sukuna would usually kill men for not bowing their heads to the floor but he wants to see what the white-haired man intends to do.

Cheeks sucked in, eyebrows sloped delicately as your jaw strains to keep itself intact. Sukuna is well-endowed, big, humongous, huge — whatever other synonym you'd use to describe big cock(s). You feel someone move your bangs out of the way.

"He's halfway down..." Satoru had seen a lot in his life. From the fantastical curse techniques of other sorcerers to the nightmare-inducing curses, the wealth from his clan members also assists the opulence he's known since birth. The whores his uncles had given to him as a gift for his birthday — the array of positions they knew, of how willing they were to do whatever he asked with a grin even if it involved humiliating themselves or him.

But he'd never seen a man as handsome as you take such a monstrous dick in his mouth with no effort. The stretch of your lips, the smear of the red pigment around it, and on Sukuna's cock.

"Beautiful, isn't he?" Sukuna boasts. "Usually, the other concubines look like fishes speared on a pike when they take me into their mouths." Your eyes open in a glare and Satoru placates it by stroking your temple with his thumb.

"Not even a mention?" Satoru's inquiry earns a chuckle from Sukuna. "No. He will not allow it, if I wasn't so far down his mouth I'm sure he would've pulled away to complain." The hand on your head is not Sukuna's but it holds you firmly in place.

"How do you even fuck the other concubines?" Satoru wonders.

"(Y/N) usually slaughters them a week after I've brought them in." Satoru's shock weakens his hold, so you pull away with a cough and frown deeply up at the two men.

"I do not slaughter them! They just so happened to have ill-fated ends." You squeeze his cock one more time before turning your attention to his lower half, kissing it sweetly on its head before smearing his precum all over your lips, the smell of it making your cheeks warmer than it already was.

Truly, (Y/N). You didn't need to play this part of a proper highborn so astutely. Even if you beheaded the last concubine he had in front of him instead of summoning a curse to slam into it, resulting in the palanquin and the concubine within it along with her attending ladies being thrown off a cliff and mangled beyond words; he wouldn't have punished you.

It was your right to exorcise whoever you needed to so long as it didn't interfere with Sukuna's will. It pleased him to make you bridled with rage to result in murder, why wouldn't it? The blood that painted you from your head to your toes. It cannot all be his doing.

His dearest concubine, you mustn't get queasy so quickly. Show him the lines you'll cross to ensure he remains yours. Kill whoever you please, maim the sorcerers who take him away from you, burn down villages, and bask in their cries and their pain with him.

Hide your giggles behind your silk sleeves if you must but don't you dare hide your amusement of carnage from him; command curses to tear men apart and slice women to shreds. Everything is yours, (Y/N). Everything you wish for, everything you ask for, everything you need, and everything you didn't even think you required.

The world is yours.

"Of course," he grins and the tongue from his stomach reaches out to lick your cheek.

"Astonishing," Satoru mutters. Concubines killing each other aren't anything new though he sincerely doubts the others truly understood what they were getting into when they became Sukuna's. "Thank you," you reply after combing your hair back to take his other cock in your mouth.

Satoru feels overdressed and Sukuna was not in the business of doing that task for him. So he sheds his layers, the symbols of crane wings embroidered in the sleeves shimmer gloriously up at him. Satoru folds them over to hide it.

He will need to forget about everything else tonight. If he wishes to remain sane or tolerate the both of you — he will use his other head to guide him.

"Milky skin." You purr from Sukuna's lap. "Pale as the moon. Eyes as blue as the sky. I would kill you if you lived in this palace."

Satoru scoffs, standing with his cock twitching in the cool breeze.

"How fortunate for the both of us that I don't live here then." He hisses as your grasp onto his semi-hard dick.

"Even the hairs here are white. What a pretty cock." The feeling of your velvet tongue on his tip makes his breath shudder. It's nowhere close to Sukuna's length —or girth —but that doesn't cause him disappointment. He's longer than average, his cockhead poking the back of your throat, and veiny, mainly on his sides.

"Good weight," he moans as your lips trace the prominent veins, painting his blushing cock with your marks. Satoru doesn't understand what you want to him to say to the comment, a thank you seemed unbecoming and anything else would be odd. So he says nothing and just caresses your jaw to guide your mouth forward.

"Take your fill, (Y/N)."

The position you're in is not entirely new. You've taken Uraume and Sukuna together before. Witt their sex is in your mouth while your King takes you from behind. Ah, what fond memories. You really should invite the ever-so-loyal servant into your bed once again.

What a talented mouth they had. Such vigor to please you, adoration pouring from them with every flick of their tongue.

Sukuna is still a possessive lover. That did not change. But he does find amusement in the way you ache for Uraume's body and something about the way Uraume strokes themselves to completion as they watch the two of you fuels him with pride.

But enough about your lovely Uraume.

Satoru had placed his robes beneath your knees and so you suck in your cheeks as thanks as you suck on his length. Your hands were on his knee and his fingers held a fistful of your hair. The silken cloth beneath you makes you inch forward with each thrust from Sukuna.

"The way he's stretched around me. Satoru, I'll save his other hole for you to fuck, this one is all mine," his hips are flushed against your ass. He can feel your cunt attempting to push him out, resisting the stretch that would've killed others, as cursed energy flows through your body. It would ebb away, the need to heal yourself, as your body gets used to his size but fuck does it make Sukuna grin absolutely monstrous at the very fact you even need to do so.

You can't blame him. It's not like he'd never hurt you in any way you didn't like.

Your thighs are clenched tightly around his other cock. Luscious thighs slicked with oil that had been conveniently placed nearby and making sounds almost as obscenely as your filled cunt.

Satoru's jaw is loose. Throaty groans and appreciative moans rewarding your efforts as your nose presses against the patch of pubic hair he has. Diamonds line your waterline as you breathe through your nose, the back of your throat squeezing around Satoru's cock.

"Fuck!" He pulls you away, stroking himself furiously with one hand and holding your head in the other. The expression on your face should be preserved forever, Satoru thinks. So that future men will wish to be born in the same era as you.

His brows furrow in annoyance at how ethereal you look.

You should look whorish — which you do! But there's something unreal about it. Picture perfect, an embodiment of lust, depravity that beckons with that wet tongue and wetter eyes.

"S'kuna! Oh, yes, yes — Darling, you fill me so well!" Your voice is hoarse as you're jostled back and forth, nails leaving claw marks on the wooden floors. Satoru lets go of your head and you stretch out like a cat, the top half melting as your back arches into a perfect position.

Sukuna kneads at the mounds of your ass, splitting it apart to watch your asshole winking back at him while he holds your waist. It's brutal how he fucks you. Satoru stands and backs away to watch, his breath coming out in barely there white puffs and his heartbeat drumming through his ears.

"Fuh - fuck! Mpfh! Ngh — Your cocks are beautiful, they fill me so well," He tightens his hold on you and the moan you let out as he moves your body makes Satoru's cum bead on his tip.

Sukuna chuckles as he sees Satoru cursing and wiping away his shame. "You've never been in a room where people aren't salivating over you have you, sorcerer?" Satoru frowns pointedly at his condescending tone.

"Hah! I feel you in my stomach — You're — !"

"Must you belittle me any chance you get? Are you trying to compensate for something?" Satoru retorts. It makes Sukuna bark out a laugh. Strong biceps curl and flex as he rights your upper half so that it's pressed to his front.

On display for Satoru with Sukuna's greediest mouth curling around your chest to tease your chest.

"Compensate, is that the word you used?"

Between your slicked thighs, his cock spears through them in tandem with the one inside you. Satoru's eyes widen at the sight of the prominent bump poking from your stomach. The fact that you aren't dead is a clear testament to your skills — both in bed and in battle.

"I've heard no one has ever cut his skin," Satoru kneels again in front of you, nose curling at the dexterous muscle that flicks at his chin. "I know Reverse Curse Technique is a useful skill to have...but I never thought you'd be so perverse to use it so shamelessly."

"Get off your high horse, S — Mfh! That feel s'good — Satoru!"

"Wrong name," Sukuna growls near your ear. It manages to split Satoru's lips into a smirk as he cups your chest in each hand. It's slicked with saliva and he ignores the disgust he feels as he locks his lips with yours. Sweet as ever, despite the saltiness that lingers on your tongue.

"If his cunt is yours," Satoru pants out between kissing you. His thumb tweaking your nipples between his index, his cock hanging heavily as it fills up once again.

"Then he'll have to face away. I'll take his ass," he bites down on your lower lip. The sensation of his teeth and Sukuna's rough palms tightening their grip on you have you squealing in pleasure. His hips pause, it gives you enough time to form words while the men stare each other down for a second.

Sukuna was beginning to miss Uraume's presence. They never glared at him with open animosity, unadulterated wanting and greedily claiming your chest with a grip that'd leave bruises.

The shadows of a scowl crossed his face. Insolent little brat. But so fucking gorgeous. Strong too, from what he's heard.

He wasn't anywhere near as beautiful or strong as you but Sukuna has always had a penchant for these types. No one walks all over him. But he does find it amusing when pretty faces are so defiant — or when their heads are staked on a pike with crows plucking their eyes out.

You're breath shudders as Sukuna pulls you off his cock, leaning onto Satoru. He wraps his arms around you, eyelids fluttering at the feeling of your wet lips tracing his jaw while your body is all but boneless.

He inhales sharply as you grab his cock. "Thankfully, you're not — hah — completely incompetent in the sack. Impressive stamina, sorcerer." That, he could say thank you too. So he does.

Satoru is kind as he maneuvers you to face your beloved. Was that irritation in his chest at how excitedly you allowed Sukuna to claim your lips? Gods, no.

"Get closer," you said as you glanced at him over your shoulder. "If the both of you are going to fuck me, get closer."

What was it that Sukuna told him to do again?

Feast?

You can't tell where your pleasure begins or ends. Every nerve was set aflame and you weren't even sure if your body could've survived this if it weren't for your cursed energy.

Because from behind you, Satoru's thick member is spearing you again and again with Sukuna's. The idea of Satoru's cock inside of you seemed to have upset him enough to want to...accompany it in its endeavors. The sorcerer is hypnotized by the way your rim furls and unfurls on his blushing dick, how it greedily squeezes down every time he hits home and bumps his cockhead with Sukuna's. Even though their cum was creating a frothy ring of white at his base — he seems intent on pumping you with more and more and more. Marking your insides as white as his hair. He spreads your cheeks apart, groaning each time he does, and fuck, he's filthy as he whispers into your ear.

"You take us so fucking well. Like a proper whore, huh?"

"I'm not — I'm not a whore, you —"

Then, at the front, Sukuna's displeasure at Satoru's brazen attitude was taken out on your cunt. Still, you take all of him in because what concubine would you be if you couldn't? Your pride was on the line and you'd rather claw your own eyes out than let it be broken down.

His cock was inside of your cunt. You were more than pleased.

Sukuna's face floats above yours, his hands gripping everywhere while Satoru was chased off to just handle your ass. Though even then, he'd grab a handful of each cheek just to leave bitemarks on it — and annoy Satoru.

"Look at you," he groans out. His vermillion eyes are hooded with lust as he cradles your face.

You were perfection. A filthy little demon made to accompany him until the end of time. Your brows sloped so prettily, eyes hazy and lashes clumped together with tear streaks down your face. Lips red and bruised, neck littered with angry and dark marks.

"My King, my beloved, I — Oh, fuck, I'm close, I'm close," you whimper for what felt like the 5th time that night alone.

Why you were cumming? You weren't even sure.

The aching stretch of both holes as your brain is wrecked with too much pleasure is causing your eyes to roll to the back of your head. Your hands spasm from within one of Sukuna's hands and your whole body shakes as you feel yourself cum again.

"Ah, shit!" Satoru groans as he pulls out, frowning as cum follows his departure and drops onto the floor. "You're just as awful as he is," he hisses out to Sukuna as he glares at the way the cock he'd been sharing your ass with stopped growing. Snug as a bug as it plugged you up. Satoru had already been close, with a few more thrusts he'd be filling you up once again. Then, what he thought was you tightening up turned out to be Sukuna making his cock so big it made the fit painful.

Fucking asshole.

"If I was as awful as he was, I would've cleaved the top of your head off, Gojo." Sukuna grabs your ass and your wanton mewl makes both men twitch.

His thrusting picks up its speed and you fight back his hold to wrap your arms around his neck. Sukuna allows it. He's close. You can tell. He's close and like a child, he decides he's the only one allowed to flood your insides with his cum, overflow your body until it forgets the taste of Gojo Satoru's.

"Sukuna, Sukuna — My lover, my beloved," you manage a dopey grin as you messily mould your lips together.

"Cum with me, Sukuna."

He's wonderfully loud when he does. Violent too. His nails digging into your waist and ass while he thrusts himself balls deep inside of you. Satoru's amazed your body hadn't given out — amazed at your endurance and how your cursed energy levels hadn't once seemed to deflate once in the time the three of you had been naked.

He shouldn't hope for it — but Satoru wonders how you would fare in a fight with himself. In fact, he cums into his own fist and onto the floor at the very thought.

Sukuna groans as you squeeze around him, another orgasm washing over you in pathetic spurts of wetness from your cunt.

Soft panting fills the air. The two servants by the door rise from their knees to slide the door open and Uraume walks in with three women behind them.

"Fuck," Satoru should scramble to get off his kneeled position but his body is too pumped with pleasure to even process the command. "Oh, don't feel shame, sorcerer," Sukuna muses out.

The King of Curses leans back, settling on his throne with you in his lap and still snuggly inside of your holes. Uraume comes to your back, and two girls tend to Sukuna, gracefully wiping him down while Uraume does the same to you.

The other girl does the same to Satoru and he simply tosses his head back as he falls back onto his calves, groaning at the cool water.

"They've heard everything already. Your sacrifice for your clan. How noble."

A weak giggle comes from the mess of limbs on Sukuna's torso. It's still one of the most heart-fluttering sounds Satoru had ever listened to and he hates how his cheeks reddens once again as you lift your head to smile at him.

"So very noble, Gojo Satoru."

[mx-pastelwriting]

Volturi Kings HC - Finding out their a vampire

Volturi Kings x GN! Reader

Summary: Finding out their a vampire.

Warnings: Fluff, Established a Relationship, Vampire bitting, Mentions of blood, Some fluff

Characters: Aro Volturi, Marcus Volturi, Caius Volturi, Carlisle Cullen

Aro Volturi

- Waltzing across the castle's ballroom, taking your hand and body in lead as you two talked away, he'd make you feel like a real royal as you floated through the dance, not knowing what his mind raced on since meeting you.

- All of your dates consisted of activities that didn't involve food, yet it never made you question as to why being blinded by his entirety, never guess his next words to you.

- Loving every bit of his oddity, taking his words as a joke, kissing his icy lips lending him an opportunity of proof in cutting your lip with his sharp teeth.

- With the sting of pain on your lip watching as he smiles to your shock, smashing his lips onto yours once again, tasting the blood from the cut.

- Kissing back, he'd see it as acceptance causing him to pull you closer into his arms, feeling as his cold hands cupped your face, giving all of his love in that moment on the rush of tasting your blood.

Feeling the contrast of heat and icy skin, you bit back a moan of enjoyment, but just as quickly as it came, it went. Aro looked at your face, seeing the masterpiece of your bloody lip, with his help in painting it across your lips.

Seeing as he smirked with the same copy of his work, but quickly he licked it away, making you both laugh, not questioning him only letting your love bloom further with another dance across the dance floor, not caring for the sacred musicians in the corner as they played away once more.

-

Caius

- Having every intention of telling you, though not caring to when, his cold touch to your hand as you both stare forward getting your painting done.

- Watching as the painter turned the canvas, showing you the oiled painting of you both, looking back to Caius seeing as he frowned. Giving his thoughts on your cheeks needing to be more flushed, the painter nodded, going back to work.

- Seeing that it was only you who needed to be worked on more, Caius turned his head to you, fighting the urge to look into his red jewel-like eyes. Flushing as he moved closer to your neck, his breath echoing off your neck.

- Pain struck your neck making your body rush as his cold hands pulled you closer. Feeling as Caius's hands gently held your body to him, almost putting your body at ease.

- Just as it came, you looked face-to-face with your lover, seeing as his lips were colored in your blood. Hearing his next words, you looked to the painter, who turned the canvas to the two of you, making Caius even more satisfied.

As his sharp teeth dug into your tender skin, drinking away, returning the favor in digging your nails into his arm, still not changing his gentle touch that wrapped to pull you in.

Slightly tightening his grip as if in excitement to your cries of pain, as his teeth break away, he kisses the bite, leaving it swollen. Moving your head to look up to his red eyes, seeing as they grew bright matching his glowing smirk.

-

Marcus

- Never intended on telling you, but as your time was mostly spent in the castle library, it was inevitable getting a hand on a book of tales of vampires unraveling the surface of his being.

- Giving the book to him as you preferred his somber voice, laying on his quiet chest, ready to hear his tale, but instead speaking of his own story as a creature of the night.

- Listening stiffly against his chest as his voice echoes through his chest, not reading from the book, only from his infinite brain telling of his transformation.

- Every detail shocked you but kept you enthralled as the story moved on, hearing the times and places of his journeys, not holding back as the book of truth no longer having to fight within his head about you being human, as this opened the door of eternal love.

- Hours later, absorbing his words not looking up to your handsome lover, his shoulder visibly lifted as his cold hands held your hands as he went on, almost lulling you to sleep.

Looking to your glowing lover as the sunset shines through the arched window, his hair and eyes perfect, seeing how he pulled you in even now with the soothing words of his life.

Finishing his last words, looking down at your tired face, seeing as he was in his mind, airing out his empty chest, nothing else mattered to him, not even what your thoughts were to him. Only seeing as you still felt comfortable falling asleep on his chest after telling you the tales of his sins over his long life.

-

Carlisle

- Dating for a good amount of time, sharing many days with each other, and yet knowing little about him, through the time of your relationship never had he eaten in front of you, brushing it off to his busy life.

- Never leaving your mind only as it slowly feeds onto the things that stuck out to you, finally having enough with questions that needed answers, you sat him down after your date night.

- Comforting him as his amber eyes softened hearing your words, wanting to protect you, but with your relationship on the line, he risked something greater, your lives.

- Starting slowly, he told you everything he could in very few words, fearing that if not, you would run off before hearing the whole truth. Soothing your feelings, no matter what your reaction is, with his silken voice that drowns out any fear or doubt.

- Feeling as though you were floating out of your body, not taking in the sun hitting his skin, watching it shine, taking away your breath.

Taking in your lover's new appearance, seeing how his glowing skin looked perfectly with his blonde and amber eyes as he spoke with such grace. Stunned to your seat on the bed, realizing all of what he had brought you into—a world of chilled-skinned beings that would kill to not have you know.

Breaking you from the daze with icy lips on your cheek while cupping the other, as your eyes followed him as he stood up with the familiar warm smile.

Let me know if you like it this way compared to how I did this one: First time in bed, I did it more in writing style and not just telling, so do please let me know which you prefer.

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is and grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

[affixjoy]

Here’s a list of all my Star Trek fics!

Spirk

Wanna be the one that you want to see aka the Spirk sex tropes one. My most popular Trek fic on ao3 and one I’m particularly proud of!

Spectacles painted with my shaking hand aka the one with the oranges and sexy oil

I thought I saw you smile aka the snw body swap fic

We need disposable towels in the gym aka my funniest fic, the one where the Enterprise HR has to deal with ALL the sex happening on board.

Risks and Rewards aka the one with the unstoppable spontaneous orgasms

And Stars May Collide aka my very self indulgent fic where Spirk lives through the movie Moulin Rouge due to alien dream bullshit

Spock vs the IT guy aka Spock feuds with the IT guy and finally hooks up with Kirk

The Upside of Rumors aka the one where the crew makes spreadsheets and bets over where Spock and Kirk are together

And with one heart I reached for you aka the one where Sam’s ghost checks in on Spirk

Star Trek Drabbles aka 100 word warm up of Spirk

Strange New Dicks aka the one where Spock’s dick changes every chapter for Vulcan bonding purposes

McKirk

We both had a hand in it (you and me both kid) aka the one where Jim leaves a vibrator in Bones’ bed.

Hunt me down, catch in my throat, make me pray aka not even the hint of plot, this is only porn.

Spones

Nothing that shouldn’t have happened long ago aka what I think happened between Spock and Bones after the TOS episode All Our Yesterdays

Handle Me With Care aka the one where Bones has to remove his own appendix aka the one that was in the nsfw Sponeszine

McSpirk

A Most Fascinating Experience aka McSpirk pwp with a lot of dirty talk from Bones.

Sometimes a feeling is all we have to go on aka the one where Bones can’t come.

and yes I said yes I will Yes aka that time I decided to bring together mcspirk, Pon Farr, and that sexy capital Y from Molly Bloom’s soliloquy

Keep our minds on the sun of each other aka my aos McSpirk featuring some fun made up Vulcan meditation rituals for Spock to use to romance Bones.

A heart should always go one step too far aka voyeur Bones, possibly my steamiest fic?

Leap beyond logic aka the end of the TMP divorce era

Take me places I’ve never known aka snw era getting together, the one where Jim gets confused about what Spock’s genital situation is

You know we’ll have a good time then aka the one where Kirk and Spock get Joanna’s age VERY wrong

Spuhotty

Spock The Liar aka the one where Snw Spock hooks up with Uhura and Scotty, pure pwp

Amanda/Sarek

Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time aka Amanda and Sarek getting together fic, wip but will hopefully be done soon

[ziggystardust8675]

Pink Skies and Silk

Pairing: Jareth x reader

AN: It has been a HOT minute since I’ve actually posted any writing so that’s my bad. Hope some smut makes up for it!

Summary: You’ve been missing your boyfriend and he feels it’s his duty to make up for lost time.

Warnings: AFAB reader (no pronouns actually used), penetrative sex, praise kink, unprotected sex (stay safe y'all), creampie, little bit of possessiveness

The labyrinth was quiet today, it was a stark difference from the usual buzzing of life throughout it. The flowers were finally in bloom after a long and frigid winter. You could never truly get over the beauty of the labyrinth, it was otherworldly. The only thing more beautiful than the labyrinth was your boyfriend, Jareth.

He had been away at meetings all day and the longing for him was obvious. It was likely you wouldn't see him till the sun started setting, so you decided to lounge around the gardens with a good book till then.

Finally when the sky started being painted colors of pinks and oranges did you start making your way back. Upon entering the castle it was clear there wasn't a soul in sight. Not a goblin nor Jareth.

Walking up the cobblestone steps you entered you and Jareth's shared room. It too was empty.

You stripped yourself of the clothes you had worn all day and made your way towards the bathroom. Starting the bath you added a variety of sweet smelling oils and perfumes. As soon as you stepped into the warm water, your body immediately started to release the tension you didn't know you were holding.

As soon as the water started getting cold you reluctantly decided it was about time to get out. You wrapped yourself in the fluffy towel you had set out. Once you were dry you dressed yourself in a low cut silk nightgown. Usually you would save the garment for a night where Jareth would give you his undivided attention and love, however since Jareth was nowhere to be found you decided to wear it just to feel confident in yourself.

Leaving the steam filled room, you found the man who had just been occupying your thoughts lazing on your shared bed in nothing but his trousers. God, he was certainly an enticing sight sitting there reading his leather bound book. Now you were immensely thankful for what you had decided to wear tonight.

Jareth's eyes shot up from his book to meet yours like a predator to prey. The air got caught in your throat and suddenly you felt extremely warm.

Taking a step towards the bed, Jareth sat up a little more, marking the page in his book to soon be forgotten. You decided to let him come to you.

Seeing that you weren't moving anytime soon, Jareth slipped out of bed and sauntered towards you, like predator to prey. The sight of you alone was enough to make him hot, and yet here you were in your short nightgown looking heavenly, he needed you. Your breath started to pick up.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, my love." His voice was low and his hands planted firmly on your hips. Your breath was coming in short puffs as you murmured, "Mm, just missed you is all."

Jareth turned his head as he nipped at your neck, causing you to grip his shoulders. "Well, I'm here now. I believe I should make up for lost time, yes?" He whispered against your ear, causing you to involuntary shiver. All that you could muster was a breathless "Yeah" in his ear.

Finally, Jareth brought his head up to kiss you firmly. The kiss was long and left you feeling light, causing you to push your chest more firmly into his. Just as quick, Jareth pushed into you as well. The hands on your waist started to bunch the silk of your nightgown up higher. You could feel how hard he had gotten through his pants where he was pressing into the soft plush of your stomach.

The temperature in the room seemed to increase tenfold judging by the sweat starting to form on your brow. You pushed impossibly closer to him causing him to let out a low groan. He started to sneak one of his hands down to your thighs, using the other to bunch up your nightgown around your hips. You shifted your hips, starting to get impatient with the aching in your cunt. Jareth squeezed your hip a little to keep you in place,

“Patience, love.” He punctuated his sentence with a sensual kiss to your lips that lasted all too short. Finding that words had started to fail you, you tilted your head up and bit at Jareth’s neck just the way he liked.

Quickly, Jareth turned you both to the side so he could pick you up and place you on the soft cream colored sheets. He slotted his thin waist between your thighs and you arched your back slightly, “Jareth… please…” you whined, the sound was incredibly endearing to his ears. He threads his fingers through your hair, making you tip your head back so he could continue to nip at your neck, groaning as he did so.

He brought his hands down, running along the length of your body before softly rubbing the inside of one of your thighs. You moaned his name in his ear making him grunt and push his lips against you with hot passion. He runs his thumb along your clothed core making you shudder and grip his shoulders before he pulls his head back to look you in the eye and ask, “Is this okay, Love?”

You adored how even after all this time, no matter how many times you both were intimate, he would always still ask for your consent. You immediately nodded your head frantically of course, eager for all he had to give you. Without a second thought, he pulled the edge of your underwear aside to tentatively push his middle finger into your heat. At the sound of your pleasured gasp, he began to thrust his finger carefully but with more confidence that he was making you feel good. Soon he started to add a second finger, curling them and preparing you for him.

After a few moments of soft moans and the wet noise of his fingers entering your cunt, you started getting impatient, his fingers not enough. “Jareth… please… I need you… All of you.”

A devilish smile stretched across his face at your begging as he pulled his fingers from your drenched cunt to suck them clean. Your face flushed at his erotic actions, you reached to pull him closer to kiss him heatedly. He leaned back on his heels to start undoing the buckle of his pants. Once that was undone he got up to remove his pants and boxers altogether. He stood before where you lay completely bare on the bed, like some sort of divine being that came to give you the greatest of pleasures and love.

Without procrastination he got back on the bed, your legs resting on his thighs as they pushed your legs further apart. He strokes himself slowly twice, groaning at the sight of your glistening cunt. He had to resist the urge to plunge his cock into you and fuck you into the mattress, rather he wanted to take his time with you.

“You’re so pretty, all spread out like this.” His voice is tight as he guides the tip of his cock through your slick, bringing the tip to rub at your clit making you gasp out. “Jareth, please, I need you inside me.” You whimpered in pleasure when he finally started to push the tip of himself inside of you. His pace was agonizingly slow as he finally bottomed out, giving you a moment to adjust to his size. Once you give the go ahead, he starts shallowly thrusting, drawing low moans out of you.

Jareth moves his hands to grip at your hips, guiding your hips to meet his thrusts. “Ah, you take me so well Y/N… So good for me.” His chest is covered in a sheen of sweat and you can see the muscles in his stomach and arms flexing as he makes love to you. You cry out in pleasure when he grips the underside of one of your thighs to throw it over his shoulder, pounding deeper into you with this new angle. He brings the hand that isn’t holding your leg down to rub tight circles on your clit causing your back to arch and you cry out his name.

At the sound of his name leaving your lips in such a way he picks up the pace of his thrusts, low grunts and pants leaving his throat. Your thighs begin to tremble as an orgasm slowly starts to root in your lower belly. “Jareth, just like that… I’m gonna-”

“Cum for me… You’re so good, finish for me sweetheart.” His thrusts started to turn erratic as he worked to bring you to your release. Once that coil in your belly snapped, his thrusts lost all sense of rhythm as he chased his own release. He bottomed out as he released his load into you, painting your insides with his cum. You both stayed like that for a few moments as you rode out your highs, trying to catch your breath.

When he finally pulled out of you, you could feel his hot load leak out of your spent pussy. Jareth leaned back to watch it, completely entranced with the sight before him. He wanted no other to see you this way, he decided now that he was going to marry you. You would rule his kingdom by his side and he would have it no other way.

Buy me a coffee?

Masterlist

[rrrrinmaru]

picasso (marius x fem!reader) (nsfw)

wc: 5.7k rating: E warnings: nsfw, vaginal fingering, handjob, squirting, they're both freaks for each other

“I think it’s pretty,” you say plainly. “I like the look of it. I’ve always had a soft spot for ink wash works.”

The exhibit is held in a famous glass museum in downtown Stellis. There had been a controversy about the full glass walls and privacy issues a few years ago (you had read this case once, out of curiosity, and never again), but that was eventually resolved and now the first floor of the museum was regularly used for art exhibits. 

Before you knew Marius’ secret identity, you had invited him to visit one of Z’s exhibits. And Marius, the most shameless man to ever walk this Earth, had agreed. 

Fortunately, you learnt about this secret before you bought tickets for the exhibit. Not that you wouldn’t want to see his works displayed in the gallery, but the thought of you gushing over Z’s artwork in front of Marius without knowing the truth… 

It’s embarrassing. 

Today, however, it’s a different artist’s work on display. Thomas Mikeden, a foreign painter who’s been going on an exhibit world tour. Stellis is his latest stop, and everything just lined up. Both of you had the day off and tickets were on sale. You had invited Marius to the exhibit, excited to hear his artistic insight about the paintings, but Marius has been… a little petulant.

“I can’t believe we’re looking at a Mikeden painting,” he mutters, arms folded across his chest. “The first time you invite me to an art exhibit and it isn’t even mine; I can overlook that, but Mikeden?”

“What do you have against him?”

“We’re friends,” Marius says solemnly, looking like he doesn’t even believe the words coming out his mouth, “but we suffer from creative differences. Severe creative differences. If I ever have to see the way he mixes his oil paints again, I’d end up on the news for criminal activity. And he said if he ever had to see me try to sculpt a pot again, he’d wring my neck himself. He said my clay pots were an abomination against God.”

You blink at him. “You know how to do pottery?”

“According to him, I don’t.”

And suddenly, you get it. Creative differences, more like a bunch of children arguing over who does something right, or who does something better. Like kindergarteners fighting over whose parent made them the better lunchbox. 

“What are your thoughts on his ink wash painting?” 

Marius gives you an appraising look. “Not his worst work. He’s alright with ink wash. I've personally dabbled in ink wash before. It’s not my preferred medium, but we learnt it as part of our curriculum.”

You turn to look at him, eyes bright. “Really? Do you still have those ink wash paintings hidden away somewhere?”

“Of course. I never throw my works away. I’ll bring you to one of my storage warehouses one day.” 

One of his storage warehouses? It never occurred to you that painters would need a lot of space to store their paintings, even more so if they were particularly diligent and practiced different painting techniques often. With how many easels and canvases were strewn about Marius’ house, you suppose you should have made the connection.

“I’m looking forward to it.” 

The next few works are insightful, to say the least. Marius gets up close and personal with one of them to sneakily point out to you a place where Mikeden allegedly made a mistake and had spent hours trying to cover it up. 

“This is from when he tried to lean into the Baroque style,” Marius says, using his thumb to frame certain parts of the painting to draw your eye to them. “The colors here, see, the stark contrast between the light and the dark? That’s the use of tenebrism, popularised by Caravaggio.”

“Hm,” you note, eyes wandering around the painting. It’s a stunning piece of work, and Mikeden captured the likeness of the male form well. The extreme contrast almost seems to frame the figures with a halo, a light that blooms from their very center to strike at the viewer’s attention. “They’re quite handsome.”

Marius makes a sound at the back of his throat. “You’re more into modern men, jiejie.”

You hide your laugh behind a cough. He’s like a needy kitten pawing at you for attention, and you’re helpless against someone this cute. 

“Yes, yes, look at how handsome you are,” you say, turning around to face him head-on. You reach out, smoothing the non-existent creases away from his button-down. 

Without really thinking too deeply, your fingers linger on the stretch of the fabric across his chest—the thought that you can see them if you squint hard enough comes unbidden to your mind. The small bumps under the fabric, stiff from the slight chill of the room. 

It’s the kind of thought that grips you by the throat, sitting in your mind and taking up space, holding you captive until you do something about it. 

You brush your thumb against one of them, just because they’re right there, because you can, because Marius’ hands are on your hips and you’re feeling a little… playful. 

Immediately, a hand catches your wrist. It doesn’t stop you from pressing the pad of your thumb lightly against that raised bump, and Marius’ breath hitches. His fingers flex against your wrist, hard enough that you can’t help but smile. 

He’s usually the one making you flush in public, so you mark this as a victory. The sight of him, red-faced and pouting, heart pounding so desperately you can feel it through his chest—you pull your hand back, and he lets you go. That hand drops back to your waist as you bring your thumb to your lips, and you hold Marius’ gaze as the tip of your tongue darts out to lick your thumb.

Marius goes still. It’s as if he’s nothing more than one of the paintings hung up on the gallery walls, with how still he is; his pupils are blown wide and he gives you this shaken look, as if you’ve completely disarmed him. Swept him off his feet and left him grasping at straws to find the words to say. 

Eventually, you go back to smoothing out his shirt. Properly, this time. No messing around.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Marius murmurs, his breath puffing against the curve of your throat as he leans down. His voice is soft, barely louder than a whisper, but it somehow feels deafening in the quiet of the room. 

Your hands tighten around the front of his shirt. “Marius?”

“Be quiet for a moment,” he says. His fingers rest on your hips and you swear you can feel the heat radiating off his palms. It makes you want to shuffle away, pull back and put some space between the both of you—he doesn’t do anything, doesn’t tighten his grip, but his hands somehow get heavier. Like a weighted blanket resting around your waist, shackles holding you in place without really holding you at all. 

Your heart kicks in your chest. It isn’t often that Marius gets this way, so quiet and possessive, like he has to cage you in a small corner and watch you to make sure you don’t get away. His forehead rests against your clavicle—it’s not a comfortable position, not when he’s so much taller and he’s pressed up so closely against you that you can feel the way his chest shivers when he drags in a long breath. 

“Jiejie,” Marius whispers, voice quiet. “Sometimes, I wish I could wrap you up like a piece of art and hang you on my wall.”

He’s crazy, you think, and you realise even your subconscious thoughts have taken on this air of fondness when thinking of him.

“Is that so?” You reply, voice just as hushed. From the corner of your eye, you can see another patron glance at the both of you—they glance away, then look back, as if doubting their gaze. Yes, you think weakly to yourself, Marius is indeed clinging to you in the middle of a public gallery for expensive artworks that easily go for three times the price of your apartment. “Which wall will you put me up on?”

This time, Marius’ grip tightens imperceptibly on your hips. “Any wall that jiejie wants to be put up on,” he says huskily. His voice has dropped an octave, and the tone he takes is one that you’ve become very familiar with when you tease each other. Never enough to really commit to anything, not yet, but enough that Marius gets that look in his eyes like he’d very much want to stop being a gentleman about things. 

Abruptly, you notice the double entendre. “Marius!”

“You asked,” he says smugly, lifting his head so you come face to face with the smirk pulling at his lips. He tugs you in to press your body fully up against his, hip to shoulder. “Is jiejie shy now? I can tell you about which walls I’ve thought about you up on—my bedroom, naturally, but the living room is a strong contender.”

You gape at him, too shocked to say something smart in return. “You—! Not so loud, we’re in public!”

“No one’s listening.” Marius tilts his head, giving the surroundings a cursory once over before catching your gaze. “They’re busy looking at the art on display. I’m looking at a different kind of art on display.”

He’s so shameless that it makes you want to burst out in laughter. A different kind of art on display? Who does he think he is, a host from a host club? Where did he learn these phrases from? The Internet? His brother? Worse, Vyn? 

The thought of Marius asking the one and only Vyn Richter for advice on how to pick girls up makes you laugh. 

“You think you’re so smooth,” you say helplessly, lips curving up of their own accord as you reach up to loop your arms around Marius’ neck. “You think I’m going to fall for that?”

“I’m not a gambling man,” Marius tells you, a confident glint in his eye, “but I’ve always been lucky.” 

He puts up a strong front, but you know better. The back of his neck is hot from embarrassment. The tips of his ears are flushed red. You brush a stray strand of hair past the shell of his ear and pinch the crimson tip along the way. 

“Jiejie,” Marius whines, caught in the act. “Come on, let me pretend for a bit. Don’t you want to come home with me and have a better time?” 

He gives you this beseeching look, brows furrowed and lips turned down. You’re weak to that look—it’s suckered you into agreeing to far more things than you normally would have agreed to. But how can you say no to a face like that? To a man built like that, shoulders so broad they could dwarf you in a hug, fingers so long they could encircle your wrist, a face like God himself came down to carve it from marble—when Marius looks at you with that pleading gaze, millimeters away from begging, how can you say no to anything he asks for? 

Perhaps a stronger man would be able to resist the power of Marius’ visual attack. But you never proclaimed to have a strong willpower, and you fold like a castle of cards in a stiff breeze. 

“Let’s finish looking at all the works first. And no, just because you know who the artist is and insist that you could bring me over to his studio to see his other works—that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see the works exhibited here.”

“His art isn’t even that good,” Marius says, just to be contrary. “If you really wanted to see something from him, you should see his sculptures. I’ll admit those are impressive.”

“Finish the gallery, and then we can go home. You get to pick dinner.”

He perks up. “Italian or Chinese?”

“Later,” you insist. “I want to see this painting—” you glance at the title, raising an eyebrow when you catch sight of it, “—Lotus III.”

“Inspired by the same lotus garden that was featured in Lotus 0, Lotus I and Lotus II,” Marius grumbles as he takes one hand off your waist. You slide your hands down his shoulders, his chest, and furtively pat him on the ass before letting him go. 

He jumps, eyes wide as he swivels his head around to look at you. You give him an innocent look in return. 

“If you insist on being naughty, jiejie, don’t be surprised if I snatch you away and kidnap you back home.” The hand still on your waist squeezes in warning, and heat slithers down your back at the tone in his voice. 

You put a hand over the one on your waist, sliding your fingers in between his. “Be good.”

“Good boys get rewards. Is there a reward waiting for me later, jiejie?”

Naughty, you think to yourself, side-eying him. There’s a charming smile on his face, not even bothering to hide the playfulness lurking beneath his eyes. He’s testing you, pushing and pulling at your limits to see how far you can bend over backwards. 

“Maybe,” you reply. It’s never a good thing to reveal all your cards too early when dealing with a von Hagen in a playful mood. 

Marius laughs, leaning in to press his lips against the side of your head. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

The way he practically attaches himself to your hip, thumb rubbing possessively over your waist—you can’t help the flush crawling up to your cheeks, or the heat that flares between your legs. His hold on you isn’t tight, but it isn’t loose either. It reeks of a promise, and you can’t help but look forward to what that will happen once the two of you get back to his house. Or what will happen once you get into his car, when Marius has you right where he wants you to be and there’s enough privacy for something to happen. 

You shift, thighs rubbing together involuntarily at the stray thought. Desire slips through your body like a snake coiling in your veins; if you cling a little tighter to Marius in return, your mind only half-focused on the works displayed on the walls, well, no one will know. 

You think Marius might suspect something, though, going by the way his smirk grows larger with every glance he shoots you from the corner of his eye. 

Like he’s found something he can’t take his eyes off. Like he’s found something he likes. 

You fail to give Mikeden the attention his works deserve for the rest of the time you spend in the gallery, but he’s truly friends with Marius then you think the man won’t mind too much.

==

To your surprise, Marius doesn’t immediately scoop you into his lap when you get into the car. 

He leans over to help you pull the seatbelt, and very conveniently buries his face in your neck for half a second before he pulls back. Long enough for him to press his lips against your collarbone, the tip of his tongue swiping wetly against your skin; short enough for you to wonder if you hallucinated it.

But the smug look in his eyes as he pulls the seatbelt over your chest to click it into place tells you that you most definitely did not hallucinate it. 

“Home first,” Marius tells you, pretending to be casual as he leans back in his seat and does his own seatbelt. “If you keep looking at me with those eyes, jiejie, I can’t promise I’ll keep my hands to myself while we’re on the road back.”

Right, you think dazedly. You’d forgotten Marius had decided to drive the both of you here—it wasn’t far from his place, and the both of you typically take a chauffeured car, but Marius wanted to do something special today. You haven’t been on a date in a while due to your unfortunate work schedule, and it definitely surprised you when Marius pulled up to your apartment in the driver’s seat, the window wound down, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he grinned at you. 

“What a shame,” you murmur under your breath, watching as he does his own seatbelt before pulling out of the parking lot. 

Your words make Marius stiffen. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel as the other finds its way to your knee. 

Again with that loose grip that feels like a shackle holding you in place. Marius isn’t doing anything more than just placing his hand over your knee—there’s not even any real pressure behind, no force or flexing or tightening of his grip, but you feel weighed down. You feel held down.

You wonder, a little stupidly, if Marius would do something if you spread your legs apart. 

But you’re on the road. Despite the heat flaring insistently in your gut, you’re not actually ready to risk it all while Marius is behind the wheel. It would have been a different story if the both of you were in the back seat with the partition drawn up. The ride back is what, ten, fifteen minutes? There’s a lot you can get done in that period of time.

Right as you resign yourself to a normal, quick ride back home, Marius’ hand slips a little.

Just a little. It’s so subtle that if it weren’t for the heat practically bleeding through his palms, you think you wouldn’t have noticed. 

His hand goes from right above your knee to cupping the inside of your knee. 

You eye him speculatively. Was it inertia? The car made a turn and his hand simply slipped with the centrifugal force? 

His lips quirk up. “I’ll get shy if you keep looking at me, jiejie. I need to focus on the road.”

“Hm,” you say, feeling your cunt clench involuntarily when Marius’ hand moves further up your thigh. It’s not in direct contact with your skin, not when there’s your silk dress in between, but the material is thin and you swear you can feel the calluses from Marius’ fingers rubbing gently against the sensitive inside of your thigh. 

Fifteen minutes, you think. Surely you can’t die from a little fun on the road. 

“Your hand’s on the wrong place,” you murmur, gently placing your hand over his. 

Marius hums at the back of his throat. “Ah? Sorry, I—jiejie.”

You lift his hand off your thigh for a quick moment, draw apart the slit of your dress, and slide his hand under the fabric.

Directly on your thigh. You even curve his fingers back down so he can maintain that grip on you.

You can see his fingers flex. They’re stiff, knuckles tense as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. When you peek at him, his ears are flushed a bright red and his Adam’s Apple bobs furiously, like he’s swallowing desperately. 

And right between his thighs, you can see a tent in his trousers. You kind of want to reach out to touch it, but you hold yourself back. 

“Jiejie,” he whines, and chances a glance at you before reluctantly dragging his eyes back to the road. “I was joking—you can’t distract me while I’m driving.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you say mildly, burying the laugh that threatens to escape when his fingers squeeze pointedly around your thigh. The grave you dug is for both of you; his hand is higher now, on your thigh, so close to your core that one road bump would probably be reason enough for his fingers to slide right home. 

You almost want to pretend to jerk forward. But you have enough of your wits about you to recognise that if Marius felt the heat of your pussy through your panties press up against his fingertips at this moment, he would probably drive the car into the nearest building. 

“I’m trying to be good,” Marius complains. His fingers keep twitching against your skin, as if he’s really, physically holding himself back from doing something. 

“Good boys get rewards,” you echo, patting the back of his palm. “We’re almost home, see the gates up in front?”

He clicks his tongue. “As if I can focus on anything right now.” To prove his point, he speeds up, leg bouncing impatiently as he turns into the driveway. “Park, I have to park…”

The whole time, his hand doesn’t leave your thigh. And there’s something really sexy about it, you can’t help but realise—the slant of his jaw from the side, the way driving comes so easily to him, where he only needs one hand to maneuver the wheel. Even the way he looks over his shoulder as he eases into his parking spot makes you want to press your thighs together in a useless attempt to stave off the heat building in your core. 

“Good enough,” Marius declares, switching the engine off. “Out, out, come on—”

He snaps the seatbelt off and practically flies out the car. You’re so taken aback that you’re still in your seat when he comes to your side and yanks the door open, petulance written all over his face when he finds you still strapped in. 

“C’mon,” he whines, reaching over to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Jiejie, come on, come on—”

“Impatient,” you chide, even as you reach out to steady yourself while you exit the car. “Hold on, my heels—”

“Jiejie,” Marius says, and he seriously sounds like he’s about to burst. 

In that split second, you make a decision. Your panties are ruined as is, and you really, really want to be filled right now. You’re not sure if you can make the distance from the car to the lift, especially when the garage is so fucking huge—

“Backseat,” you murmur, and Marius reacts much faster than you expect. He pulls you up and into his chest, making you let out a sound of surprise at how aggressive he is, but he’s surprisingly gentle when he cups your jaw and slants his lips over yours. 

It’s a desperate kiss. Marius licks into your mouth, hands tight around your waist as he pulls you in close. The bulge in his slacks feels like it’s burning a brand into your hip—you want to skate your hands down, cup that swollen cock and rub your thumb over the tip. You’ve never seen it, not yet, but the two of you have fooled around every now and then so you’re somewhat familiar with the curve of his cock through his pants. 

It’s a hefty weight in your fingers, and Marius always makes the most delicious sounds when you rock your hips against him, squeezing around his thigh between your legs as you trace over the outline of his cock. 

“Fuck,” Marius curses. His fingers dig greedily into the sides of your body—the grip now is entirely different from the one at the museum. The positions are roughly the same, but this time he holds you like he’s trying to burn his brand into you, leave an imprint of bruises around your waist so you ache every time you move tomorrow morning. “Fuck, jiejie, your mouth—”

“Mmhmm,” you hum into his mouth, shoving one thigh between his legs so you can get a good seat on Marius’ thigh. It’s as if Marius has a direct line of sight into your mind—he hikes you up on his thigh so the hard line of his muscle presses right into the swell of your clit, and you groan out loud as you start rocking against his thigh. 

Fuck, you think you could cum like this. Marius’ hands have dropped lower, cupping the curve of your ass and every squeeze he makes goes straight to your cunt like there’s a livewire connection. He pulls you so high up that you’re struggling to keep your toes on the ground, and Marius is practically pulling you back and forth on his leg, helping you rut against him. 

His breath is hot. His kisses are searing, and it feels like there’s a nonstop feedback loop where your arousal pours into each other over and over again. It’s a fire in your gut, threatening to eat you alive, and when he pulls back to catch his breath, he immediately bows down to lick against your jaw. 

Marius sucks at your skin, bullying a bruise into the underside of your jaw. He isn’t satisfied with just one, and he just keeps going down the expanse of your neck, biting at any patch of unblemished skin. 

“Baby,” you whisper, one hand trailing down to press your palm over the tight bulge begging for attention. The lightest touch is enough to make Marius groan, hips stuttering as he chases your touch. “Can I—can I touch?”

Marius freezes for a heartbeat. Before you can second guess yourself, he moans into your neck, hips jerking as he pushes his clothed cock into your palm. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chants, nodding while avoiding eye contact with you.

His ears are crimson. So cute, you can’t help but think through the fever in your mind. It’s almost too easy to find your way around the button in his pants, and there’s some trouble with getting the zipper down from how hard he is. His briefs get caught for a moment, long enough to make Marius groan from frustration, but you shush him with another slide of your hips, cunt wet enough to drench his slacks, and Marius shuts up. 

“Good boy,” you murmur breathlessly, arching your back so you get a better angle to grind your clit against his thigh. “Be good, come on, let me—”

Unfortunately, there are no flaps in briefs for you to pull his cock out from. You reach in instead, shivering at the proper weight of it in your palm—skin on skin, you think deliriously to yourself, cunt clenching at the feeling of Marius’ cock in your hand. His cock, so thick that you can’t even really wrap your fingers around it properly, and the head is dripping. 

Marius sucks in a tight breath, cursing as he cants his hips up, almost bouncing you on his lap from the force. 

“Jiejie,” he begs, plaintive and desperate. “Nngh, please, the tip, you need to—fuck, I’m not going to—I’m going to cum, jiejie…”

And you stop thinking. You grab one of his hands and drag it to your front, so commandingly that Marius’ head flies up. His eyes are red, lips parted as he sucks in a shaky breath every time you swipe your thumb across the sensitive slit at the head of his cock. 

“In, inside,” you whine, rising as high as you can go on your toes. It’s not very high, given how far up Marius has pulled you onto his thigh, but it’s enough for your to drag his long fingers under your skirt and press them up against your cunt. 

Marius’ eyes are blown wide. “In-inside?” He stammers, fingers crooking automatically to press against the throbbing bud of your clit. Such clever fucking fingers, already familiar with the shape of your cunt to know where your clit is. 

Without needing much direction, he uses two fingers to drag your soaked panties to the side and rubs the knuckle of his index finger against your pussy. 

“A-ah,” you cry out, hips jerking. Fuck, you understand now why Marius reacted like that when you got your hand on his cock—there’s something about the texture of his skin, the calluses on his fingers that’s stroking the sides of your pussy, the sheer heat radiating off him—and the knowledge, the knowledge that it’s his hands on your cunt. After months of frotting, the most you’ve done being Marius’s palm flat against your cunt while you held eye contact and grinded against his shaking palm until you cummed—

“Inside, baby, come on,” you plead, rocking your hips insistently against his curious fingers. 

Again, it’s like Marius gets you. He sinks his index finger in; you think he wanted to go slow, because he tentatively pressed up into your cunt, but you’re greedy and you’ve been thinking of being filled since Marius made that joke about putting you up against a wall and you whine, rocking forward until you sink down, down, all the way down to the base and Marius’ breath is hitching in his throat. 

“You’re—” his finger bends, the tip brushing against this spot inside you that makes your entire body shiver, threatening to bend in half from the electricity that surges through you. “Shit, you’re—fuck, jiejie, you feel fucking incredible.”

“One more,” you beg, holding his wrist in place while you clench around his finger. Christ, you didn’t think it could feel this good. It’s so foreign, so much longer and thicker than your fingers—and again, the knowledge that it’s Marius’ hand, Marius’ finger is enough to make your gut tighten and sparks burst at the very end of your fingertips. “One more and my—”

You break off, thighs trembling when he swipes against your swollen clit with his thumb.

Marius groans at the sight of you, leaning in to bite at your lips. “One more and my thumb on your clit? Is that what you want, jiejie? Is that what you need?”

“Mmhmm—ahhhhhn, fuck, Marius—please, please, I’m so fucking close—!”

You’re not even sure if you’re still stroking the length of his cock. All your senses have narrowed down to your cunt, the pressure on your clit and the way his fingers have gained confidence with every stroke—he fucks up into you with such surety, so certain that he knows exactly where to hit to get that same, body shivering reaction from you.

The worst part is, he does. It barely takes one, two, three strokes while he whispers filthy things about how hot and wet and slick your cunt is, about how it’s soaked through just for him, about how he wants to bury his face in it, please jiejie, please let him put your thighs around his ears and eat you out, and you’re gone. 

It hits you so hard you think you almost pass out. The ascent comes too quickly; it almost feels like the orgasm is ripped from you from clever hands that know you better than you know yourself. It leaves you breathless, your entire body jerking uncontrollably as you whine, pussy clenching around those two thick fingers buried in your cunt. You’re mumbling nonsense, not even sure what you’re saying as your cunt gushes around Marius’ ruined pants and when you resurface, Marius looks at you like you’re the second coming of Christ.

It takes you both a while to get your breathing under control. Marius recovers first, gently sliding his fingers out of your cunt. You’re a little embarrassed at the absolute mess you’ve made, but Marius eyes the wetness dripping over his palm, down his wrist, and decides to drag his tongue along his skin to lick it all up.

He even looks right as you as he does it. The sight is enough to make your clit throb, as if gearing up for a second round. Oh, you could definitely do a second round, but you think you’d prefer for it to be in a room with a bed and not a garage.

Almost absentmindedly, you start to rub your thumb against the cockhead in your grip.

“F-fuck,” Marius groans lowly, free hand reaching out to grab your wrist. “Wait, wait—nnngh, sensitive. Give me a moment.”

You pause. You look down.

His briefs are stained. There’s a massive wet spot at the front, and when you drag your fingers out, they’re coated in a sticky, white fluid. 

You look Marius in the eye as you, too, lift your fingers to your lips. You stick your tongue out, wiping the threads of cum on your tongue so Marius can see how white looks in your mouth—and he flushes even redder than he already is, eyes darting away before darting back, as if he can’t decide whether he wants to look or not—and then you swallow. 

Marius is speechless for a while. 

“That was really hot,” he says eventually, voice hoarse. “I—fuck, jiejie, I can go again. I’m serious, just give me a minute.” 

You suck on your fingertips for a moment. You’re clearly ready for a second round, but you know he gets more desperate when you keep him hanging. And a desperate Marius is always a delight to work with. 

“Bedroom?” You suggest, and your cunt tightens at the way his eyes immediately go dark with desire.

==

© rrrrinmaru 2024 | no unauthorised publication or reproduction allowed

[sleekervae]

Wicked Games ❅ 9

Masterlist

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x socialite!fem!reader

Summary: Sable meets Coriolanus' Competition

Warnings: politicians being politicians, some angst

Word Count: 6,096

A few days had passed since that quiet night in Coriolanus’ penthouse, but Sable couldn’t shake the way she’d felt in the warmth of that room—the fire crackling, the soft rain pattering outside, and the strangely comfortable silence between them. She had woken up the next morning to find herself still tucked under the blanket, Coriolanus already awake, moving quietly so as not to disturb her. Since then, they hadn’t spoken much beyond what was necessary for their professional dealings, but something had shifted.

As she stood in her family home, staring up at the old wooden attic door, Sable let out a quiet sigh. She hadn’t thought about painting in so long, but the memory of their conversation had been replaying in her mind. There had been something almost vulnerable in Coriolanus' curiosity, a genuine interest in this part of her life she had left behind. And now, here she was, standing at the precipice of her past.

With a small smile, Sable reached for the ladder and climbed up into the dusty attic. The light filtering through the small, circular window revealed old boxes, forgotten trinkets, and memories. She knew exactly what she was looking for—the faded cardboard box filled with her old art supplies, her brushes, her sketchbooks, and half-finished canvases. It had been years since she’d touched them, but as she carefully opened the box, the familiar smell of oil paints hit her like a wave of nostalgia.

Her fingers ran over the bristles of a paintbrush, and something stirred in her—a sense of renewal, a craving to create again. Without overthinking it, she gathered her supplies, her mind already buzzing with colors, ideas, and images. Coriolanus’ words echoed in her head.

Maybe it was time to start painting again.

Sable carefully descended the attic ladder, balancing the dusty boxes in her arms, one by one. Each trip down felt like unearthing a small piece of herself, long buried under the weight of other responsibilities, other ambitions. By the time she had gathered everything in her room, a sense of anticipation had begun to bloom in her chest.

She arranged her brushes, tubes of paint, and old sketchbooks along her desk. A large, empty canvas sat on the easel she had almost forgotten about, leaning against the far wall of her room. Sunlight streamed in through the window, bathing the space in a soft, golden glow, and she couldn't help but smile. It had been so long, but it felt right.

Sable opened a tube of paint, squeezing the rich red onto her palette, and dipped her brush into it. For a moment, she hesitated, the tip of the brush hovering over the blank canvas. What would she paint? She wasn’t sure yet. But then, in one smooth motion, she began.

The first stroke was bold, confident. Her hand moved instinctively, filling the canvas with broad swaths of color, blending and layering, each movement freeing something within her. Time seemed to slip away as she worked, the outside world disappearing into the steady rhythm of brush against canvas.

“Sable?” Seline called from the doorway, pulling her from her focus. She glanced over to see her older sister standing with one eyebrow raised, her curiosity unmistakable.

“What are you up to in here?” Seline asked, stepping inside to get a closer look, "I saw the attic ladder was down..."

Sable set down her brush and wiped her hands on a rag, chuckling softly, “I guess I’m painting again,”

Seline’s eyes flicked to the half-finished canvas, a thoughtful expression crossing her face, “Wow… I didn’t think you’d go back to this. It's been nearly a decade,” She leaned in closer to examine the strokes, "What made you start again?"

Sable shrugged, though her thoughts briefly wandered to Coriolanus and their conversation, “I don’t know… just felt like it was time,”

Seline smiled knowingly, "Well, it's nice to see you pick it up," she said, "Is that why you'd disappeared so the other day?"

Sable paused, her hand hovering over her palette, “No, I was with Coriolanus. I wanted to make sure he was alright,” she said, her focus returning to mixing colours.

“After the… debate,” Seline said thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing slightly, “Is he okay?”

Sable nodded, though she kept her gaze on the paints, “He’s fine. His advisor cleared his schedule, so he’s taking it easy for now,”

Seline’s interest was clearly growing. She perched on the edge of the bed, her gaze never leaving Sable, “You were gone—what, all day—with Coriolanus Snow, just to make sure he was ‘fine’? How fine was he when you left him?”

Sable laughed softly, not looking up from her work, “Nothing salacious happened, if that’s what you’re getting at. We just spent some time together. It was nice.”

Seline tilted her head, studying her sister’s concentrated expression. “I'm sure it was... ” She paused, then added more pointedly, “What did you guys do?”

Sable hesitated, her brush momentarily stilled, “We went to the movies, had lunch. It was… normal. Nothing out of the ordinary,”

Seline raised an eyebrow, leaning in a bit, “So, you’re telling me that you’re just painting again because of a nice day out with Coriolanus? Seems like more than coincidence,”

Sable’s eyes darted to Seline’s, a flicker of surprise in her gaze, “I don’t know what you’re implying,” she said quickly, though the quickness in her response was a bit too pronounced, “It’s just a coincidence. I’ve been wanting to get back into painting for a while,"

Seline’s eyes remained skeptical but friendly, “Just asking. It sounds like you had a pretty good day with him,”

Sable forced a smile, feeling the warmth in her cheeks. “Yes, I suppose I did,”

Seline gave her a knowing look, then grinned, “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Just remember, if you need someone to talk to about more than just painting…” she let her words trail off, a teasing note in her voice.

“I thought you'd be busy with wedding planning,” Sable said, her voice slightly elevated.

Seline chuckled, her expression shifting to a mix of amusement and impatience, “Oh, I am. But I can always make time for my little sister,” she said, giving Sable a quick hug before heading toward the door, "I'll be around if you need me,"

As Seline left, Sable turned her full attention back to the canvas, the earlier conversation a quiet hum in the background of her mind. She dipped her brush into a vibrant shade of blue, her strokes tentative at first, as if she were trying to capture the delicate layers of her day with Coriolanus. The abstract forms began to emerge—swirls of color and fragmented shapes that hinted at the complexities of their interactions.

The rain outside had softened to a light drizzle, its rhythmic patter barely audible over the rustling of her brush against the canvas. Sable’s thoughts drifted to the quiet moments with Coriolanus: the way he’d looked at her, the soft laugh he’d had in his casual clothes, the ease of their conversation. These memories seemed to manifest in her painting as gentle curves and overlapping hues, a visual echo of her internal musings.

Her brush moved with increasing confidence, laying down bold streaks of color juxtaposed with softer, more obscure tones. Each stroke was a reflection of her attempts to understand the depth of her feelings—an abstract representation of the connection she felt was forming between them. The shapes on the canvas were fluid and elusive, much like her emotions: clear in some areas, obscured in others.

As she took a step back to assess her work, Sable could see a turbulent yet harmonious composition emerging. The painting seemed to encapsulate the tumultuous beauty of her emotions, blending moments of clarity with areas of uncertainty. She hoped that as the paint dried, her thoughts and feelings would similarly settle into something more comprehensible.

Coriolanus stood at the edge of his bathroom, his hands gripping the cool marble sink as he stared into the mirror. His reflection offered nothing but the same polished exterior, the one he had mastered over years of careful crafting. But beneath it all, something inside him simmered—frustration, confusion, and, to his dismay, desire.

He had barely been able to focus all morning, his thoughts repeatedly trailing back to Sable. The way she looked at him, the melodious sound of her laughter, her sharp wit that kept him on his toes, and the way her eyes held a captivating spark that ignited something deep inside of him. And how could he forget her alluring physique, the mere thought of it sending a surge of desire through his veins. He was helpless to resist her pull, completely consumed by the intensity of his longing for her.

With a deep breath, he turned on the shower, hoping the water would clear his mind, help him regain control. The bathroom quickly filled with steam, the hot water cascading down his tense muscles as he leaned against the tiles. He closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down, to return to the cool-headed strategist he was known to be.

But instead of cooling him off, the heat of the shower only stoked the fire within. His thoughts wandered, unbidden, back to Sable. He could picture her perfectly—the curve of her smile, the way she had pulled the blanket over both of them, her smaller body pressing snugly against his. His pulse quickened as the water cascaded over him, failing to wash away the vivid, salacious images that flooded his mind.

The more he tried to push the thoughts aside, the stronger they became. He could imagine her close, her warmth melding with his, her lips brushing lightly against his skin. The idea of it consumed him, driving him to madness. It was a sensation he wasn’t accustomed to—dangerous, reckless, and utterly intoxicating. She wasn’t supposed to be this; she was supposed to be a partner in his calculated game of strategy, a necessary piece in his campaign. Yet here she was, invading his mind, the source of desires that refused to relent.

Without thinking, his hand moved instinctively to his semi-hard length, the need for release overwhelming him. He held back, aware of just how easily those thoughts of her could spiral, threatening to push him into a place where control was no longer an option.

His hand moved with a rhythm born of longing and desperation, fingers tracing patterns of imaginary touch upon his skin. He could just imagine her fingers, everything she could do to him, the way she would make him lose control completely. He thought about how good it would feel to push himself inside her, hold her hips down so he could feel her shake beneath him, satiate himself in her heat while she’d wrap her legs around his waist, her slick dripping down her thighs. He hated how hard she made him when she wasn’t even here, how easy it was for him to be reeling over the mere thought of her when she wasn’t even trying and he sped up his motions over himself, the sensation too much to deny.

His body betrayed him, eagerly responding to the fantasies that played out in his mind. The rhythmic movements of his hand brought satisfaction, but his body was also tense and shaking with desire for her. As the water continued to fall on him, it only intensified every sensation until he felt like he was teetering on the edge. In that moment, it wasn't just physical release he craved, but an escape from the torment of his own thoughts.

He leaned against the shower wall with a thud, closing his eyes as he imagined her and only her. He thought about Sable's hands on him instead of his own, picturing her delicate fingers with their beautiful french manicure wrapped around his muscles, caressing his chest and locking fingers with his. His attraction to her was undeniable, but now it was purely carnal. He wanted to make her tremble and writhe underneath him, hear her moans echo through the tight space they were in, and be the sole reason for her losing control

Still, as the water pounded against him, he found himself surrendering to the thoughts, letting them spiral further than they should. His hand was tight around himself, while the other pulled at his balls in a desperate attempt to achieve the throbbing sensation he craved. He moved his hips against his palm, feeling pained by how much power she held over him without even knowing it. Suddenly, a low growl rumbled from his throat and his lips trembled slightly as he felt himself shake with release. He stroked himself until he felt drained and messy.

His breath was ragged and his face flushed as he realized what he had just done for her, without her even knowing. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing and calm down. The hot water washed over him for longer than necessary as he tried to rid himself of thoughts of her, but she still lingered in his mind like a snake coiled tightly around him. He needed to clear his head and remember who he was and what was important. But in this moment, under the raging shower, all he could focus on was her.

Coriolanus stepped out of the shower, feeling both physically relieved and emotionally unsettled. He grabbed a towel and ran it across his skin, the warmth of the steam still clinging to him as if trying to pull him back into the indulgent thoughts he’d just indulged in. His mind, however, fought to reassert control. This was nothing but a necessary outlet, he told himself. A distraction from the mounting pressures of his campaign and the personal chaos that seemed to be creeping in around him.

This wasn’t about Sable. It couldn’t be.

He dried his face and stared into the fogged-up mirror, the blurred reflection staring back at him like some distorted version of himself. With a swipe of his hand, he cleared the surface and looked into his own eyes. What he saw was someone desperate to regain control, to rationalize this moment and keep it separate from what really mattered.

"This is just the game," he murmured to himself, "It's a game..." He’d been in high-stakes environments before, seen how partnerships could blur into something else, but that didn’t mean he had to let it happen here. Not with Sable.

He moved to the wardrobe, pulling on his usual attire with a precision that matched his thought process—careful, deliberate, removing any trace of the intimacy that had slipped into his mind. He couldn’t afford to lose focus, not when Garrison was breathing down his neck about the next stage of his campaign. He buttoned his shirt with renewed determination, the motions grounding him as he mentally recited his goals, his purpose.

This thing with Sable—it wasn’t real.

It was the tension of the work they were doing, the late nights, the emotional stakes of the election. He could compartmentalize it, lock it away like every other weakness that had threatened to distract him over the years. That’s what he did best—push aside anything that didn’t serve the ultimate goal.

He fastened his watch and took a deep breath, a sense of normalcy returning with each step. By the time he was fully dressed, the memory of the shower already felt like a distant indulgence. Coriolanus squared his shoulders and straightened his collar, mentally reinforcing the walls he had just rebuilt around his feelings.

He couldn’t let his emotions—especially ones as messy and uncontrollable as desire—jeopardize everything.

As he walked out of the penthouse, he reminded himself of the path he was on. Politics wasn’t about passion, it was about power. And no matter what happened between him and Sable, it was his power that would define him—not the fleeting distractions of attraction.

Coriolanus had always admired Tigris’s focus and dedication to her craft, but he rarely visited her studio. So when he found himself standing in front of the sleek glass doors of the large building, he hesitated. It was odd, really. He never had reason to visit this place—she usually came to him. But today, his thoughts were a tangled mess, and the need to talk to someone, someone who understood him, was overwhelming.

Pushing open the door, he was met with the familiar scent of fabric and the hum of machines. Tigris was hunched over her work table, meticulously stitching a delicate seam. The space was scattered with swatches of fabric, sketches pinned to the walls, and half-finished garments hanging from racks.

When she looked up, surprise flashed in her eyes, "Coriolanus," she said, straightening, "What are you doing here?"

He forced a smile and gave a nonchalant shrug, "Thought I'd see what you're working on,"

Tigris raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying the casual tone, "Really? When do you ever want to see what I'm working on?"

"I'm just full of surprises, I guess," he walked further into the studio, trying to distract himself by looking around at her work, but his mind kept wandering back to Sable, to the way her eyes had lingered on him, to the way he felt when they were alone. It was ridiculous.

"You’ve been… preoccupied lately," Tigris said, her voice gentle as she continued sewing, "How are you feeling?"

Coriolanus picked up a piece of fabric, running it through his fingers, “I’m fine. Just, you know, the usual—campaign, meetings. Trying to recover,”

She paused, eyes narrowing slightly, "You don’t come to me unless something’s really on your mind. So what’s going on, Coriolanus?"

He stiffened slightly at the his name on her tongue; it sounded so stoney and chilly, just as Sable as said, “Nothing,” he muttered, turning to face her, "Why would something be wrong?"

Tigris leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, "Because you're avoiding the question, and you never avoid questions unless you're hiding something,"

Coriolanus laughed, trying to deflect, “You’re reading too much into this,”

But Tigris wasn’t swayed. She tilted her head, studying him, “Is it about your partnership with Sable?”

His posture stiffened, and for a moment, he debated brushing it off, pretending that the thought of Sable hadn’t been consuming him. But he knew better—Tigris wouldn’t let it go.

“What about it?” he asked, trying to sound indifferent.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time together,” Tigris said, her tone careful, “And from what I’ve heard, not just for the camera, either. That’s not something you’d normally do, especially not for someone you’re just ‘working’ with,”

Coriolanus scoffed, shaking his head, “I had to take a break. We went out for the day. So what?”

Tigris cocked her head, her voice soft but direct, “Are you catching some feelings for her?”

The question hit him harder than he expected. For a brief second, his mind flashed with images—Sable sitting beside him, her quiet laugh, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. His heart skipped a beat, but he forced himself to push it all away.

“No,” he said, too quickly, his voice firm, “There are no feelings. I don’t have time for that—love, relationships… I have no need for a real partner, not now, not ever,”

Tigris didn’t say anything for a moment, watching him with a knowing look that made him feel exposed, “You sound so sure of that,”

He met her gaze, trying to hold on to his conviction, “Yes,” he replied, almost angrily, “I don’t need anyone. I have a campaign to focus on, and she’s part of that. Nothing more,”

Tigris frowned, crossing her arms, “Then why are you here?”

Coriolanus blinked, momentarily thrown off by the directness of her question, "What do you mean?"

“I mean, you never come to the studio, not unless there’s something bothering you,” Tigris said, standing from her desk, “You’re frustrated, Coriolanus. I can see it all over you. You’ve always been good at hiding things, but not from me. So, what’s really going on?”

He shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair, “I just needed to clear my head,” he muttered, “That’s all.”

Tigris took a step closer, her eyes narrowing in concern, “Clearing your head… or running from it? You can tell yourself it’s nothing, that you don’t feel anything for her, but I think you came here because deep down, you know that’s a lie.”

“I’m not running from anything,” he snapped, the frustration spilling over, “I don’t need to… talk about this.”

Tigris studied him for a moment, her gaze softening, “You don’t have to admit it to me, Corio, but at least be honest with yourself,” She paused, letting her words settle in, “You’ve always been so focused on winning. But at what cost?”

He felt the tension tightening in his chest. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. He didn’t come here to dissect his feelings, but the truth was, Tigris was right—he wouldn’t have sought her out unless something was gnawing at him. And now that he was here, it felt impossible to deny.

“I can’t afford to be distracted,” he finally said, his voice quieter now. “Not by her, not by anyone. This campaign is too important,”

Tigris shook her head. “And what happens when it’s over? What will you be left with?”

Coriolanus didn’t answer, the question lingering between them like a weight he wasn’t ready to carry. He turned away, staring at the half-finished designs scattered around the studio, searching for something, anything, to divert the conversation.

But the truth had already been spoken.

Coriolanus sat stiffly in the sitting room of the Hanover residence, his gaze fixed on the ornate clock on the mantle. Every tick of the second hand seemed louder in the quiet space, filling the awkward silence between him and Phillip Hanover, who sat across from him, arms folded and eyes narrowed in thought. Coriolanus felt the weight of the man’s silent judgment—he didn’t need words to know that Phillip wasn’t planning to vote for him in the upcoming election.

Phillip was seated in a high-backed armchair by the window, his gaze lingering on Coriolanus with an unreadable intensity. The older man hadn’t said much since Sable had gone upstairs to finish getting ready, but his silence spoke volumes.

Coriolanus cleared his throat, his posture a careful mix of confidence and politeness, "It's a beautiful home you have here, Mr. Hanover," he said, trying to break the tension.

Phillip finally looked away from the window, his expression unchanged, "It's been in the family for generations," he replied stiffly, as though that piece of information was more important than anything Coriolanus had to offer, "I assume your place is... different."

Coriolanus didn’t miss the slight edge in the man’s tone, but he forced a smile anyway, "Quite different, yes. More modern," he offered.

Meanwhile Eleanor Hanover shifted in her seat, her polite smile doing little to break the tension, “I’ll just go check on the tea,” she said with a faint, almost nervous chuckle, not quite meeting Coriolanus’s eyes as she hurried back out.

The silence returned, heavier this time, and Coriolanus found himself checking the time on his watch, hoping Sable would return soon. He wasn’t used to being uncomfortable in any setting, let alone with someone’s family. But Phillip had a way of making him feel like an intruder in this world, and it was beginning to wear on his carefully maintained composure.

Phillip leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing as he scrutinized Coriolanus again. "Sable doesn't bring many people here," he commented, the words slow and deliberate, "You must have made quite the impression,"

Coriolanus gave a small nod, unsure of how to respond without sounding too forward, "She and I have a quite a bit in common, turns out,"

Phillip’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, "I’m sure you do..."

Before Coriolanus could answer, the sound of footsteps echoed down the stairs, and both men turned to see Sable descending, dressed in a sleek, elegant outfit that perfectly balanced sophistication and subtle allure. The sight of her brought an immediate wave of relief, but also a flicker of something more intense. Something he had yet to fully admit to himself.

"Sable," he greeted, rising to his feet, his tone carrying just the slightest edge of relief.

Phillip’s expression softened as his daughter entered the room, but only marginally. There was still an air of protectiveness about him, though he said nothing as Sable crossed the room toward Coriolanus.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said, her tone warm. Then, with a playful glance at her father, she added, "I hope you haven’t been scaring him, Father,"

Phillip gave a small, humorless smile, the type that barely touched his eyes, "Just a polite conversation, nothing more," he replied, his tone still carrying that edge. He looked back at Coriolanus, the weight of his scrutiny unmistakable, "I trust Mr. Snow can handle himself."

Sable let out a quiet laugh, though the tension still hovered in the air. "He can," she said lightly, stepping closer to Coriolanus and giving her father a gentle but pointed look, "Anyway, we won’t be too late,"

"Take your time," Phillip said, though his tone suggested otherwise.

Coriolanus felt the shift in atmosphere as soon as Sable stood beside him, her presence offering some respite from the quiet inquisition. He gave a quick, polite nod to Phillip before turning to Sable. "Shall we?" he asked, offering her his arm.

She took it with a smile, and as they walked toward the door, the car was already waiting for them outside. Coriolanus leaned in just enough to whisper, "He's quite an intense man,"

“He's... protective, but don’t worry, he’ll come around,” she assured him.

Coriolanus smiled faintly, though a part of him wasn’t so sure. As they stepped outside, the weight of Phillip’s stare still clung to him, a subtle reminder of the scrutiny that came with every part of this delicate partnership.

The Capitol buzzed with anticipation as Coriolanus and Sable arrived at the grand event. The venue was draped in the opulence expected of such an occasion, with shimmering banners depicting the new arena hanging high above the entrance. The scent of power and ambition lingered in the air as Capitol elites gathered to catch a glimpse of what was to come: the next Hunger Games. It was a showcase of Capitol dominance, a spectacle designed to remind every district of their place, and it was Coriolanus’s chance to prove his unwavering loyalty to its values.

As they stepped out of the car, cameras flashed from all angles, capturing the perfect image of the pair—Coriolanus Snow, the up-and-coming politician, and Sable, his poised and graceful companion. Coriolanus could feel the weight of expectations pressing down on him as he adjusted his coat, his expression calculated to project power and confidence.

Beside him, however, Sable shifted uncomfortably, her gaze scanning the crowd and the large screens previewing the tributes' profiles and shots of the arena. Her lips pressed together in a faint frown, betraying the unease she had managed to hide earlier. The cheering of the crowd, the excited chatter about the tributes, and the palpable thrill that hung over the event—it all seemed to grate against something deep inside her.

“Are you alright?” Coriolanus asked quietly, leaning in just enough to keep the conversation between them as they strode toward the entrance.

“I’m fine,” she replied quickly, though her voice lacked conviction. Her eyes lingered on the images flashing across the screen, the tributes’ faces illuminated in vivid, unnerving detail, “It’s just… a lot.”

“We need to stay on-brand tonight,” he reminded her gently, though his tone carried an edge of authority, “This is important for both of us,”

"I know," Sable nodded but didn’t look convinced. As they passed through the gilded doors, a murmur of excitement rippled through the attendees. Coriolanus straightened his back, reminding himself of the stakes. This event was crucial for his campaign, a chance to prove that he was as committed to the Capitol's future as anyone else.

But as the spectacle unfolded before them, with Capitol officials reveling in the upcoming Games and the political maneuvering hidden beneath the pomp and circumstance, the divide between them began to widen. Sable’s unease was palpable, and Coriolanus knew it would only grow as the night went on. Yet, they had to play their parts.

Lucky Flickerman's voice boomed across the event hall, filling the air with excitement as the festivities kicked into full swing. His signature flamboyant style captivated the audience, his wide grin never wavering as he introduced the tributes one by one. Their names and faces flashed on the massive arena screens, each tribute forced into the spotlight before the Capitol’s hungry eyes.

Coriolanus sat rigid, his gaze locked on the screen as each tribute’s face appeared. He paid close attention, his expression stone-cold and analytical. These were the young lives that would compete in the upcoming Games, a key piece of the Capitol's power reigning strong. Beside him, Sable sat quietly, but he could sense the tension radiating off her. She shifted in her seat, her movements small but telling.

As Lucky announced the girl from District 3, a close-up of her face appeared, her eyes wide with fear. The young girl couldn't have been older than fifteen, her hands shaking as she clutched her district token. The Capitol crowd roared with approval, feeding off her terror, but Sable’s breath caught in her throat. She glanced away, trying to focus on anything but the screen, but the image of the girl’s fearful face was burned into her mind. That could've easily been anyone... it could've even been her...

Sable's discomfort deepened with every passing second, the oppressive atmosphere around her becoming unbearable. Coriolanus, absorbed in the political gravity of the event, didn’t seem to notice her growing unease until she suddenly rose from her seat.

“Excuse me,” Sable muttered, her voice tight as she excused herself, slipping away from the row of seats. Her steps were quick, but she did her best to keep her composure, though the weight of the crowd’s cheering gnawed at her. She needed air—anything to get away from the spectacle unfolding in front of her.

Coriolanus blinked, taken off guard by her abrupt departure. He watched her weave through the crowd, her figure quickly swallowed by the opulent decor and flashing lights of the event hall. Puzzlement washed over him. Sable had known what this evening would entail. She had seemed composed, prepared to play her role, yet now she was fleeing the spectacle. He was left with a decision to make—should he follow her or stay where he was?

The crowd was still enraptured, cheering and laughing as the tributes continued to be displayed. Lucky Flickerman's voice was barely a hum in the background as Coriolanus’ mind raced. His instinct told him to stay—this was too important an event to abandon. Yet something gnawed at him, pulling his thoughts toward Sable and her discomfort.

Across the room, Coriolanus caught a glimpse of Eldrige Barbery. Barbery was watching him, his gaze sharp and calculating, as if taking note of Coriolanus’s every move. The pressure weighed heavier on Coriolanus’s shoulders—this was an opportunity to solidify his place in Capitol politics, to show unwavering loyalty to the Games and the Capitol’s cause. But the memory of Sable’s tense expression lingered.

His jaw tightened. He couldn’t afford distractions, not now. Not when so many eyes were on him.

Yet the thought of Sable, her unease, and the crack in her composure tugged at him in a way that was hard to shake.

Beside him, Garrison grumbled under his breath, "Where the hell is she going?"

Coriolanus simply shrugged, "The bathroom, perhaps?" he tried to focus on the show before him. However, with one more quick glance, Coriolanus noticed that Eldridge too was gone.

Sable leaned against the cool marble sink in the bathroom, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to regain her composure. Her chest felt tight, and her pulse thrummed loudly in her ears. She stared at her reflection in the ornate mirror, the dim lighting casting a soft glow on her flushed cheeks. Her eyes, watery and red-rimmed, betrayed the emotions she had worked so hard to suppress.

"Calm down... calm down" she whispered shakily, grabbing a tissue and dabbing carefully at the corners of her eyes. The last thing she needed was anyone noticing she had been upset. The Capitol’s events demanded perfection—composure at all times, no matter what was happening inside.

But the image of the girl from District 3 lingered. The terror in her eyes, the helplessness of someone who knew they were walking to their death. Sable had seen that fear before. In herself. She wasn’t in the Games, no, but every time she saw the spectacle paraded in front of the Capitol, she was reminded of how fragile life could be, even for people like her. There was no real safety. No true escape from the Capitol’s insidious grip. It could destroy lives, or twist them in ways that left you hollow inside.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to think of something else—anything else. Her hands fumbled with her makeup bag as she touched up her foundation, smoothing the edges and reapplying her lipstick with precision. No one would know she had been crying. She wouldn't let them.

And then, almost involuntarily, her thoughts drifted to Coriolanus.

He was an enigma to her. A man of ambition and control, but beneath that, there was something else. Something tortured. She had seen glimpses of it, when he wasn’t so guarded, when his gaze softened, and his armor cracked. It confused her, how one person could be so hardened and yet so… human at the same time.

When he had held her gaze during their conversations, when he had smiled—not the political, rehearsed smile he used for others, but the quiet one he reserved for moments of sincerity—she had felt something. Chosen. Protected. As if in that fleeting connection, there was a safety in him she hadn’t known she craved.

But it made no sense. Coriolanus wasn’t the type to offer safety or comfort. He was strategic, driven, always focused on his goals. And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he saw something in her that went beyond their shared ambition.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, and she realized how long she had been standing there, lost in her thoughts. With one final glance at the mirror, she steeled herself and stepped out of the bathroom, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor.

As she walked back toward the main hall, her path was blocked by a tall, imposing figure—Eldridge Barbery. His eyes gleamed with interest as he smiled, clearly having noticed her retreat from the event.

"Miss Hanover," Eldridge Barbery greeted smoothly, his voice rich and pleasant, though there was always an underlying edge to it. He stood tall, his lean physique and sharply tailored suit accentuating his commanding presence. His slate-gray eyes, sharp and discerning, studied her with an intensity that made her skin prickle, "Are you alright? It seemed like you needed a break from the festivities,"

Sable's heartbeat quickened, her guard rising instinctively. Barbery was a powerful figure, and she was well aware of his role in Capitol politics. The last thing she wanted was for him to notice her weakness.

"I’m fine," she replied, offering a polite smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes, "If you call that... that freak show out there 'festivities', I'd hate to see what your idea of a 'party' is,"

Barbery tilted his head slightly, his dark hair impeccably styled, as he observed her with a calculating gaze, "I understand. These events can be overwhelming at times. How about a drink? Something to calm the nerves, perhaps,"

Her first instinct was to decline, to find an excuse to leave and return to her seat. But Barbery wasn’t someone easily brushed off. His refined, almost regal demeanor made it clear that subtle refusals could be seen as offensive.

She nodded slowly. "That sounds… nice, thank you,"

[sudriantraveler]

Traintober 2024 Day 30: Oncoming Storm

1943

Storm clouds swirled and darkened the sky, as an engine and its train puffed slowly through the English countryside.

The engine was a strange, boxy sort. One of Oliver Bulleid’s Q1 goods engines built with austerity in mind.

Despite being barely a year old, wartime service had taken a toll on him. His matte black paint, hardly a handsome look even when new, was covered in soot and grime, and a hoarse, tired panting sound emerged from his funnel.

The rain pelted down, and a distant roar of thunder shook the air.

The engine shuddered, and glanced nervously up at the angry sky.

Air-raids were an ever-present danger, which might loom behind every cloud.

"But surely..." the engine thought, "No aircraft, friend or enemy, would dare to fly in this stuff".

So despite the weather, he almost allowed himself to feel relieved.

At least there would be nothing more than rain.

That relief was soon gone however.

A chill ran through the engine's boiler, as through the storm the unmistakable drone of an aircraft rumbled overhead.

Its yellow nose emerged from the clouds, followed by a sinister gray body.

The black crosses on its wings boldly marked it an agent of death.

The engine saw it circle overhead, buffeted by wind and rain as it did so.

Slowly, painfully slowly, like a predator stalking its prey, it turned.

Then, it dipped its wings and dived towards the train.

The engine roared in fright, smoke poured from his funnel as he dragged the heavy train faster and faster.

He wanted to break the couplings all together, drop the train and run. But the couplings held, the rails curved up a steep hill, and his escape was painfully slow.

The aircraft's guns pointed out from its yellow nose, its sights aimed directly at the fleeing engine.

With great relief the engine crested the top of the hill.

The trucks, equally terrified at the prospect of being left behind, pushed forward, and with their surging weight the train rocketed down the hill, just as the aircraft guns flashed into life.

The crew ducked for cover as tracers blazed past their engine's boiler, burying into the ground and ricocheting off the rails.

Too close, Too Close, TOO CLOSE!

The engine whistled in terror as the winged beast zoomed overhead.

He could only watch, horrified, as it pulled up into a climbing turn, readying itself for another shot.

It was like it was toying with him.

Whistling fit to bust, the train raced down the line. Green fields gave way to houses, and air-raid sirens blared as the nearby town awoke to the ongoing attack.

The engine screamed through the station, feeling little relief even as searchlights and flak burst pierced the stormy sky.

The plane flew doggedly on, dodging ground-fire with almost unnatural swiftness and ease.

Diving in for another pass, it fired again. Metal punctured and tore, and the engine yelped as red hot pain reverberated through his side.

Cold wind blew through the newly opened gaps in his boiler cladding, and steam hissed from the bullet holes piercing his cylinder block.

He desperately tried to fight the pain and keep going. But his vision blurred, and his speed grew slower and slower.

He was a sitting duck.

Again the aircraft rose up, climbing and turning into position for what would surely be the final time.

The engine watched as the plane flew in towards him again, head on.

Its yellow nose grew larger and larger, the cannon mounted in its center bloomed as a black flower of death.

For both machines, the world narrowed into that single weapon.

The aircraft had just put its sights on target, when a searchlight beamed directly onto it.

It fired blindly, only barely missing its mark, as the dazzling light was followed by a flak burst striking clean into its cockpit.

The aircraft shook violently from the impact. Blood and oil sprayed out into its prop-wash, trailing behind in a fine mist which fell down over its would-be victim as it roared mere feet overhead.

Out of control, its dead pilot's hands limp on the stick, the wounded bird slowly pulled away into an unsteady climb.

Searchlights and ground-fire pursued it all the while, until it disappeared back into the storm clouds, and in a flash of lightning it vanished from the world of the living.

The rain continued to pour down, as back on the ground the engine and its train wheezed slowly to a halt.

His crew jumped down from the cab to inspect the damage, as he groaned and cried through escaping steam.

As the engine faded in and out of consciousness, fighting exhaustion and pain, he could only barely register that he was somehow still alive.

[lxvemaze]

彡dahlias and devotion

pairing' photographer!taemin x painter!reader

genre' fluff

warnings' takes place sometime before cellphones and digital cameras (landlines and film cameras are used, don't ask why me why bc idk, it was just the vibes), taemin is a bit of an oddball as per usual, reader matches his freak

wc' 3k

a/n' this thought just came to me and it was too cute to put down :3 my mom has been really into floristry my whole life, and always gets my dad dahlias for their anniversary bc she says they represent eternal love<3 so thank u mom for giving me the inspiration to actually write a fic

You watched with a smile as you saw the puff of cold air escape your mouth as you breathed out, rubbing your hands together to warm them while you sat on your painting chair. The cold autumn weather had given you a stroke of inspiration, prompting you to grab your paints and rush out onto your balcony to paint the warm-toned leaves against the cool-toned sky. You lived on the fifth floor of a shabby apartment complex. It was certainly nothing to brag about, what with the heating/cooling system being broken, and despite the fact that you’ve been calling him every other day to come up for the past three weeks, your landlord still hadn’t been up to check on your broken bathroom sink. but it was home.

The smell of turpentine mixing with the oil paints on your palette always caused your nose to curl, and as brush met canvas, as quickly as the inspiration had burst into your mind, it faded out. You were sat staring blankly at your canvas in the crisp October air, goosebumps starting to painfully form on your arms and legs. You groaned and rubbed the tense spot between your eyebrows, this wasn’t the first time you’d had a sudden flash of inspiration that left you just as quickly as it came, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Usually when this happened, you would go for a walk to calm your mind. As much as you loved it, you oftentimes got frustrated easily when it came to painting. Painting was your one and only love in the world, and as you walked through the city streets while the sun set through the autumn leaves, casting beautiful shadows on the street, it was easy to see why you loved to paint. Painting offered you a way to express how you felt without needing to say anything. You never were very good with your words, especially when it came to describing things that you loved. So being able to paint the beautiful trees, flowers, and people that you came across was imperative to showing others how you felt.

Your feet were on autopilot, taking you to a secluded pretty little park by the river. You hadn’t been here in months, you’re not really sure why you had ended up here, but something caught your eye as you walked the overgrown cobblestone path. Even though it was late in October and the first snow of the year was surely almost here, a small patch of Dahlias had bloomed by one of the big oak trees just off the path.

You carefully stepped towards the patch of flowers, careful not to tread on the surrounding vegetation, and kneeled down to peer at the flora. Under any normal circumstance, these flowers shouldn’t have been blooming that late in the year, especially not with the cold wave that had taken over the city.

You were about to stand up and leave the curiosity behind before you saw a quick flash of light and heard the shutter of a camera. You quickly turned around to see a man standing a few paces to your right on the cobblestone path. You stood up, shock clearly evident on your face as the man's content smile slipped off his face and he raised his hands up to show you that he meant no harm.

“I’m sorry, that was just a really beautiful scene.”

“...I’m sorry?”

His arms dropped to his sides as he bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet, “I mean, just the way you were looking at the flowers. I don’t blame you, I was shocked to see them, too. Dahlias don’t usually bloom this late in the year.”

“No…they don’t.” You agreed as the man approached the patch of flora, making sure to keep a respectful distance between yourself and him. He peered down at the flowers, raising his camera up to his face before taking a shot of the flowers by themselves.

“You a big flower person?” He asked as he shifted to the other side of the flowers, snapping a picture from the different angle.

“I don’t know much about them, but I like to paint them.”

“You paint? That’s amazing. I’ve always wanted to learn to paint.” He let out an almost wistful sigh as he stood back up, taking a few paces back and taking another picture. You observed the photographer as he took several pictures from differing angles, adjusting the lens on his camera between pictures.

“Do you know much about flowers?”

“Ah, I guess so. A friend of mine has a column in the local paper about flowers, so he’ll send me out to get pictures for him. I’ve definitely learned a thing or two from it.”

You and the man looked in silence at the patch of flowers, the bright orange of the flower standing out in stark contrast to the gray-green grass and the cool brown of the oak tree.

“Hey…I don’t mean to sound too forward, but do you think you could get me one of the photos you took of the Dahlias?”

He looked thrown off for a second before breaking into a giddy grin, “Of course! Are you going to paint it? That’s so cool! You don’t have to pay me for it or anything, even! Are you going to paint it? Did I just assume that? I could be a horrible photographer for all you know, though. I’m not saying I am! But you know, you never know.”

He cut his rambling short as he saw the clearly perplexed look on your face. He took half a step back, his hands nervously playing with the straps of his camera as he waited for your response. You didn’t quite know what to think of the odd photographer, but something about his awkward demeanor and sweet energy told you that you could trust him to not murder you. Was that potentially a mistake? Of course. But for the sake of art, you were willing to risk it

“I was definitely planning on painting it. How about I give you my number? You can call me when you’re done developing the pictures and thenI’ll give you my address so you can come drop it off.”

The man broke out into the same giddy grin as before and fumbled around in the pockets of his khaki trench coat for a moment before producing a notepad and pen, eagerly pushing them into your hands. You quickly jotted down your number on the first empty page and handed it back to the man who smiled at your writing for a moment before shoving the notepad and pen back into his pocket.

You gave the man a quick smile before turning back onto the cobblestone path and making your way back to your apartment building.

“Hey, wait! I didn’t catch your name!” You turned around at the man’s voice to see him still standing by the patch of Dahlias, fiddling with his camera straps again. You called out your name to him, and heard him quietly repeat it back to himself. “That’s beautiful! I’m Taemin, Lee Taemin!”

“I’ll talk to you soon, Taemin.” You parted with those words and left him grinning at your retreating form.

Nearly a week had passed, and you were starting to think that you weren’t going to hear from Taemin. You’d spend over a dozen hours of the past week just staring at the blank canvas that lived on your easel. You’d gone on several walks to different parts of the city, but your mind always wandered to that patch of Dahlias and that strange photographer. You were laying on the old, tattered red couch in your living room, staring blankly at your old paintings on the wall, wishing and waiting for inspiration to strike when you heard the phone ring.

You immediately sprang from your sofa and ran over to the phone that hung on the wall, tearing the receiver from its hook and practically spitting out a rushed, “Hello? Who is this?” You could’ve cried of happiness when you heard Taemin’s voice on the other end telling you that he had finally gotten around to developing the photos. You quickly gave him your address and told him to come over as soon as he could. After he assured you that he would be over in less than an hour, you made your way back over to your sofa and plopped back down, throwing up your fists in victory.

Forty-five minutes later, you heard a knock on your door, and you quickly rushed to look through the peephole. After seeing a slightly out-of-breath Taemin, you quickly took the chain off and turned the deadbolt and wrenched open the door, causing Taemin to jump back in shock, clearly not expecting such an enthusiastic welcome. You invited him in and watched as he took in his surroundings.

Your apartment was nothing special; it was small, a little cramped, and definitely had what some might call a “maximalist vibe”. There were piles of reference books and old masters’ biographies scattered around, several blank canvases on the floor leaning against the walls, and Taemin would have guessed that there was nearly a hundred paintings of all sizes and mediums either hanging or pinned to the wall. There were so many pieces of art on the wall, he could hardly see the dark blue that your apartment was painted in. He turned to see you standing by your small white fridge, smiling expectantly up at him. 

“Oh! I have the picture.” He quickly opened the brown cross-body satchel that he carried, and from the depths, retrieved a small white envelope containing what you hoped would be the solution to your crippling artist block. You excitedly snatched the envelope from his glove-adorned hands and carefully tore the envelope open. You carefully extracted the small picture from the white envelope, and your jaw nearly hit the floor once you observed what was actually on the small film. You hadn’t expected much if you were being completely honest, but you never in your wildest dreams would have expected Taemin to have produced something as beautiful as the picture you held in your hands.

The way that the warm light from the setting sun hit the dew on the vibrant orange flowers struck you in such a way, you were completely awestruck. You looked up to see Taemin quietly observing your reaction, a slightly concerned look on his face as he saw the expression you were making.

“Is it okay?”

The question somehow made your jaw drop even more. Your eyes fluttering from the photographer back down to the picture and back up to him again, you continued to gawk at him in shock as you struggled to find the words to describe how you felt.

“I��It is…Usable.” You mentally face-palmed at your own words as you saw Taemin’s expression fall slightly as he nodded.

“I mean! Come back in a couple weeks!. So you can see the painting and get your picture back. Is that okay?”

A slightly put-out Taemin agreed, and you quickly ushered him out of your house so you could start immediately.

Over the next weeks, you were practically glued to your easel. From that one singular picture, you’d managed to produce over a dozen paintings, and although they were all beautiful in your mind, none of them felt right. The frustration in you was nearly ready to bubble over and you stared at the picture. You tried different mediums, different brush techniques, different canvas sizes, but nothing felt right. You leaned onto the two back legs on your chair and closed your eyes, letting yourself breath for a moment and letting your mind wander. 

You started thinking about when you first saw that patch of Dahlias…The surprise you felt when you saw the bright orange petals against the dull October grass…You thought about when Taemin first took the pictures, all the different angles he had tried to get the perfect picture…The concentration in his brown eyes as he brought the camera up to his face…The way he brushed his hair out of his eyes when he leaned over the flowers…The way his hands looked at his fiddled with the lens…The way he pursed his plump lips when he knew he didn’t get the right shot…

You slammed your chair back down onto all four legs as soon as you realized just how far your mind had wandered. He’d been on your mind more than usual. Lee Taemin. The odd, handsome photographer. You found yourself hoping every day to get a phone call from him, or for him to show up at your door. You often found yourself thinking of the cool tones of his dark brown hair that contrasted with the warm brown of his eyes…You shook your head as if to clear those thoughts from your mind and picked back up your paintbrush. Don’t think. Just paint.

And paint, you did.

The next day, you heard a knock on your door as you were curled up in the corner of your sofa, blanket around your shoulders, staring in bewilderment at your own creation. You didn’t know what you had been thinking when you painted that, because you weren’t thinking at all. You just did it. You slowly got up from your spot on the sofa, stretching your sore limbs out as you stood and walked over to the door. You almost audibly gasped as you saw none other than Lee Taemin standing patiently outside your door. You took one quick look at your painting before tossing the blanket that had been around your shoulders over the easel. You took a second to compose yourself before nervously opening your apartment door to a smiling Taemin.

“You told me to come back in a few days, so here I am!”

“Uhh…Yeah…Come in.” You stood to the side to let Taemin in, silently praying that he for some reason had no interest in seeing your finished product and just wanted his picture back. You closed the door and turned around to see Taemin smiling expectantly at you, arms behind his back, standing ever-so-politely in your living room. 

“Um…Here’s your picture back!” You quickly grabbed the picture from the small table by your easel and thrusted it into his hands, internally begging him to just turn around and leave so you never had to look him in the eyes ever again.

He slowly put the picture in his pocket, keeping confused eye contact with you, “Can I…See the painting?”

You silently cursed him and his beautiful big brown eyes, finding it hard to out-right deny him. You fumbled with your words, practically twiddling your thumbs as you deliberately avoided looking at his increasingly confused expression.

“Okay well…” You sighed in defeat, finally looking up from the ground back to his face, “Just don’t…Immediately run out once you see it?”

He gave you a concerned look, but nodded nevertheless. You took a deep breath and slowly removed the blanket from the easel. You avoided looking at his face, expecting him to voice his protests as soon as he processed what he was seeing.

“That’s…So beautiful.”

Your eyes snapped up to Taemin who was looking in awe at the intricate oil painting. What you saw as something you had made in a dazed, tired- maybe a little bit enamored- stupor, Taemin saw the most beautiful work of devotion he’d ever seen. It was an intricate oil on canvas portrait of Taemin himself, adorned in brightly colored Dahlias of all shapes and sizes, every one of which was more detailed than the last and shaded to perfection. The actual portrait was painted in such a way that beautifully contrasted against the Dahlias, the cool of Taemin’s hair and skin juxtaposed to the warm oranges and reds used to paint the flowers and eyes left Taemin absolutely breathless.

“You actually like it? You don’t think it’s like…Weird?” Taemin tore his eyes away from the canvas to see you looking at him in what could only be described as shame. He was flabbergasted for a moment, unable to decipher exactly how or why you could have possibly thought he wouldn’t like what he thought was surely the most beautiful work of art he’d ever laid eyes on.

“How could I not like it? I’ve never felt so…Loved. In my entire life.”

Your eyes made their way to Taemin’s, trying to see any hint of deception, any hint of disgust, anything that would tell you that he was lying to you, even if just to spare your feelings. But there was nothing but warmth in his brown eyes. Nothing but love.

“Do you think I could keep it? The painting?”

“Of course.” You breathed out, neither you nor Taemin breaking eye contact. He took a step forward and gently took your paint-stained hands into his soft ones. Your name fell from his lips as he brushed his thumbs over your knuckles. One of his hands dropped from yours and he reached into his coat pocket to grab something.

“I’ve carried this in my pocket since I first developed those photos.”

You looked down at what he was referring to, and your mouth fell open as you saw the first photo that he took on that day all those weeks back, the picture of you kneeling over the Dahlias.

“You’ve been on my mind every second of every day since that day in October. I was too nervous to say, but after seeing this…I finally feel the courage to say it-”

You cut Taemin off by throwing your arms around his neck. You couldn’t find the words to describe the joy you felt, the relief you felt, the love you felt. But the knowledge that Taemin felt the same more than made up for your lack of words.

[riskyalt]

@anonymous-dentist's SPIDERBIT WEEK! Day 1 but a bit late cause I thought it started on a Monday not a Sunday, perdón😔 I used the prompt Coffee :]

--------

Cellbit's vision is undoubtedly, unfortunately, not holding up to the level of activity his brain seems to be promoting. It's in the haphazard scrambling with flung out thoughts and half-baked theories that only make sense if he squints where he realises this investigation is beginning it's downward arc. it's the restless yet consistent energy, like gears turning in time with each other in a way the mechanism isn't oiled for. He distantly recognises this as a symptom of his constant fatigue and insomnia, but did he really care?

He was on a roll though, and had been for the last however many hours. The surrounding world fades into something unimportant and small, an option appearing for him to render it into his conscious or not. His ear flicks, goggles long since strewn across the table's corner by the dried ink blot where his pens sit, and he thinks about how all he can fixate on is the computer screen and the keyboard his fingers dance across.

He would be remorseful, truly would be if the circumstances and stakes were different. He's sure he would regret that crick in his back, the pounding ache of his spinal chord, that knee-deep layer of quicksand his body is suddenly trapped under - he's positive complaints would flow out of his mouth just as willingly as he chooses to subject himself to this in the first place.

Though the stakes are far higher than merely a few pains and aches here and there blooming across his body - the weight of friend's lives rest on his mind, so might as well tough out however long this nightmare will last. After all, this is far from anything compared to where he grew up. He can handle this, easy.

Cramped fingers reach for a black coffee cup, painted to resemble the Ordo's eye on the front. He's pale, as reflected by his skin against the mug, but he doesn't bother to spend braincells trying to think about that, instead feeding off the jolt of consciousness at the cold of the ceramic against his palm. There's…a liquid sloshing about inside, strange looking and smelling, something he once claimed was 'coffee'.

To his defence, he thinks to himself as he scrunches his nose and lifts to take a sip, he's never been bad at making or rating coffee. In fact, he would dare to call himself an expert on the drink. It's his obsession, his hobby, to the point that Felps liked to joke that half his bloodstream is made up of the substance. He grimaces at the reminder.

Cellbit chugs the minimal amount left, robotically putting down the mug onto a worn coaster sitting on his right. He's just so over the effort it takes to make genuinely good coffee that's up to his critical standard - no doubt effort and energy that cannot be spent on something so meaningless right now. He has a job to do, and he better do it well.

His rosetted tail curls from where it's hanging off the wooden chair, he scratches at his leg with the heel of his shoe. Ah, but here he is, getting sidetracked and lost in the restraints of his own mind.

Again.

He needs to get himself together, urgently.

Fatigued and lifeless blue eyes, like shards of ice under moonlight haul themselves off the painted mug and back onto the piercing display of his monitor. The pixels must be seared into his gaze permanently, the light must haunt his visage after countless days spent down here with nothing but the device as his companion.

There's a document displayed, he knows because he opened it twenty minutes ago, yet his brain is uncooperative and doesn't allow him to read it properly. The effort of translating is sapping mental strength from reserves he doesn't have, and generally tonight was going great until his vision gave out right under his nose.

Well. Actually it had been going downhill for a long time now.

He squints at the paper-white colour of the backing, carefully tracing the black imprints of letters on the page. He thinks he can read what it's saying, but as soon as that thought forms it slips away from his hands like a fish flashing past in a fast moving stream.

His pen taps against the edge of his notebook, harsh ceiling light drilling a needle further into his aching cranium.

The islanders needs him. They do.

He'll allow himself to just wish, at the least, that he could get better coffee. Though Cellbit's wished a lot in his life, and he can confidently conclude it does jack all. Wishing on a lucky star won't bring His warm laugh back will it.

His entire body flinches and soul startles into the tangible when he hears the sound of an elevator working, hissing sound causing jarring spontaneous panic to slam against his chest.

His heart beats against his ribs as the first outline of said intruder appears, leaving Cellbit frozen down to his position from the chair.

Black hair, exercised, same height-

It's not…..it isn't…that thing. He hates how quickly his mind stills at the conclusion. He blinks.

Cellbit releases a large breath as the familiar almond light of Roier's eyes catch his. The ocelot's hand instinctively clutches his chest, shoulders loosening and tail relaxing as the Mexican steps out from the teletransporter and further into the light of his office. "Que susto porra!" He exclaims, feeding off panic that's no longer present simply to pester.

He marvels in how much lighter his body feels at the familiarity and normalness of Roier's presence. He's like a sun, and here Cellbit is soaking up the light.

"Perdón, perdón, no queria asustarte." Roier laughs, smiling, fondly. It's not the splitting ear to ear grin that the man usually easily sports, something more melancholic and weak present about it. There are bags under his eyes, something unusual about the way his subsidiary spider features are cracked open. The arachnid still has overalls on, the same ones that-

Cellbit smiles back, just as soft with no one but them in audience, all pretend fear forgotten. He leans back on his chair and takes his hands off the keyboard, waiting for Roier to gather himself and begin speaking. He's totally not admiring how pretty the man is under the light of his office. Nope. His ears perk up.

"I heard you were working yourself to death, and Forever is asleep, so I decided if I can't get you to stop I'll at least help. So, I brought this." Roier proudly presents- a…white mug? It's steaming, wonderful aroma of ground coffee beans emanating from the top as any questions he may have had slip right out of his grasp. Cellbit has already lost any remaining interest in even considering his computer screen. His vision goes crystal clear if only for the mug.

"Qué es?" He tries to put as much enthusiasm as he can cram into the words, watching the Mexican's features light up at Cellbit's curiosity as he places the steaming plain white mug on the coaster and removes the black one.

The Mexican's face scrunches in a manner the Brazilian can only describe as cute when he peers into the contents of the black mug. Naturally, the chanting in Cellbit's head is unanimously saying 'fofo' on loop. For the first time, he can't exactly disagree. He pointedly ignores the flutter in his stomach.

"Qué es esto wey? What are you drinking man! Parece cemento!?" Roier's half gloved hands wiggle the mug back and forth, brows furrowed as his gaze slides back to Cellbit's face. The Brazilian smothers a laugh and nods seriously. "Yeah, you know the machine ran out so…had to get some from outside. Quick snack." He shrugs innocently, watching Roier's mouth open and his extra eyes widen.

"QUÉ-" Cellbit begins to laugh at the comical reaction, cutting the Mexican off as he too snorts in return. "Pendejo." Roier mutters, before moving away from Cellbit's desk, taking the painted mug and placing it on the glass coffee table across. Cellbit wonders why he feels a pang of disappointment at the lost proximity.

Roier flops down on the couch opposite his desk, halfheartedly rubbing at his face. Cellbit's still smiling, he knows, because this position for his features to assume for this long is unnatural and foreign to him, yet he doesn't quite find it in him to care.

"Ok, culero, drink while it's hot, I'm tired." The comment is light hearted as Roier motions from his sprawled out position towards the mug sitting on the coaster, yet Cellbit feels there's more truth to that statement than the man is letting on. He can literally see the lines of fatigue traced on the once pure-spirited visage, but remorsefully he shuts out his detective brain. He doesn't want to overstep where he's not welcome, especially after what happened to the man's literal son. Later he'd have to check up on the guy, make sure there's at least something he can provide to ease that buried hurt.

Cellbit quickly shifts his attention down to the mug, and immediately gawks at it. He can hear Roier's satisfied smirk, but-

Not only does it smell angelic, there's marshmallows scattered on the top and what he can definitely tell is cinnamon powdered on. Oh what was he even doing before Roier came in again? He looks back at the arachnid, who's grinning proudly, and takes the mug into his hands.

"This…thank you guapito?" Cellbit stutters out. "You put cinnamon, great call, by the way." He compliments, feigning obliviousness at the way triumph shines in Roier's gaze.

"Obvio, it's the best way to do it. Anyone that doesn't agree is a pendejo." Cellbit chuckles in assent and goes in for a swing.

He's not directly looking at Roier, but he can tell the man is carefully observing his reaction. He tamps down a smile as a thought occurs to him. The mug is warm in his hands, and he's regretful to let go of it but places it back on the coaster anyway.

Clearly, it's some of the most heavily shit he's tasted in years, and the fact that he's schooled his expression into such neutrality is an achievement in of itself. The cinnamon sits just right on his tongue with the bitterness of no sugar and the mildest hint of milk in the background, making it all balance so perfectly and Cellbit might as well be dead on the spot with how much sticky, honey-like warmth drips in his chest.

"Like a six out of ten." Cellbit says casually, cracking his fingers with the most practiced look of neutrality plastered on his features.

"QUÉ? Nah culero, ya me voy en chinguiza. Si me odias tanto-"

"É uma brincadeira! Broma!" Cellbit cackles at the genuine ire drawn on Roier's face before it instantaneously fades as he observes the Brazilian's laughter.

"Desculpe, I had to do it." He laughs out, watching Roier roll his eyes and laugh into his hand. It's a welcome sound, something unfiltered and so casually Roier.

"Órale! If you don't hate me, rate it, Caffellbit."

"Caffellbit?" Cellbit quirks up an eyebrow, amused grin staying on his face. Roier only nods genuinely at him, arms laying crossed against his chest. Cellbit does not pause on the muscle there for more than one second. He doesn't.

"Well. The cinnamon works really well, and there's no sugar as far as I can tell which is usually something people hate but I really love," he begins, noting the open curiosity in that deep brown stare across him. "it's like, perfect. At least a nine. Genuinely caters to my tastes so well- wait."

He snaps his gaze back to Roier's eyes. "Did you talk to Pac..?"

"Si, I in fact did. Tengo que cuidarte como si fueras un bebé , no puedes hacer ni madres solo." Cellbit grumbles at the remark as Roier's eyes sparkle with mirth.

"Alright no I see how it is." Cellbit rolls his eyes pretending he doesn't feel heat rush to his cheeks at the simple way in which Roier says it.

All he can think of is warmth, warmth, warmth. And not just because of the mug sitting atop the coaster.

Warmth and a touch of cinnamon.

--------

A day late, once again sorry lmfaoo 😭. I really need more writing practice

[suengmi]

stray kids mythological series: seungmin

pairing: mermaid!seungmin x human!gn!reader genre: suggestive content, pg word count: 1.9k warnings/other: implications of mating, thank you to @l3visbby for giving me the idea for this ♡

masterlist / mythological!au series index

every year, there was one night where the flowers bloomed a little too bright and the waters became too shallow. the sky would light up, millions of stars aligning with the flow of the waves and fluorescent blue waters would shimmer. there was a cave, a cave where the unknown sea creatures sang and gathered. not once did you get too close, not wanting to disturb the hymns of the mermaids. it was a gift, a gift to witness just this once a year event.

the first year you went; you remember the sound of the waves gently rolling off of your paddle boat and the glistening crystal cave walls flickering in the moonlight. that one night, you were able to find a small shiny scale floating in the water. it was transparent, but shone so brightly. you decided you’d wear it as a necklace, a gift you wore so proudly around your neck. unfortunately you weren’t able to get too close, fear of disturbing the beautiful sirens in their rituals.

it was interesting, you had heard stories and drinking songs in the taverns about siren calls, the men on the ships speaking in tall tales of being enthralled by the seemingly genderless beauties. you knew it wasn’t that the case. they were more than just apparent vicious creatures that fed on humans, you could feel it.

-

it was around midnight when you heard the hymns, beautiful echoes of intrinsic melodies echoing from the caves to the shore. your boat was ready, the moon lighting your way as you haphazardly fought against the tides and paddled towards the sound.

as you approached the cave; just out of your line of sight there was a ripple, followed by another not far behind. weird. you thought. the creatures didn’t usually come this far out. nonetheless, you paddled closer, the small oil lamp sitting on the front of your boat shaking with every movement. as soon as you saw a few figures in the light, you came to a halt.

there were six of them that you could see, four lazily lying on the large water carved rocks, two bobbing in the water. it was incredible, you’d never seen so many before. the details in the tails, the shining scales almost blinding. it was otherworldly, the beauty before you. you almost feel like you shouldn’t be allowed to witness this, going places where you shouldn’t and where human eyes have never seen.

you notice how they interact. a little like cats if you think about it. they screech and scratch at each other, but also play with each other's hair, placing their heads together while they sing.

it’s not until a moment later you’re startled from your gaze, a pale and skinny figure sitting up right in the water. 

holy shit.

a real life mermaid, is staring at you. his eyes are dark, rings of white and silver sparkles painting the planes of his cheeks and chest. his hair is slicked back, small hints of white tinges within the tendrils of his brown hair. the expression on his face is blank, but he doesn’t seem aggressive by his stance.

slowly, he turns his head a bit to the side before he bobs underwater, suddenly reappearing by the edge of your boat not a moment later. one of his long pointed fingers presses on the side of the wood as he pulls himself closer, his eyes settled on yours.

the creature blinks at you, head moving with the motions of the water. it’s as if he’s trying to figure you out, but you as he, the same thing running through your mind.

“i, uh, came to hear you sing.” you manage to peep, leaning back. 

the mermaid continues to stare at you, pupils so dark they almost completely took over the whites of his eyes.

“really?” he asks in a stern but curious manner, arms coming up to lean on the edge of the boat. “now, why would you do that? silly little thing.”

with what he’s saying and how he’s saying it, it’s absolutely patronizing, like he knows something you don’t. but it seems almost amused at your confession and at your lack of an answer.

“it’s interesting, humans go somewhat insane for our calls. but you? nothing.”

“if you’re referring to the men on the ships… they’ll fuck anyone that talks to them. a siren’s song would send them mad of course.” you say as if it’s common knowledge. well, to you it is.

“who said anything about fucking?” the mermaid smiles, pushing himself back from the boat to laugh.

when you think about it, the mermaid probably knows nothing of the songs in the pubs about the vicious mermaids, the ones with the long hair that entrance you with their songs and beauty.

“actually,” he says, leaning back over, arms dangling in front of him to play with a net you had left in your boat from the fishing day prior. “we do it more for amusement than mating.”

“mating?” you ask, leaning forwards. you can feel embarrassment slap in the base of your stomach. why did this make you so nervous? the mermaid sighs, swishing around in the water ignoring your question.

a shimmer of white surfaces beneath the water, large and fish like with it’s shape. never have you seen a tail up so close, it’s breath-taking, and the stories and tales which are so sweetly sung don’t do it justice.

it’s as if he notices your stare and lifts his tail slightly out of the water, angling his hips so you can get a better view.

“you think i’m beautiful, don’t you?”

like a chill running over your body, you’re completely at a loss for words and frozen in your stance. small bundles of anxiety are in your throat. he knows he’s beautiful, he’s teasing you. 

the water splashes with a sudden movement, his torso is suddenly pressed against the boat, his eyes focusing on your neck.

"curious." he says, fingers inching forwards to touch the string around your neck. his bony fingers dance around your throat, fingernails dangerously scratching in their path. the mermaid stops, taping on the scale.

"very curious." he repeats.

what he's referring to is your necklace, the one with the scale bound by a silver string you had found in your first year of adventuring into the sea. it seems similar to the scales on his tail.

the way he's looking at you is almost as if you're his prey, he seems hungry to learn about you, play with you. you can't even muster up the courage to speak, to ask its intentions.

“would you like to touch me?”

“huh?” you blurt out, realizing his fingers are still playing with your neck.

this was going beyond anything you thought this would. all you wanted to do was see the beautiful creatures up close, let alone wanting to interact with one.

“i know you do.” he grins, maneuvering his body so as to move himself closer to you.

hesitantly, you lean forwards, arm reaching out before you. you press your index finger against the softness of his cheek, the shining blotches against his skin turn a light green with your touch. the mermaid hums, leaning into your touch as you explore the spans of skin beneath the patterns of glitter. you almost forget about the grip he’s beginning to tighten around your neck, his fingers exploring at the back of your hair.

you realize that your curiosity got the best of you as the feeling of being pulled forward startles you, followed by the slight sensation of drowning. everything is a blur, the water is dark and you can’t see a thing. you toss and turn, trying to grab onto anything to reach the surface. within a few seconds, you feel your body stopping the fight. there’s a flow of soothing energy running through your body, it’s calm, your arms slowly stop their flailing as the water engulfs you. 

a light enters your eyes, it seems like a long tail, glowing in the water, swishing about to come closer. you watch with squinted eyes as the figure draws near, it’s long fingers lacing themselves around your waist to guide you. the light glows brighter, as if the sun itself had sunken into the sea. 

there’s a tug at your waist as you’re pulled closer, your body pressing onto another. tingles run up and down your spine, your head spinning due to lack of oxygen in your blood.

just when your eyes adjust you see the mermaid before you, his eyes dark but gentle, searching your face for what you were feeling. the gem-like patterns in his skin are shining brighter than before, he's practically beaming at you.

what you didn’t expect your lips to be met with his own, his plushness cupping over your mouth to breathe into yours. 

you take in the breath offered, raising your hands to clamp around the back of his neck. it's like small pins enter your lungs, but with an overwhelming sense of ecstasy laced within it. you can feel it trickle down your whole body, and with every touch and movement of his hands, small blue patterns of glow are left in its wake but disappear just as fast. the last thing you remember is the feeling of his tail wrapping around your legs, pulling you further into the depths of the sea.

-

the light of the rising sun kisses your eyelids, your body stirring as you awaken. when you had left the night prior, it was midnight. blurs of kisses and pleasures thrash in your mind, your broken thoughts not being able to piece together. you can’t remember much of what happened. the only thing you can feel is your body being completely drenched, toes just dipping into the shore waves. you begin searching around you to get your bearings. all you feel is the plushness of damp sand and the cool breeze on your nearly naked skin. 

a small amount of pain is aching around the base of your neck, so you raise your hand to rub the sore spot. you soon realize that your necklace is gone, the one you cherished for years now is no longer circling your neck.

before you can even register the loss of your favourite thing, a sharp pinch startles you as you clamp your other fist. you bring your hand to your eyes, opening to see the offending cause. there's maybe dozens of them, small bright scales glistening as you move your hand back and forth. they're the very same ones that you had around your neck.

woah. you say to yourself, moving one the scales to the light.

as you turn the scale in the beams from the sun, you catch something in the corner of your eye. it’s your boat, and behind, those same pair of eyes you gazed upon the night prior.

but just as soon as you see them, they're gone. splashes and ripples are left behind.

taglist: @blankdyean @l3visbby @daddyjoonchua @nagitosluckycharms @abcdefgiwsmcty

[cateyesinlove]

~Marigold flowers Bloom in Late Autumn~

AO3

“Clever as the devil and twice as pretty.”

Chapter 4; “The Garden of Autumn”

Observing the ceiling of the castle Elain realized that it would never stop mesmerizing her. The different hues of orange and yellow made the stained glass, the light that would shine through was so beautiful. She had of course seen it before some time ago but now she had the opportunity to not only see it but admire it. 

As the group made their way from the entrance to the war room, she could hear the high lord and her sister discussing the trip. She paid close attention to the art on the walls noticing that Eris had replaced many of the pieces Beron had. 

She abruptly stopped walking as she suddenly felt enthralled by a specific piece, A beautiful night sky with stars scattered through it, under it was the scenery of the Autumn Court with many different types of trees. Under one of them, she could spot two silhouettes, the shadows of two people, a female and a male. She could make the edges of her long gown and her hair, her arm stretched out towards the mal. 

“Elain,” Emerie called her name as she gently touched her elbow,  “ Are you okay” she whispered. 

Elain woke from her focus and turned to Emerie a bit confused, “What?” she asked Emerie with a frown.

Emerie turned back to look at the group who were starting to leave them behind, she turned back to Elain with concern all over her face, “You suddenly stopped walking and I thought you were looking at some art but when I called for you,” she bits her lower lip gently, “ you were looking at the bare wall.” she points at the space of the wall.

“No I,” she laughs nervously and shakes her head, “No, no I was looking at a painting” she reassures Emerie. 

“Elain,” Nesta calls her name a bit farther away from them. 

They both remain silent and join the group again.

“ How does it feel being here without having to sneak around, Seer?” Eris asked out loud without stopping from the front where he led the group. 

Elain’s face went red but she composed herself as quickly as she could. She did not answer Eris taunts and continued to admire the artwork walking next to Emerie.

Nesta turned to look at her shaking her head and continued to walk Next to Cassian. The High Lady and Lord walked alongside Eris with Amren behind them, a well-oiled machine. 

The leaders of the Night Court

Their second-in-command 

Their Generals 

And finally, their reinforces, the best Valkyries and the Seer 

“Regal and lethal in every way,” Eris thought amused sneaking a glance at his guest as he turned to face the High Lord and Lady when they reached the War room. A huge set of doors, decorated with different patterns in gold.

“Eris,” Rhysand called his name, “Should I worry about the amount of guards?”  he joked looking around and sliding an arm around his wife’s waist.

“It’s more of a precaution,” Eris explained, “With Beron out there I have too much at risk to not be careful enough” 

“I apologize for my son’s paranoia High Lord,” A voice made all the heads turn, walking towards them was the former Lady of Autumn. 

Elain froze.

 The impact of seeing the once bruised and beaten Lady in her son’s arms was too much.  How long had it taken her to recover from her injuries? She thought, Hundreds of pictures flashed through her mind, the lady being punished and tormented by Beron and his men. Her eyes scanned her body for bruises but her pale skin was smooth and perfect. Elain quite frankly had thought she might have been dead, she had hoped she was wrong but the former Autumn Lady’s state had left little doubt that Beron was aiming for a slow and painful death for her.

Catching Elain’s gawking at her body,  the Lady of Autumn approached her and gently held her hand out, “This must be the one and only seer, my son’s mate.” she examined Elain, “ Adira, former lady of autumn,” a polite smile bloom on her face as she introduced herself. 

Everyone tensed at the mention of Lucien, Cassian thought that Nesta was ready to throw Adira to the ground. Elain herself was irritated as it often went when people mentioned Lucien. Because everyone always only talked of her as his mate, the mate of the fire lord, the mate of the heir to Day, and on and on the titles came with being someone’s property. 

“Elain Acheron,” Elain answered with the best fake smile she could taking her hand. “Seer of the Night Court.” 

As Elain held Adira’s hand her vision blurred, one minute she could feel the hand on hers, and the next she felt like she was suspended in the air, she could hear her name being yelled but muffled by loud bangings of metal and screams. 

Adiras screams. Painful shrieks and sobs. 

( AGAIN TW; Violence, implications of torture and Emotional abuse)

“ You MONSTER!” Adira shrieked in pain as the whip hit her stomach, she tussled her feet and arms trying to fold into a fetal position but the restraints on both ends made it impossible, the guard designated to hit her looked up at a bored Beron sitting on an identical stone like the one Adira was being held on; Beron shook his head and the guard took a few steps back.  

“Tell me something I don’t know” Beron scuffed with a bored tone rolling his eyes as his wife recoiled in pain, her feet tied at the end of the stone table, her hands chained at the sides of it, stretching her arms, an extra ounce of pain added. 

Another scream erupted from Adira as Beron crushed her hand with his boot. 

“What I do want to know is where ” he explained calmly before increasing the pressure on her hand, “is the DAM LETTER YOUR BASTARD SON GAVE YOU!” He yelled as he took in his hand the crying face of his wife. 

Elain felt like she was pushed off a building, landing brutally on the floor. 

She gasped for air and reached for.. anyone. 

“ ELAIN!” Feyre yelled grabbing her arm as she placed her other hand on her older sister’s back and helped her regain balance. “What happened?” she questioned concerned, her eyes scanning Elain’s face. “Someone fetch Nesta,” she said raising her voice but her eyes never leaving Elain.

Some guards moved away from the feet of her bed and walked out. 

Elain perked up, realizing she was no longer on the floor in front of the war room but in a rather luxurious bed, she scanned the room realizing she was in a well-decorated and furnished suit. There were extravagant couches, and the golden patterns in the ceilings reminded her of Eris hounds, a hound surrounded by smoke. She looked down and a sigh of relief escaped her when she saw she was wearing the same dress. 

“Elain” Feyre said again concerned and fear filling her eyes. ‘What happened?”

“ I don’t know,” she whispered bringing her knees to her chest. 

“You had a vision,” Feyre said caressing her sister’s arm.

“I-” she stopped taking a big breath, the feeling of dizziness plaguing her just thinking about her vision. 

“ What did you see?” Feyre asked. 

She exhaled trying to keep the nausea in line. Shaking her head tears filled her eyes, “Something horrible Feyre,” she whispered. The 

An abrupt slamming of doors startled both sisters, entering through the doors was Nesta running, a smile on her face. 

“You’re awake, “ she said hugging her tightly, both arms around her.  

Elain immediately hugged her aback. The feeling of being in Nesta’s arms immediately calmed her, she was okay. She was with her sisters, she was in no cell, and she was okay.

Both of her sisters sat on the bed waiting for Elain to explain her vision and her fainting. 

“It was Adira,” she said looking around the room as if there was anyone else in the room with them, “I had a vision last night about Eris and Adira,” she explained but before her sisters could interrupt her, “ It was of the day Eris took down Beron. He had taken Adira captive and Eris was looking for her.” she stopped herself as the vision of a bruised and bloody Adira laid on her son’s arms. “ He went to the extreme of taking down his father that same day.”

“And?” Nesta prompted.

“He found her bruised and beaten.” She answered looking at her sisters. 

Both sisters gasped ignoring that a few hours ago they had been with the Lady of Autumn. 

“ What- ” Elain started with a curious tone, “Happened after I passed out?” 

Feyre wrapped her arms around herself, “ Adira caught you and of course, we all panicked,” she said, “ Nesta and I are were next to you in an instant,” She finished. 

“Eris offered this room for you while we talked to him,” Nesta scowled grew, “ He even offered to bring you in.” 

Elain arched an eyebrow, “What?”

“Oh yes,” Feyre said chuckling, “Rhysand and Cassian scared him, I am sure.” 

Elains blushed and chuckled she loved her brothers but the overprotection had gotten old. 

Nesta laughed softly relaxing a bit.

Feyre placed a hand on top of Elain's that was on her lap. “ I think that also a certain Spymaster told them to be careful around Eris.” Feyre said delicately, “ They are boys Elain, they probably think this means Azriel and you might be together again.” 

Nesta shrugged her shoulders sighing. 

Elain looked down at her lap, “I have no idea,” she whispered. 

Feyre raised Elain’s chin with her fingers, her eyes meeting those beautiful brown eyes of her sister. “And thats okay as long as long as you are happy.” 

“ He is not the only male in the world Elain,” Nesta said smiling placing her hand along her sisters.

Elain laughed and launched herself hugging her sisters. This is all she really needed. Them 

There was nothing in the world that could ever be as priceless as having her sisters.  

                                          ________________________

Hours later as the stars made their way out, Elain found herself walking along the castle hallways looking for the Garden. Her memories revolved around a small kiosk surrounded by flowers her eyes had caught last time, her mind had wandered back to it after her sisters had left, she needed to find it. It was calling to her and she intended to answer it. 

After a couple of minutes she finally reached the structure, there in all the glory stood the small kiosk surrounded by vines and flowers, covered from head to toe. It was a rather plain and simple structure, it wasn't big either, she thought it clashed with how huge the castle look. Part of her thought the small structure reflected her, a flower among the grandness of the Night Court. A flower among the splendor of a court, how her house compared to her sister was also a small structure with vines and flowers in contrast to the magnitude of the House of Wind and the River state. 

“Fancy seeing you here Seer,” a voice spoke from behind her.

It took everything in her to not roll her eyes. It matters not that Lucien and her never intended to complete the bond nor that she tried to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, enough people had warned her of Eris and she intended to listen to them.  

“Eris,” she said turning around and placing the fakest smile she could muster. 

“Why the scowl,” he asked approaching her, a wicked smirk plastered on his face, “Not happy to see the host?” he mocked her 

She turned around for a minute to climb inside the kiosk, turning to look at him once more. “ Of course not, I am thrilled to meet you,” she said

Eris stopped in front of the steps of the kiosk. Both hands were in his pockets as he observed her, “ You are more interesting than my dear brother gave you credit.”

Elain frowned. “Lucien talked about me?” she asked, she stayed silent for a moment and then asked again. “To you?” 

Eris chuckled and whistled a bit quietly, “ Wow he was right that you don't hold back,” he said. 

Elain observed him for a moment. “Can I help you with something? Or were you also just casually strolling through the garden?"

Eris's neutral expression was more concerning than his usual smirk, Elain realized. Not only did he look the part of High Lord but it stirred emotions on her, emotions she was not allowed to question nor unpack. She held her chin higher waiting for an answer. 

Eris walked from the outside of the kiosk until he was in front of Elain the only thing separating them was one of the half walls of the structure. “Be careful Elain,” he warned all amusement gone from his tone. “My father was is a bastard and deserves death but I am loyal to my court and the minute I see it being threatened I won't hesitate,” he threaten leaving Elain confused. 

“What are you talking about,” she quickly asked for an explanation. 

“I know Azriel stole more than what he came from last time,” he said eyes pinned on her own. “I invited you not only because of your power but because I need your help,” he said calmly. 

“Azriel stole nothing,” she growled furious, hands clutching at the top of the kiosk's small walls.

“Azriel stole something from Beron and gave it to Helion.” He said. “I want to know what it was and I have the suspicion that you may know what it is,” he accused.

“You are mad,” she whispered enraged. 

“Maybe,” he chuckled finally a smirk appearing on his face, “but I’m also right,”

Her eyes quickly scanned his face looking for something that could allied to him lying. 

“How do you know this anyways,” she crossed her arms feeling defenseless after being ambushed with the information, she was the spy, she was the seer, the one who knew everything, she was no longer the week fawn. “I am not admitting anything but Azriel is the best at what he does, even I didn't see him stealing how could you possibly know.” 

“Accept to help me and I will reveal all of the information I have.” He said stretching his hand.

“Why not go to Rhysand?” she asked suspicious of his motives. 

“Why involve more courts than already are.” he shrugged his hand still extended. 

“What do I get for this bargain,” she asked stepping closer, the kiosk wall still separating them, she had realized that the kiosk gave her the higher ground, she was taller than Eris from here, his head raising slightly to see her directly at the eyes. 

“Me” he answer simply. 

She looked at her hand and hesitated. “A bargain with the king of cruelty himself,” she thought but if he had asked for her for this reason, the visions might have been a push from the mother to accept this. A sign from her to help Eris. She inhaled and extended her arm. 

As her hand grabbed Eris she could feel the magic, The tattoo being formed from her knee to her hip. 

A deal with the villain of most of the stories she has heard since she turned fae. The thought made her recoil from his touch, the chilling sensation navigating her body and making the hairs rise. All her instincts screamed that she had begun a sinister game that she could never escape. 

“Let's talk,” he said as he walked to the entrance of the kiosk offering her his arms and a smirk that felt like a deadly weapon. 

[lacunasbalustrade]

Rouga Aragami, Tasuku Ryuenji, Kyoya Gaen, Shosetsu Kirisame and Zanya Kisaragi. (1st three)

character aesthetic requests for @fandomfan-102

happens to coincide with Tasuku Ryuenji’s birthday so HAPPY BIRTHDAY TASUKU!!! you’re 7 this year and starting schooling!

Rouga Aragami: and let your heart be staid

drown in oxygen.

practical thoughts in the body of art. the expressiveness and forgiving nature of oil paint, allowing for layering and holding despite the weathering of time. cascading answers, thoughts that provoke lashing out, ruinous laughter. you think the sun will break you with the way it hurts to watch it, and turn away to let yourself breathe. warts and all. you are not worldly, even when you wear the oxfords of a worldly man, and you scream in defiance at the roaring waterfalls and endless roads.

plain, a plain man, with your plain desires and easy ambitions. steady pacing.

quietly simmering hatred. awe at the things that are to come, and a sarcasm set in irony’s rod that comes off as arrogance. you taste like forbidden cream and three sugar cubes in your hot coffee, your hand steady as it hovers above the paper to prevent yourself from smearing pencil lines. passionate protests. unbeliever in dignity. oh, you are only very lonely, and one breath taken into lungs by the saline sea. come, half-to-heart, and believe.

speak in the tongues of an old people. i dry you out under the constant pressure of gravity, and you gain taste under the airy, endlessly cold world.

Tasuku Ryuenji: calling from afar

falling fast.

make yourself constrained and constructed. golem of endless gems and earth, earth, so much damned dirt and nothing to show for it. you’re more than desperate, you believe, to be thawed and see the spring, find the clouds parting hungry open to summon the sky back like your second skin. bubbling fish stock over softening coils of white noodles. a little more, just a little more, only a little more. why can’t you simply forget your place, for a second, and…bloom, like a wildfire? like flames licking up the air and if only you would

inhale, but you never let yourself.

frustration. a lily needs to bloom. you can store the soul in the bulb, but you of all people weren’t born to gift your predators with the heart you thrust into your work like it encompasses you. save some of that love for yourself. it is your desire to prove yourself which ultimately reveals your true insecurities. sweep the ashes into the hearth, abandon your work, and run.

release your white knuckles. i throw open the doors of your enclosure which had bottled you up like a miniature ship, and you learn confidence through the process of running your hands over a hot stove.

Kyoya Gaen: ah, if only [days of beauty]

in no hurry, magpies make nests on riveting heights.

find your way by lofty stars, the standards you chase are Midas golden. you have theorized and stylized your subsequent ideals (yes, yes, yes) but the first thing you do is shape yourself to fit the reality of emptiness. you have no hope at all, despite soaring high, you don’t trust, despite hungering. and in the solemnity of night, you find yourself so drawn to people grounded with the stain of their beliefs and the ugly taste of blood. i know you. you want to be less beautiful and more loved. the way you stretch out your legs carelessly, impetuously, as a child would, speaks to how instinctively you need to be unworn again.

new clothes for an emperor.

could you, maybe, just let yourself roll around in grass on a desolate hill? where no one expects anything of you? you’re crumbling inside like flaky mud and it’s unsightly. you’re a dungbeetle rolling up waste in an attempt to make another babel but it won’t help you come to terms with the frigidity of your bed. stop building cults to pretend that you are holy. power will not fix your problems.

walk into the sea and be torn from your rootedness by the riptide. flower stuck in the shadow, be brought dizzyingly, by fervent hope, into the dawn.