#Easel Command

[experimental-reminiscence]

Experimental Reminiscence [8:52, .WAV, 48 kHz, 24-Bit] Final task of course at Elektronmusikstudion EMS 2022.

Presentation:

Due to my work with graphics and digital imagery, I early became curious about AI-generated images. When the Midjourney service became available, I signed up for the beta version and started exploring what was possible. I quickly got hooked on rendering images of different environments with elements of plants, appliances, and synthesizers, among other things. The rendered pictures gave me a sense of "phantom nostalgia" – a sense of a place and time that never really existed. These images have been the basis – as a reference point and source of inspiration, a feeling to start from – in my exploration of the Buchla and Serge systems at EMS, and in the recording sessions in my own studio.

To have a structure to relate to, I asked the artificial intelligence for a graphical score for the instruments I intended to use and the AI ​​responded with an image of various blocks and little squiggles. To further concretize and set up a framework, I decided that the piece should stick to the C Minor scale, keep a tempo of 72 BPM and last about 8-9 minutes. I measured the blocks in the score to 159 Bars and divided them into color-coded sections in my DAW. This became the map that I related to in the cutting and mixing process.

The recordings were done as individual explorations and improvised jams. Instruments and effects used are: Serge System in Studio 6, Buchla 100 Series and small 200 system in Studio 3, Buchla 200 in Studio 4, EMS SYNTHI A, Buchla Easel Command, Korg MS20 mini, Synthstrom Audible Deluge, Empress Reverb, Roland Space Echo RE20, Earthquaker Grand Orbiter, EHX Bad Stone, Meris Polymoon, BOSS BX16 mixer, Reason 12, Eksperimental Sounds Ouroboros, Reverb AK11, and FX3180, FabFilter ProQ 3 EQ, field recordings of crackles and bubbles with Zoom 4Hn.

The hardest part during the process has been letting go of the idea of ​​"traditional" music and finding a form that feels good. I wanted to explore all the instruments involved and let them have a role in the piece which easily became cluttered and bordered on chaos, but I think in the end I managed to balance just right on the edge of cacophony.

[flagellant]

wyd tonight homie

if you ignore the messy dorm room i'll let you have a thirst trap as a treat

[nomazee]

EVENT TIME EVENT TIME

how about.. 4:44am & dr. ratio? 🫡

AUGHH THANK U GWEN i lvoed writing ths..... first time writing dr ratio be gentle on my fragile soul

my 1k event!

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When Doctor Veritas Ratio walks into his very-private, very-locked, very-secluded study, he’s greeted with the unfortunate sight of you—sitting on the floor, an easel with a wide canvas set up low to the ground, oil paints sprawled absolutely everywhere. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

A sheepish smile pulls at your face, as if a sweet expression will get you out of the mess you’ve made of Ratio’s personal space. It’s far too late— late? Too early? Regardless. The hour of the night-slash-morning that you’ve decided to paint in his room is not appropriate at all. 

“I can explain,” you say, followed by a complete lack of an explanation as the two of you stew in silence for another half a minute. 

“Why are you even awake at this hour?” Ratio scoffs, stepping around you and your hazardous art set-up as he places some irrelevant stack of books on his (thankfully untouched) desk. “You should’ve been in bed a long time ago. Soon you’ll experience delirium from lack of sleep.” 

“Oh, please,” you argue, swatting a hand in his general direction playfully as you turn back to your canvas. It’s full of nauseating color, clear shapes and lines that don’t blend together in the slightest, vague animal-like forms that overlap with each other. “You’re awake too, aren’t you? Unless I really did hit delirium, and you’re just some Veritas-ghost floating around in my subconscious.” 

Ratio does not get a kick out of your very funny joke. An annoyed huff escapes him, tainted with something like weariness and exhaustion. Your eyebrow twitches. 

“And to answer your first question,” you prattle on, mindlessly scrubbing dried paint from the side of your hand with a wet rag, before picking up a fan brush, “I’m painting. This room is really well-ventilated, which is nice, because it would be a shame if all the fumes got to my head and zapped away my few remaining brain cells.” 

That one gets a laugh out of him, probably because it’s at the expense of your own intelligence. 

“There are a hundred other rooms that are exactly the same as mine,” he argues, finally turning away from his pointless shuffling of materials on his desk and facing you, looking at you while he talks to you—you know, like a normal person would. “There was no reason to infiltrate my own private study for your… painting. The door was locked, too. How did you—” 

“Don’t ask silly questions, Veritas,” and you like the way each consonant of his name clicks against your lips and teeth and tongue, “I have my ways. Does it bother you that I’m defiling your good room with my frivolous fine arts endeavors?” 

“Ridiculous,” his face screws up in displeasure at your assumption that he’d be so elitist to deny you of your passion. He walks around your spread of supplies again, carefully, before kneeling by your side to watch you work. As much as he’s loath to admit, you’re one of his few soft spots, and it shows in the way he traces the lines of your paint with his gaze, and the fact that he has yet to kick you out of his room. “The humanities are just as important as any other field.” 

“Spoken like a true scholar,” you quip, trying to hold back the shakiness of your hands and the swaying of your body. It really is too late for this, but you’d slept through the day and felt much too awake by midnight. Setting up camp in Ratio’s room was a natural instinct. 

“Go to bed,” he says, commanding yet gentle as he tugs a paintbrush from your hand. He doesn’t touch your hands, never really does, but he’s gathering your scattered, wrung-out tubes of paint and the little containers of linseed oil hidden under the easel. “It does neither you nor your artwork any good to be exhausted.” 

“I’m not even tired!” you complain, dragging out your words in a whine as he nudges you with his foot in a wordless command to stand up. There’s something like a cot in the corner of his room (because he does sleep, sometimes, and often it’s between textbooks and files and loose leaf paper) and a cozy patterned blanket that’s definitely yours. 

“You will be tired the second your head hits the mattress.” 

“This is a really awful mattress, Ratio.” 

“Don’t complain,” and his tone is harsh but you know he doesn’t mean it, because he’s pushing you back onto the little sleeping corner and tucking you into the blanket, nothing short of kindness in his hands. “You still have to clean your mess in the morning.” 

Sure, you think, already drifting off. By the time you wake up, you know that your mess will be packed away in a neat pile, floor wiped clean and canvas propped safely against the wall.

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

gen taglist: @tragedy-of-commons @lasiancunin

fill out my event taglist (pinned) or my general taglist (navigation) to be tagged in upcoming works!

[corralinesage]

Child of September (3/?)

18+ mature content, smut

Chapter 3: Mirror, mirror

(w/c 7,3k)

“So, you know how you always paint me?” You gave Natasha a deadpan look for stating the obvious.

“Yes, I’m aware.” She rolled her eyes at your response, walking closer to you in the flickering light of the candles that sat on the dinner table, illuminating the dirty dishes that remained from your delicious dinner. You wrapped up a leftover grilled cheese into foil and placed it into the refrigerator as Natasha lingered at the table, clearly working through something in her mind.

“I wanna know what it’s like”, she hummed softly, her words causing you to turn around to look at her.

“You do?” You couldn’t help the amused, excited smile that it brought to your face.

“Yeah. I want you to model for me.” She began to clean the table to help you, collecting dishes and bringing them to the sink.

“Sure. What did you have in mind?” You couldn’t help but notice how giddy you felt all of a sudden, ecstatic to have her show such interest in you. It was thrilling to say the least because it showed you that she wanted inside your mind, she wanted to see the world through your eyes, experience the things that you enjoyed.

“I think I’d want to do a nude study”, she said slyly, your bubbling laughter following immediately.

“Naturally.” You looked at Natasha with undeniable mirth glistening in your eyes, the look in hers matching your playfulness. Natasha had some artistic skills, but they paled in comparison to yours. She had no time for silly sketches in her duty to save the world. “I have a vision.”

“Do tell me your vision”, you hummed softly, continuing to clean up the table.

“I want you to pose for me on the bed. Kind of like that one pose I did last week where I had my hand on my boob.” You couldn’t help the knowing smile that found your face. You saw her vision quite clearly.

“Oh, I know.” You nodded your head. You could barely get the image you had drawn out of your head. Natasha had been positioned on your bed, on her knees, thighs parted, one hand conveniently covering up the apex of her thighs, the other grabbing her breast. Her head had been tilted back to reveal her pale neck, her collarbones and strong shoulders wonderfully on display. You could vividly recall the placement of each vein on her forearms, you remembered the way the soft flesh of her breast had curved where her fingertips had sunken into it, you could almost see right then and there with your mind’s eye the undulating muscles that had been highlighted by the gentle lighting of the bedroom. It had definitely been one of the more sensual paintings you had made of Natasha, your mind immediately whirring with the more than enticing imagery you had going on in your mind.

“I want something similar, so that you can get the full experience of having to hold a pose and all.”

“Uh-huh, that’s why”, you said a bit teasingly, earning a huff from Natasha. She slapped your behind as you walked by with any remaining kitchenware in your hands as if to tell you off for your cocky comments, but all in good nature. You laughed, unable to contain the excitement you felt.

No more than ten minutes later you were sat on the bed with your legs extended diagonally in front of you, one knee slightly bent to create a bit more visual interest to the pose. Your left hand was propped behind you, allowing you to lean against that arm. It put your chest and abdomen nicely on display for Natasha, your other hand on your stomach waiting for further instructions from Natasha.

“Touch your left boob”, she hummed from behind the easel where your designated place usually was. You loved the confidence she displayed, loved the matter-of-fact air she had about her. She was really playing your part and doing a hell of a job at it. Her eyes returned to you again after a while of staring at her canvas, studying the result of her own commands. “Move the hand to the right, darling.” You began to move your hand. “Eyes on me”, she reminded you in that soft voice of hers, your gaze rising back up to her face as you relocated your hand over your right breast, giving it a slight squeeze. You were fully nude, stripped bare in front of her, struggling to keep your face neutral from how excited you were. You were illuminated by the soft lighting of a few smaller, warm-toned lamps in your room, the light source giving your skin a warmth that made it look soft and inviting. The entire setting felt tranquil and intimate, like a comfortable night in. The tension was somehow palpable before Natasha had even gotten to work. She looked pensive as she observed you, her left hand coming up to her lips in thought. “Switch the bent leg for me.” It was oddly exhilarating to take orders from her in such a manner. You did as told. “Now, look at me, detka. Smile.” You did your very best not to grin like the fool in love that you were, softening your eyes and smile into something more seductive and intimate. You could see from the look on her face that it was exactly what she had been looking for. “Perfect, hold that.”

Natasha began to work on her piece, a small frown on her face as she blindly started the process, not quite knowing where to begin or what to even do. She wasn’t familiar with painting, only poorly done doodles and small sketches that had been inspired by your overflowing passion for art. You enjoyed watching her immensely. It was eye-opening to be in Natasha’s shoes and get to witness the adoration that was communicated through her studying gaze. You had never before quite realized what it was like to be met with that intense gaze time and time again as she went back and forth between you and the canvas. You couldn’t help but to wonder what was going on in her head, wonder which part of you she was looking at, which detail of your body she was picking up on at that very moment. The more she looked at you, the more you wanted to move. The more those green eyes traced your figure, the more of it you wanted to show her. The hand squeezing your breast made you feel slightly too good when paired with Natasha’s intense gaze. Your innocently posed legs were just shy from allowing you to squeeze your thighs together. It was then that you realized why Natasha often began to speak when she posed for you.

“How’s it going?” You asked innocently, looking for a distraction from the restlessness of your body. You weren’t quite aroused yet, but you were awfully close, especially if you were meant to last in that position, under the burning gaze of her eyes, for another hour or two.

“It’s going okay, I’d say. Of course, it’s not going to be anything phenomenal because I don’t know what I’m doing”, she chuckled. “But it’s fun to try. I like seeing what you see, knowing what it’s like for you to look at me for ages and ages.” You huffed out a laugh, nodding subtly in agreement to avoid disturbing your pose.

“Yeah, me too.” Your eyes remained on her as she kept painting. “I never realized that you probably see every single small change on my face when I’m painting.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Natasha smirked, glancing at you briefly.

“That’s why I rarely ask how the painting is going. I don’t need to ask. I can see it from your face.” You felt your cheeks heat in a slight mixture of embarrassment and affection. It felt like an oddly vulnerable thing for her to notice, bringing a sense of exposure with it. “When it’s going well you have this certain softness to your face. It’s very subtle, but it’s most definitely there. You look at me more when you feel good about the painting”, she began to speak again when you didn’t respond. “If you’re disappointed in yourself, you don’t look at me. You only glance at me.” Her voice was so gentle and dreamy, the silence of the bedroom only seeming to emphasize the delicate tone she spoke with. “Like you’re afraid that I’m disappointed in you too.” Your heartbeat felt louder in your chest. You felt so raw. She could see all that. She could read all of those very real emotions simply from your face.

“I never realized…” Natasha gave you a soft, understanding smile.

“When you mess up”, she continued. “You have a habit of taking deeper breaths. You let out these huffs of frustration, but only through your nose. Then, however, if you have really made a big mistake, you sigh and usually say something.” Her words made you laugh because you knew her to be right.

“Yeah, I do. I go ‘fuck’, ‘shit’, or ‘fuck me’.” You both grinned.

“To which I go: ‘gladly’.” You couldn’t help but laugh at the way she imitated the enthusiastic hum she usually said it with. It was heart-warming to realize how even such little things had become a habit for both of you. It was a completely different kind of coexistence that allowed you to be so in tune with each other. “I love following the process of it through your expressions. It’s almost like a game.” She applied more paint onto the canvas, defining the shape of your limbs like she had seen you do so many times, yet her brush strokes looked nothing like your precise and well-practiced ones.

“That’s not fair. I can’t do the same with you. Your face is made of stone.”

“Only when I want it to be”, she hummed in amusement at your whiny tone. “It’s alright, darling. It takes a while to learn it. We’ll have to do this many more times before you learn to read from my expressions that I can’t paint for the life of me.” You laughed.

“I’m sure I’ll be plenty convinced after today”, you teased, amused by the gentle, defeated shake of her head.

“Do you notice anything about me when I’m posing?” Natasha asked in curiosity, going behind her canvas to hide how much she wished that you noticed her just the same.

“I think I notice first when you get cold”, you mumbled in thought, smiling a little wider as you watched her stare down at the paint palette that she held in her right hand. “I can tell before your skin turns into goosebumps or before your lips and nipples turn a cooler shade.”

“How?” Natasha had a look of excited wonder in her eyes.

“You start wiggling your toes.” You let out a little giggle that Natasha matched with one of her own.

“I do not.”

“You so do. It’s this little wiggle at first where I notice just a bit of movement in my peripheral.” Natasha couldn’t stop smiling, the front row of her pearly white teeth fully exposed. “And then you start to rub your toes together. And… This one is my favorite.” You laughed quietly, the look of curiosity on Natasha’s face only growing “If the pose allows it, you start to rub your feet together like a cricket. That’s when I usually offer you socks or a blanket.” Natasha let out a hearty laugh.

“A cricket”, she snickered in disbelief.

“Another thing I notice is when you start to daydream. Your eyes just kind of glaze over.” Natasha looked like she was both baffled and touched by your observations. You smiled smugly, pleased to evoke such a reaction from her. You knew just how good it felt to be seen. “If it’s something dirty you start biting the inside of your lip and your cheeks turn red.” Just the thought of that stirred warmth in your lower abdomen. “And if it’s something comforting or calming you relax a little more into your pose.” Natasha nodded along, agreeing with everything you were saying, shortly after remembering to focus a bit more on her work than she had in the past ten minutes. “One time you had this strange look on your face that I couldn’t figure out. You were almost as if zoned out but confused, like you were trying to figure something out.”

“When was that?” Her voice oozed amusement.

“Maybe a month ago when we did the charcoal sketch.” Natasha chuckled, her cheeks turning a sheer rose color, your interests piqued immediately. “What?”

“I thought you would’ve put that one together based on what we did after”, she mused smugly, her suggestive tone making the hairs on your body stand on end as if in anticipation. The rather sensual and downright lewd memories flashed across your mind, a creeping warmth rising up your neck.

“What were you doing then?”

“Trying to divide forty-two-thousand and five hundred sixty-three by hundred and fifty-two to turn myself off.” Your cheeks hurt from how hard you were grinning.

“Did it work?” Natasha looked at you for a long moment, the charge between you only growing stronger.

“No”, she whispered, her gaze dipping down to the breast you were squeezing with your hand, a rush of heat going through you. “I’m rather convinced that when you’ve turned me on there is nothing in the world that could undo that.” Your cheeks were blazing hot. Talk about being turned on.

“That puts us into quite a pickle then, doesn’t it?” you hummed innocently, tilting your chin down just enough to look up at her through your eyelashes. She always gave you ‘the look’ herself and acted all unbothered, it was finally your turn to do the same.

“Any other observations you make when you paint?” Natasha asked coolly, ignoring you on purpose because you both knew that you were getting to her, you and that maddeningly casual pose of yours that was somehow so incredibly sensual.

“Hmm, I can tell when you’re bored of posing.”

“I don’t get bored.” She looked at you for a long time, her eyes studying you from head to toe, clearly trying to figure out something regarding the painting.

“Your face doesn’t lie, Natasha”, you pointed out in a gentle reminder.

“What gives it away then?” She went back to her painting, staring at the canvas for an equally long amount of time.

“You fall asleep on me”, you chuckled, hearing her huff from behind the easel. She remained out of sight for a moment longer before her eyes appeared from behind it to take a peek at you. “Don’t worry, I find it adorable.” You were met with another amused huff.

“To be fair that only happens when I’ve been posing for hours on end. I like posing for you. I like looking at you.” The way she sounded and looked as she painted and spoke to you was something that you had never known you needed. The soft tone of her voice, the little rasp to it, the focused demeanor in her body, the absentminded, yet present poise she had about her was something beyond attractive. You had always shared a kind of intimacy and vulnerability in those moments spent together. You were usually so wrapped up in your work that you didn’t have the mind to slow down and take in the moment that you were sharing, but looking at it from a new perspective, from Natasha’s perspective, you realized just how meaningful that time together was.

A sudden silence fell over you, Natasha focusing fully on her work in a way that you hadn’t yet seen that day. You saw the way her brows formed a small crease on her forehead, that same confused but determined look appearing on her face shortly after. She continued to mix colors on her palette that you had helped her create, testing out different ways of bringing together the image that she was trying to immortalize on the canvas. She tried to understand the way values worked, to understand the way shifts in the warmth of the color could create. She did her best to block out shapes and sculpt with paint, something you always talked to her about, but she wasn’t sure she quite understood what it meant to push and pull the pigments. You observed her for a long time, noting that she stopped looking at you, slowly making you realize that you missed her eyes on you, missed the attention that you so craved from her. You watched her frown deepen as she stared vehemently at the canvas. There was something more to that look, more than just the painting process.

“Need help?” You asked coyly, your hand letting go of your breast to allow your fingers to play absentmindedly with your hardened nipple. Natasha’s eyes snapped to you automatically at the sound of your voice, her eyes devouring the sight of you on the bed. You circled your nipple with your finger, giving her a compelling smile, the kind of smile you knew Natasha couldn’t quite resist. “Am I no longer interesting enough to look at?” Your voice had a pouty lilt to it, purposely teasing her. “If you’re not using me as reference anymore, I could use a bit of a stretch. My arm is killing me.”

“Yes, of course, krasotka. Stretch away”, she hummed, continuing her work, but she failed to move her eyes off you as you plopped down onto the bed, stretching your arms above your head. Your back arched off the mattress, a low moan resonating in your bedroom as you allowed the tension to escape your body, all the while giving Natasha more than enough to look at. Her eyes ran over all the smooth skin you had to offer her, your breasts fully on display, your perky nipples begging to be licked and sucked by her. Her eyes ran lower, down your abdomen to your hips, finding the triangle of hair that disappeared between your thighs. If only she could simply spread your legs open and uncover the most sensitive parts of you. Her mind was racing. Were you just as on edge as her? Would she find your folds wet and ready if she were to slide her hand up your silky inner thigh and feel your bare sex? If she could just sink her fingers inside you and hear you let out those very same moans but for entirely different reasons. She gritted her teeth together subtly, doing her best to not give her mind any more room to entertain her sexual daydreams, but it was a simple fact that she was not good nor passionate enough to care about her ugly painting. She did not care for it. She only cared for you and the hungry look in your eyes as you settled back into your pose, massaging your breast a little more than could be considered appropriate.

“Oh, my hip is killing me”, you mumbled to yourself, parting your knees to open up and stretch your hips a bit. You moved your knee to the side, giving Natasha a more than ample look at the wetness that had gathered between your legs. You let out a small grunt just to maximize your tease, your palm sliding down your inner thigh, massaging the muscles there to help yourself relax. She tried to keep her cool, she really did, but nothing was keeping her attention on the painting. Absolutely nothing.

“Oh, fuck this. Fuck all of it”, Natasha groaned impatiently, finally giving into her desires and discarding the palette onto your desk. She didn’t give the poorly executed painting another glance before getting on the bed. You let out a small, victorious giggle as you welcomed her into your arms, immediately captured into a heated kiss. All you could do was moan, your cold body clinging to Natasha for warmth.

“You’re such a little shit”, she muttered into your neck as she hugged you, the sensation making you giggle even louder.

“Me? That’s all you!” You squealed, the touch of her hands tickling your sides. “That’s what you always do!”

“I do not”, Natasha laughed, kissing up your neck and cheek before pulling away to see your face. You grinned as wide as humanly possible, unable to control your excitement as you looked up at Natasha, your hands coming up to brush back some of her hair before allowing your hands to glide down her body to where the hem of her shirt was.

“You do”, you chuckled in a bit more reserved manner, the humor of the situation dimming down a bit when you felt your body physically throb for her. You slid the shirt up to her shoulders, pulling it over her head, Natasha leaning back to slide the piece of clothing completely off her to allow you to discard it to the side. But before Natasha could lean down to kiss you, your hands pushed her back gently. “I wanna see your work.”

“Oh, no”, Natasha moaned in disappointment, her lips spreading into a smile of disbelief and defeat, her head dropping down to hide from you. She knew there was nothing to show. “Let’s not-”

“No, no, no. I wanna see”, you protested, evading Natasha’s lips again as she tried to kiss you.

“My ego can’t take a hit like that.” You couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad”, you said in a much quieter voice, your tone shifting into something a little poutier and more sensual. Your fingertips trailed down from her collarbones, sliding along her sternum as you batted your eyelashes at her. “Please, love, let me see.” She held your gaze, clearly aware of your cheap tactics, but she couldn’t deny that you were getting to her, her eyes admiring your doting ones, taking in the alluring look in them. She could feel herself yield the longer you gazed up at her, your fingers drawing teasing, little circles between her breasts. “Please”, you whispered, allowing your hand to move lower, your cool fingers skating down her abdomen to the waistband of her jeans, barely grazing the rough fabric.

“Fine”, she sighed, getting off you, so you could both go take a look at her painting. You felt the anticipation build up in your chest as you made your way to the easel, rounding the edge of the canvas to see what Natasha had accomplished. You felt your face grow rigid as you schooled your features at the sight, refusing to offend your girlfriend by flat out laughing at her creation. There were some correct colors here and there. She was quite decent with colors, but they still lacked in hues and came off as overly vibrant or flat, creating a piece that lacked contrast. The shape, however, the shape of the figure was childish. It was stocky and harsh, disfigured, really. It looked wonky and chaotic, forming a huge mess on the canvas. You glanced at Natasha, unsure of what to say or how to really react to the piece, but when you saw her face, you could no longer hold in your laughter, a long giggle falling from your lips.

“I told you!” She was laughing as well, pulling you away from the canvas so you would stop looking at the horrendous piece she had created.

“No, it’s good!” Natasha laughed even louder at that.

“No, it isn’t. Don’t you dare lie to me”, she said, eyeing the painting like it had personally offended her. “It doesn’t show how beautiful you are. Not even close. Actually, this is blasphemy against you.”

“I’d say it’s pretty accurate.” You chuckled softly, the sound dying down in your throat when Natasha’s eyes met yours. They were hungry, devoted as they eyed you up and down, taking in every inch of your nude body, a small smile finding her lips.

“Nowhere near.” She shook her head in emphasis. “You have no idea how gorgeous you are.” Your shared moment of hilarity fizzled out, returning to the gentle sensual charge that could always be found between you if you just gave it the opportunity to surface. “I may not be able to show you how beautiful you are through art, but I have other ways.” Natasha’s eyes met yours again, her hands pulling you closer by your waist. You smirked at the air of suggestion her words carried, your hands finding her jeans on their own, ready to get rid of them.

“Is that so?” You felt a gentle tickle in your lower abdomen, a twinge of impatience shooting through you. Natasha smiled brightly, the look on her face telling you that you had something out of the ordinary coming your way.

“Oh, yes.” She rubbed her lips together, her gaze dipping down to your body. You leaned in to kiss her, Natasha welcoming you without hesitation, your lips pressing together firmly in a proper kiss that quickly developed into something more heated. You found yourself in her embrace, your hands working her jeans over her hips so she could kick them to the side, your lips not disconnecting once. You felt much warmer in the matter of a few seconds, the chilly October night unable to reach you when Natasha was igniting sparks of pure arousal inside you. She started to guide you back to the bed, your body following her lead blindly, longing to sink into her fully when her warm tongue stroked your own. You heard the quiet squelches and moans that you both produced, feeling yourself get lost in her, get lost in the permission to forget everything else in the world for a moment.

You had expected her to guide you to lie down on the bed like she often did, but you came to a halt beside the bed instead, her lips pulling off your own, hands turning you around to face away from her. Your eyelids fluttered open when you felt Natasha take a step back, immediately spotting your closet directly in front of you. She moved closer to it, opening one of its doors, your own reflection coming into your view as she directed the mirror on the inside of the closet door toward the bed. Your stomach dropped from arousal when you watched Natasha take her place behind you in the mirror, a soft smile finding her face. She leaned closer to you, the lace of her bra and underwear brushing against your backside, her nose grazing up your neck gently before she placed a few feather-light kisses over the tender skin. Goosebumps erupted all over your body, your nipples hardening as electric heat pooled in your lower abdomen.

“Look at yourself, detka”, she commanded in a low hum, her fingertips making contact with your arms, gently brushing up and down your skin to aggravate the already existing goosebumps there. You looked at yourself in the mirror, starkly nude and bare for her. “You’re so beautiful.” Her tone was silky smooth, deep and gentle, so much so that you felt your knees grow weaker beneath you. “Your face, your hair, your skin”, she muttered, brushing aside some of your hair, baring your skin to kiss your shoulder, her soft lips caressing you delicately. “You’re beautiful beyond comparison.” Her eyes met yours through the mirror as her arms wrapped around your waist to hug you from behind, her warmth, her words, her presence bringing a small smile to your face. “I love that smile.” Her voice was nothing but a whisper as she kissed your cheek, your smile only widening as you hugged her back by pulling her forearms tighter against you. “But as much as I love it, there’s something else I’m looking for right now.” Her hand slid lower to your pelvis, fingertips only barely skimming over your pubic bone, her mouth finding your ear, the wetness of her tongue sending shivers down your spine as she licked the shell of your ear. Your lips parted in a silent gasp, wiping the smile right off your face, a frown of pleasure finding your brows when you felt the buzz between your legs grow more intense. You turned around rather automatically, longing to kiss her, but before your body had so much as moved, Natasha’s hand had curled around your bicep in a firm grip, a gentle tut falling from her lips.

“Eyes on the mirror, darling.” Your gaze found your reflection again, your body visibly melting into Natasha’s embrace as her hands continued to explore it, slowly stroking over your abdomen, massaging you. “I want you to see these curves.” Her hands found your hips, giving them a proper squeeze, your eyes nailed on the way the muscles of her hands and forearms flexed, fingertips sinking slightly into the flesh. You noted how attractive they looked, how firm, how possessive their grip was. “I want you to see how irresistible every inch of you is, how sexy and alluring you can look when you’re at my mercy.” You let out a soft sigh when her left hand slid to your left thigh, massaging the hip and leg area with teasing pressure as her right hand moved up toward your chest. “I want you to see what I see, what drives me insane.” You nearly whimpered, the sound slipping from you by accident as you waited in immense anticipation for her hand to cup your chest. Her fingers were mere centimeters away from the curve of your breast, but her fingertips only barely brushed against the silky-smooth flesh, your eyes unable to tear their gaze away from the veins on her hand, the enticing softness of your body begging to be touched. You knew exactly how good her warm hand could feel against your cool skin, how a single squeeze of her hand would make you sink into her embrace. Her hand was right there. It was so close. And then you saw through the mirror how her hand finally found your breast and cupped it properly. You registered very briefly how wanton the look on your face was, how desperate, but you didn’t have the time to dwell on it.

“Don’t close your eyes”, she warned you gently, your eyes snapping open when you realized that you hadn’t even noticed yourself close them. You met her gaze in the mirror, her pleased smile eliciting a small, albeit shyer smile from you. “You’re an angel, a goddess”, she whispered, her left hand coming up to join her right one. “I can’t get enough of your shape, your breasts, your nipples, the perfect shade of them that I can’t color match for the life of me”, she mumbled in mild amusement, coaxing out a small huff from you. “It makes me want to bury my face into your chest, to kiss you, to bite you.” The tone of her voice was so raw and honest that you knew for a fact that she was telling the truth, your head spinning from desire. “Look in the mirror, malyshka. Look how beautiful you are.” Your hands came up to cover her own on your body as if to make sure they stayed on you. She lowered her left hand down, your left hand following, her right hand massaging your breast. You felt yourself lean into her much heavier than before, your feet unstable beneath you. There was something about the way you could see your own reaction to her touch so clearly in the mirror. It made you react to her touch ten times stronger, a low moan coming from you as her hand dipped between your legs.

“There’s not a part of you that I’m not obsessed with”, Natasha continued, enjoying immensely how limp and helpless you were becoming. She could see just how strongly the entire situation was affecting you. “You’ve got the most perfect waist, hips, thighs…” Both of her hands moved to stroke over each body part she mentioned. “God, and your shoulders, mmh.” She kissed your shoulder, sucking a light mark right where muscle connected to bone. “Your arms… and hands.” Her lips moved down to your bicep, her hands caressing the entire length of your arms, gently grasping your hands. “Oh, your hands.” She brought your dominant hand up to your heads so she could reach it, kissing the palm of it gently. “They’re incredible, Y/N. The things you’re able to create…” she whispered in awe, every word uttered by her tickling your ear. Your knees almost buckled when her other hand found your pelvis region again and slipped between your legs to discover the throbbing, wet mess you had become. The effect was only emphasized by Natasha’s satisfied moan as she felt around your folds, spreading the slick gathered there as well as your restricted position allowed.

“Natasha”, you whined softly, pushing yourself down against her hand, eyes still glued to your reflection, the sight of her touching the most sensitive parts of you making you dizzy with want.

“Tell me how beautiful you are, krasotka. I wanna hear it.” She placed a few more kisses up your neck to find your ear.

“Mmh.” You couldn’t manage much else. You felt a bit awkward for having to make such claims when you were unsure of how true you personally thought them to be.

“Be a good girl, won’t you?” The whispered words worked on you embarrassingly well. You could never deny her a single thing, not when she was simply all too irresistible. You stared at yourself in the mirror, one of her hands playing with your breasts, the other massaging your sex in tantalizing squeezes of her hand, each rub bringing you closer to total submission. “You wanna be a good girl for me, right?”

“Yes, Natasha”, you sighed, your body leaning back into her for more support.

“Let’s hear it then.” Your eyes were half-lidded as you scanned yourself from head to toe in the mirror, studying your build, maybe even liking what you saw in some places.

“I’m beautiful”, you mumbled in a low murmur, your hips growing restless the longer her hand remained between your legs.

“I’m gorgeous”, she whispered in a tone that let you know you were meant to repeat her words. She bit your neck gently, the longing frown on your face only deepening as your hips rolled forward in search of more pressure. You repeated her words, keeping your eyes on your hips, watching how the muscles of your abdomen contracted as you moved your hips to meet her touch. “I’m sexy.” She gave you another sentence to repeat, which you dutifully repeated, your body growing visibly weaker the more she touched you. “You’re such a good girl”, she said breathily, clearly pleased with you as her hand dipped a little deeper between your thighs, her index and middle fingers spreading you open to see more of you. Her eyes looked at your sex through the mirror, her lower lip clamped between her teeth as she admired you, pinching your clit between her fingers. You were about to drop to the ground any second, your legs far too weak to support you as your body zeroed in on the sharp but delicious sting.

“Fuck”, Natasha moaned heavily, unable to keep herself in check at the sight. “You’ve got a gorgeous pussy. So wet, so soft and perfect.” You had to force your eyes to stay open, a part of you wishing to see the way she was touching you, the other part longing to just sink into the pleasurable sensation. “Say it for me, detka.” You felt your cheeks heat violently at the thought of repeating her words. You couldn’t bring yourself to say something like that. You were quite positive you had never said anything of the sort about yourself. Natasha waited for a moment, her tongue licking over the delicate skin of your neck as she placed languid kisses there, but when no response from you came, she withdrew the hand from between your legs. You let out an odd, panicked sound at the action, immediately regretting your decision.

“I’ve got a gorgeous pussy.” Your cheeks were burning like two bonfires from shame and mild humiliation, but a part of you also felt good. You felt more confident because she made you feel like you had a reason to be.

“That’s it, baby”, Natasha praised, a smug smirk on her face as she brought her hand back between your legs, her fingertips finding your clit with familiar ease. “You’re so wet, so ready for me. Mmh, all I want is to taste you.” Your eyes fluttered shut on their own, your body threatening to fold forward as she drew tight circles over your clit, making you burn with desire. You were wet beyond measure, the sinfully lustful look on your face showing you exactly how affected you were by her. You were completely gone, fully under her control. She pulled away from you suddenly, your features acquiring a tinge of disappointment to them. Her hands never left your body as she moved in front of you, breaking your visual connection to the mirror for the first time. You wanted nothing more than to kiss her when you were met with her green eyes and loving smile, so desperate to feel her fully against your body, but you didn’t dare move, waiting for her to show you what she had in mind.

“Kneel on the edge of the bed for me”, she hummed, pushing you back just enough to make you follow her orders. She helped you onto the bed, your knees on the very edge, your body still fully displayed in the mirror. She took a step back, admiring your curves for a moment before leaning in for a kiss. You whimpered against her lips, all too relieved to be kissed by her, to be hugged by her, her hands wrapping around your middle. You used the opportunity to unhook her bra and uncover her breasts for you, your hands moving to the waistband of her underwear next, eager to have her fully nude. She allowed you to have your moment, but once her underwear dropped to the ground, she pulled away from the kiss.

“Eyes on the stunning woman in the mirror”, she reminded you softly, her hand caressing your jaw briefly before she knelt on the floor, turning around to face the mirror as well so you could see more of her. Your lips parted in a silent gasp when you took in the sight of the both of you, Natasha’s head between your parted thighs as she sat on the floor. The bed was the perfect height for her, allowing her to tilt her head back onto the mattress, her hands guiding you to spread your knees wider apart and sit yourself on her face.

You looked at the both of you in the mirror, your head feeling beyond fuzzy at the sight. You’d never seen yourself like that before, gaining an understanding of what made you so compelling to Natasha. It was the utter relaxation you exuded, the pleading frown that you couldn’t wipe off your face, the desperate longing that you couldn’t hide. You rested half of your weight over Natasha’s mouth, your eyes threatening to roll into the back of your head from the wet sensation of her lips and tongue. It was somehow even better when you could see her exposed neck and jaw through the mirror, her defined arms on display as she rubbed your thighs with her hands to make you fully relax on top of her. You watched yourself start to grind down against her mouth in the mirror, your gaze fixed on where you were connected, eyes devouring the way Natasha’s jaw flexed as she moved her mouth against you, eating you out with shameless greed. Your breathing picked up into heavy panting in record time, your hips finding a steady rhythm that matched Natasha’s movements in the most pleasurable way imaginable. You saw the way your breasts bounced with each thrust of your pelvis, saw the way your muscles rippled beneath your smooth skin, you saw the way your face became flushed. You heard yourself moan, a string of unintelligible noises falling from your lips as the compelling sensation in the lower half of your body grew strong enough for your muscles to start cramping.

“Natasha, oh- Fuck, mmh.” You didn’t have many options for finding support, blindly reaching for her hand so that you wouldn’t fall off the bed as your hips ground down ruthlessly on her face in search of relief from the burning pleasure that consumed you. You were so close, you were so close, almost there, your eyes staring at the lewd sight in the mirror, paired with obscene noises from both you and Natasha. Your eyelids were just about to slide shut, your body right on the verge of release, when you saw Natasha part her bent-up knees to expose her soaked sex to you through the mirror, her other hand sliding between her thighs. Her fingertips found her swollen clit to bring her some relief, her groan of pleasure muffled by your sex, the vibrations sending you right over the edge. You came hard, your body trembling from exertion at the sole thought of Natasha touching herself to you. The effect was beyond measure, your heart thrumming wildly in your chest as your hips rode out your orgasm on their own, your hasty moans echoing loudly in your head as pleasure rippled through you in waves. There was something so attractive about seeing yourself lose your composure completely from Natasha’s efforts. It was almost like a visual confirmation of the effect she had on you. It was exhilarating, intensifying the entire experience tenfold. You let out a small screech when you nearly toppled off the bed, Natasha’s arms immediately coming up to support you, her soaked lips and chin pressing into your equally wet sex, muffling her laughter that was followed by a moan from you.

“Mmh, krasotka”, Natasha groaned quietly against you, kissing your sensitive clit a few times before pulling away to give your trembling thighs a break. You immediately rested your weight onto your heels, relaxing a bit more when you were no longer a threat to Natasha’s neck. She turned around, her eyes finding your parted legs as her hands smoothed over the tops of your thighs. You looked down at her knelt before you, smiling in mild amusement simply from how good you felt. She began to kiss your thighs, her hands roaming up to your waist and then up to your chest to cup your breasts.

“Someone is feeling generous”, you mused to yourself, Natasha smiling against your inner thigh. You glanced at the mirror again, unable to fully ignore it when the image staring back at you was simply too good to pass up on. You felt powerful with Natasha knelt before you, your perfectly sex-disheveled look giving you a certain kind of glow as she groped your breasts. It reminded you of paintings you had seen in art galleries, those where men were knelt at the feet of some desired woman that was the picture of true beauty. The thought of it all made your cheeks heat. “You almost stole my job there for a moment”, you continued cockily, unable to forget that she had wanted you so badly that her hand had been the next best option. Natasha chuckled, pulling back enough to be able to see your face, those jade eyes somehow reminding you that as powerful and confident as you felt, you were still right where she wanted you. She looked fucked out, her pupils blown, lips swollen and as pink as ever, a deep blush decorating her cheeks, neck, and upper chest.

“Tonight I’m doing all the touching. You just sit there and look pretty”, she hummed, giving you one more glance before going back to kissing and licking her way up your abdomen.

[sim0nril3y]

Your Flat

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!Reader Scenario: It's date night and Simon invites himself over to your flat to pick you up and he finally sees that chaos that you're living in, along with your artwork. Note: Set in 2014 Warnings: No mask Simon (It's my personal headcanon in his regular life he probably wouldn't wear it), teasing, smut, P in V, Simon being his usual guarded self, canon-typical swearing.

Friday night. It was date night – something one night that you had jokingly called it and now it had begrudgingly become part of his own vocabulary too. It was now the thing in the week that Simon was beginning to look forward to the most. There had been no conversation of commitment but Simon knew that he liked spending time with you. Actually, you were consuming his mind outside of spending date nights with you. Deep down a voice continued to tell him that this was all a bad idea and that your safety was being risked but that voice was beginning to become more and more quiet as each day passed.

This would be the first time that Simon would see your flat. It had been the only thing you had been fairly secretive about. Rapping his knuckles loudly against the door Simon smirked to himself as he heard a flurry of sound from behind it. It swung open swiftly and witnessed you rushing in the opposite direction down the hallway, minus a few items of clothes. “You’re early!” That had been intentional, otherwise you’d had met him in the carpark and he’d never been able to set foot in your flat. “Come in!” You coaxed from your bedroom.

Entering your flat Simon was instantly overwhelmed by the sheer chaos of the place. It was small but it was full of clutter and art supplies, they were littering almost every surface. There was laundry slung over every door and radiator, hanging off the backs of chairs and on hangers over doorways, interestingly every place but the airer designed for it which was instead housing some of your drying canvas’. “Jesus, kid…”

“I didn’t realise I’d have company!” You hollered from your bedroom, sounding breathless behind the door, bumping into objects and fussing over trying to find something appropriate to wear. "I'm sorry!" You tagged on quickly.

In your lounge area there was one particular space that caught his attention. There were stacks of canvas’ placed against one another, an old looking easel, rows of different paints and brushes. Oh, so this must have been where you created your artwork and those canvas’ must have been the finished pieces. Simon took great care as he stepped into that little shrine and began to inspect them. It wasn’t like he understood art anyway. Looking at some pieces made him feel certain ways. It was invoking emotions – wasn’t that what art was supposed to do? Fuck, he wasn’t some connoisseur but he could see that you were very talented. “Right, I’m-” Your flustered frame bound around the corner still mid putting your heel on and cutting you sentence short as you spotted Simon in your ‘art studio’. “Oh, you found my art…”

Simon was careful in returning the canvas’ how he had found them and turned to you. “It was about the only thing I could find in here…” There was a tell-tale look of embarrassment that flashed across your features as you rolled your eyes. “You are a messy pup…” He commented taking a few steps in your direction and quirking a brow down at you, as if waiting for some explanation.

“I-It isn’t usually this bad…” There was so much defensiveness to your tone, attempting to rack your brain for some reasonable excuse for your flat being in such a state. “I woke up and I had this massive spark that I just knew I needed to get onto canvas… right, I’m not making excuses…. God, I know I must sound so stupid…. I’m not making a whole lot of sense, but-” “Kid, enough.” His firm tone commanded, reaching up and tugging you gently in his direction. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less if your flat is messy…” You let out a relieved puff of air. “As long as mine doesn’t end up the same way, I’m fine with it.” A bright smile found your lips. “What time did you say our table is booked for?”

His eyes narrowed softly as he felt your dainty fingers dancing along his belt. “Babe…” It was a warning. “What?” There was such false innocence to your tone and that was what finally made him snap.

It seemed very clear that your IKEA bedframe wasn’t up to the task of being fucked on. It creaked and cracked dangerously with each thrust into your trembling frame, the headboard was clattering against the wall so much that Simon wondered if he should put a pillow behind it to try and save your poor neighbours ears. All this whilst you whine and whimpered beneath him, clearly unaware of all this commotion. It appeared that all that consumed your mind was the way he perfectly stretched your tight walls to accommodate his girthy cock.

With one particularly strong crack beneath him Simon grumbled out. “M’gonna break your fuckin’ bed…” It earned a fit of giggles from you that mixed with a soft load of whimpers. “Fuck off. I’m being serious.” Even he could fight the small smirk before finally deciding to save your poor bed anymore stress.

Instead, his arms wound around your frame. “Fuckin’… c’mere…” His cock still buried deep within your walls as he rose from the bed and placed you against the closest surface. There wasn’t any hesitation from there, Simon began to fuck into your wet cunt with reckless-abandon. This time he was far more confident that he would be able to do any structural damage to your home. There wasn’t any way that he’d be able to knock down a loadbearing wall from fucking alone. “My good girl~”

Rushing from your flat once they had cleaned up and resituated the majority of their clothes. You were speaking your worries about the possibility of missing the table whilst trying to work your key into the dodge lock barrel, it didn’t escape your knowledge your grumpy old neighbour Peter was lingering outside smoking over the balcony and observing the estate below him. “These flats have thin walls, you know…” He muttered lowly and Simon narrowed his eyes as you struggled with the lock, cursing softly under your breath.

“Bad enough I have to listen to that shit you call music, but now I have to listen to you fucking too-” “That’s enough.” Simon growled out at him causing Peter to look in his direction furious. By luck the key finally spun and you were quick to be by Simon’s side, taking his hand and beginning to drag him past Peter and away from the possibility of an altercation.

As you got further away from Peter, you finally decided you could laugh softly, looking at Simon and saying. “You don’t have to fight every prick that says something stupid to us…” Taking your hand he tugged you close and pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead. “How else are they gonna learn not to be disrespectful to you.” He watched the way that your eyes filled with such adoration. “Now get your arse moving before I end up fucking you in the stairwell just to prove a point to that twat…”

Masterlist | Ask | 05-09-2023

[izzymissi]

Professor Alcina x Professor Reader (fem) X Mother Miranda

(Draft, I'm open to ideas or suggestions)

On the first day at Mother Miranda’s All-Girls College, you felt as if you'd stepped into another world. The ancient hallways were dimly lit, lined with paintings that seemed to watch your every move. This place held centuries of secrets, and it felt both thrilling and intimidating. Especially with Dean Miranda watching over everything like a hawk, leaving no room for mistakes.

Then there was Professor Alcina Dimitrescu, your new mentor, who did not seem thrilled to meet you. Standing almost impossibly tall, Alcina was both graceful and imposing, her piercing gaze making your heart race whenever she looked your way. You’d heard the students whisper about her sharp wit, but nothing prepared you for the coldness with which she greeted you.

When Dean Miranda had introduced you as the new art teacher, an apprentice to Professor Dimitrescu, Alcina’s eyes had narrowed, her lips pressing into a line. Still, she had given a small, tight nod and turned to you, her tone icy. “Come, apprentice. I’ll show you how things are done here.”

Her voice had made you shiver, equal parts fear and... something else.

The next few days became a blur of long, intense lectures in her dimly lit office, which felt more like an old gothic library. Alcina never missed an opportunity to critique your technique or roll her eyes when you hesitated. She had a way of leaning over your shoulder, her voice a seductive murmur as she corrected your brushstrokes, her perfume wrapping around you in a heady cloud.

“Such a delicate hand, but so inexperienced,” she would say, her voice laced with a wicked amusement that made you blush furiously.

It was impossible not to stammer in her presence. Alcina seemed to delight in your flustered reactions, arching a perfect brow whenever you stumbled over words. And the worst part was the way she’d brush her fingers across your hand to ‘correct your posture,’ or let her hand linger on your back as she ‘guided’ you through the halls, her touches casual but somehow making your heart pound every time.

One afternoon, as she led you to the art room to prepare materials, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Professor Dimitrescu,” you blurted, hating how nervous you sounded. “I… I want to do well, really, but… you seem so—” You struggled for the word, flushing.

“Intimidating?” she finished for you, her voice a low purr. Her red lips curved in a smirk, and she leaned closer, her face mere inches from yours.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “A little, yes.”

“Good,” she whispered, eyes gleaming. “It’s important that you learn the right way.” She paused, then tilted her head thoughtfully. “Dean Miranda asked me to… groom you, you know. Teach you the subtleties of art… and of discipline.”

The way she said “groom” made your breath hitch, and your face burned.

She straightened and gestured toward the easel. “Show me your brushwork, then,” she instructed, her tone softer but still holding that edge of command.

You tried to focus, to let your brush glide over the canvas as you’d been taught, but Alcina’s presence behind you was intoxicating. After a moment, she made a frustrated sound, and before you knew it, her hand was over yours, guiding the brush with a firm grip.

“Relax, dear,” she murmured close to your ear, her breath warm on your skin. “How are you supposed to capture beauty if you’re so… tense?”

“Professor, I—” You stumbled over your words, her touch sending a jolt through you.

“Alcina,” she corrected softly, surprising you. “If we’re to spend so much time together, I think you’ve earned the privilege.”

“Alcina,” you managed, feeling dizzy.

“Very good.” She stepped back, studying you, her expression unreadable. “Tomorrow, we’ll work on something more advanced. Perhaps sculpture…” A mischievous glint sparked in her eyes. “I’ve heard apprentices can get quite… hands-on with that.”

You knew you were blushing furiously, and she seemed to enjoy every second of it.

[noellawrites]

Become A Bridgerton - Yandere!Colin Bridgerton x reader

requested by: @ilovechickenwings & anon

summary: Colin does something horrible to you on your eighteenth birthday which forces you to marry him.

warnings: rape, noncon, somnophilia, manipulation, drugging, baby trapping, forced marriage, breeding

author's note: this is really dark so please take care of yourself before and after reading <3

As you entered the Bridgerton home, you were struck with awe. Even better, today marked a special occasion. Today, you were celebrating your eighteenth birthday with your best friends, Eloise and Penelope. Your parents had allowed you to have a small sleepover to celebrate your age, and of course Viscountess Bridgerton and the elder brothers would be watching over you three.

You walked in through the foyer to the parlor, where most of the family was gathered.

"Oh, (y/n), welcome and happy birthday," the Viscountess said, embracing you in a warm hug.

"Officially marrying age, how exciting?" Benedict teased as he turned away from his easel and looked at you.

"Leave her alone, Ben!" Eloise groaned. Her and Pen stood up from the settee and hugged you as well.

"Do you ladies have any special plans for tonight?" Viscountess Bridgerton asked the three of you.

"I thought we could roam around the gardens and read a bit. Perhaps play pickleball or another yard game," Eloise said.

Behind you, Anthony and Colin entered the parlor. Hyacinth all but jumped into Anthony's arms, and Colin walked right over to you.

"Happy birthday, (y/n), and congratulations," he added, smiling at you and making intense eye-contact. You hadn't seen him since before he had left on his travels, and you had to admit he was now very handsome.

"Congratulations? What for?" you inquired teasingly.

"You are now marrying age, correct? Your mother told mine that you would be entering society next season."

"Oh, well yes, I suppose. I don't feel ready yet at all," you confessed, twisting a lock of your hair.

"If we want to walk in the gardens, we must leave soon," Eloise urged impatiently.

"Oh, right, sorry. I'll see you later, Colin," you added before being pulled away by your best friend.

Even long after, you were left daydreaming about how tight Colin's shirt looked, allowing you to see the outline of his strong chest. You liked the light facial hair he had grown and the new styling of his hair, which suited him much more. You thought about him even while Pen and Eloise were debating about Lady Whistledown, and all throughout your garden walk. What was this feeling blossoming in your chest?

---

"I'm not ready to be a wife, I feel like I have so much more fun left in my life!" you groaned, stretched out on one of the parlor settees. The Viscountess had allowed you three some time to socialize in the parlor alone after dinner, so you all took the opportunity to get comfortable and talk.

"Being a wife can be fun sometimes," Pen volunteered.

"And how would you know?" Eloise snapped, setting her book aside.

"El!" you scolded.

"There's the marital act, which none of our mothers have explained to us, but it is supposed to feel good. And if you have a nice husband, he might let you enjoy it, too," Pen shrugged. She began to take some of the pins out of her hair, causing red locks to fall around her shoulders.

"The marital act," you shuddered, "those words alone scare me enough."

"Colin, Benedict and Anthony know but they won't tell me. And of course Daphne won't, either. But I assume it has something to do with the process of carrying children," Eloise said.

All of a sudden you heard a loud knock on the closed door. The three of you gasped.

"Bedtime, ladies," Anthony commanded in a stern voice.

"Fine, brother!" Eloise shouted back, rolling her eyes and standing up from the settee she had been laying on.

---

The Bridgerton house had a quite a few guest rooms. It was one of the reasons you enjoyed staying there, as your home was definitely not as fancy. You made your way to a small guest room the maids had made up for you at the order of the Viscountess.

Taking a deep breath, you shut the door behind you and turned on the oil lamp. You changed into your nightgown and began undoing your hair, twisting the pins and decorative ribbons out of the style. Your mother had done your hair in a special style for your birthday.

A slight knock sounded at your door. Who could it be? Perhaps Penelope needed more sanitary napkins.

"H-hello?" you asked, opening the door slightly. Colin.

"Good evening, (y/n). I was wondering if we could talk? I brought some tea for you."

"This isn't a good time, I'm getting ready for bed," you whispered.

"Just a few minutes?"

"Alright," you agreed. Colin closed the door behind him and sat down on the bed. You sat down next to him, taking the tea saucer from his hands and sipping tentatively.

"You never told me, how was Greece?" you asked, looking up at the man beside you. Although he was only twenty-three, he felt like a grown adult compared to you. Even at eighteen, you still felt like a little girl.

"It was beautiful, (y/n). Maybe I'll bring you there someday. Would you like that?" he asked, eyes trained on you as you took another sip of the tea.

You nodded, wanting to speak but finding yourself unable to. You tried to set down the tea saucer but Colin took your hand and raised it up to your mouth again.

"W-what are you--" you stuttered before he made you take another sip.

"Shh, it's okay my love. Just drift off to sleep," Colin urged. After you finished the tea, he helped you lay comfortably on the bed.

You fought to keep your eyes open, but the last thing you saw was Colin staring at you with a sickly smile.

---

You awoke to the sound of birds chirping and the sun streaming through the guest room's shades. As you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, you realize there was a sharp pain in your lower region. It was not yet time for your monthly cycle, but perhaps you were early?

The shooting pain was still there as you hobbled to the washroom, hoping a quick urination might relieve the pain.

You looked into the bowl after you were finished, a small bit of blood there. You must be starting early, there was no other explanation. Maybe Colin knew something, as he was there with you before you fell asleep. You went to sleep a lot quicker than you'd been meaning to, but perhaps it was because you had a long day.

---

About six weeks later, you still had not gotten your monthly cycle since before you'd stayed at the Bridgerton's, aside from the small bit of blood from the toilet. You felt fragile and constantly sick. You looked bigger and your breasts felt heavier. You'd never felt anything like this, and you were scared. Did you have the plague? How could you have even gotten it?

After a few weeks of worrying, your parents were able to get a doctor out to your house to check on you.

The doctor, a stern old man, examined you, asked questions and inspected you thoroughly. When he was finished, he took your parents aside.

"You stupid, stupid girl!" your mother yelled from across the room. You looked at her, confused and surprised.

"What are you talking about?" you asked innocently.

"Who did you have sexual relations with?"

"I-I don't know what you're talking about!"

"The marriage act, who did you do it with? Oh my, we must find the boy and ask him to do the honorable thing and marry her. Or else she'll be a soiled spinster!" your father shouted.

"I didn't do the marriage act, I promise! I don't even know what it is, I've never even kissed a boy!"

"If you will not be honest, we must take this into our own hands as soon as possible. You are pregnant, stupid girl," your mother spoke. She yelled back and forth at you with your father, but your brain couldn't comprehend it anymore.

You were confused, having been sick for almost six weeks straight. Six weeks ago was your birthday, when you had fallen asleep by Colin. Could that be the marriage act? You would have to speak with him as soon as possible. How does one get pregnant?

---

"I need to see Colin," you tell the butler urgently once you arrive at the Bridgerton estate.

The butler nods and escorts you to what you assume is Colin's study, as he is sitting there at a desk, writing in his journal.

The butler leaves and you make a guttural noise, alerting Colin of your presence.

"Oh, hello! It's great to see you again, (y/n). I've been expecting you."

"Y-you have?"

"Yes. I heard the doctor was coming to your home to check up on you. I knew it meant my seed had taken."

"What?"

"Marry me, my love. We can travel with our baby and eventually settle down. You will have a luxurious life with me, more than with anyone your parents could pick for you. Come on, (y/n). Become a Bridgerton."

"What did you do to me?" you cry, reaching your hand gently down to touch the tiny bump of your stomach.

"The tea I gave you put you to sleep and boosted your fertility. I picked it up at a bazaar in Greece, when I first had the idea to do this. I consummated our marriage, though a bit early. You would be wise to accept my proposal. This is your only chance at a good life, (y/n)," Colin explained with a slight smirk on his face.

You slid to the floor, dress cushioning your fall. You nod through the tears, in disbelief that Colin had taken advantage of you. You didn't even know what he'd done to you. You weren't sure you wanted to know, either.

[fantasy-relax]

Sweet Alpha Dangerous Omega

Part 12 Part 13

Writing the instructions for Lucia's “special care,” anger at the words spoken against her made her blood burn but remembering the abuse you had been subjected to caused her to lose control of her strength destroying the pencil in her hand.

Again.

Opening her desk drawer, she took out another one and continued writing however her thoughts continued to wander.

How is it possible that Bela was incapable of watching over a human?

If she doesn't have time to pay attention to you then she should have left you under her command at least she would have something to distract herself while her punishment is revoked.

“Alpha accepted her punishment even though she was only fulfilling her duty to defend us.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes at the Omega's sad statement from her.

“Oh, yes the powerful Alpha defended us from the cruel and evil servant, I'll finish writing this and I'll go look for her to blow her as a reward.”

“…”

An image of her stay with you crossed her mind causing her to drop her pencil in favor of covering her face grunting in annoyance as she felt the heat of her blush.

"Your fault"

"Be quiet"

She hated how you acted like a weakling when she remembered perfectly how you had no problem forcing her to submit to your will of course that she was the one who had total control over the situation using you to satisfy that stupid need that had been annoying her for years.

You are just a tool to deal with her Heat she will use you until your life comes to an end and when her Omega starts acting insufferable again, she will simply look for a new distraction.

Of course, if you don't end up dead first because of another error on Bela's part.

Miss Perfect thinking she knows everything when she can't even take care of a starving peasant alpha.

With how easy it is for to leave the smallest amount of the swarm to watch over you.

Closing her eyes she focuses on the part of her that she left in your room.

She only does it because she knows you're useless in taking care of yourself.

The first thing she sees is how you jump out of bed even though you should still be resting, you really are an imbecile.

“Alpha is very careless with her health”

“An Idiot is what she is.”

She dodges your attacks with ease before showing mercy and leaving only a fly with you.

The last thing she needs is for you to get hurt again.

Letting out a laugh as she sees how you resign yourself to her presence, she rests on your neck.

“How warm”

“It's nothing special”

---------------------------------------------

Normal, being treated like that is completely normal for you.

“How dare them to treat our Alpha like that!”

Insults? Normal.

“Filthy bitch” “Disgusting rat” “Scum”

Violence? Normal.

*BAM* “How dare you?!”

The pain made her vomit the little she had eaten.

Contempt? Normal.

"You can bandage yourself; I don't understand why you look for me, that's weakness S¨***, you shouldn't be weak"

“Cassandra”

Breathing hurts, moving hurts.

“Cassandra”

“You should never show weakness, or do you want to end up like your mother?”

“Cassandra!”

“Be used and discarded”

 The smell of putrefaction is overwhelming.

“Cassandra?”

“Killed by a parasite”

Rot.

“Cassandra?”

She didn't ask to be born, father.

Rot.

"My girl"

Roses

"You are safe"

Roses

"You are at home"

Roses

“Mom will never hurt you.”

Mother

Returning to the present, the first thing she sees is her mother kneeling in front of her with her arms outstretched waiting patiently for her. Cassandra jumps up hugging her neck, hiding her face on it, immersing her in a scent that promises security and love, hands capable of breaking marble gently stroke her back, the ringing in her ears drowned out by the purring coming from her mother's chest.

Mother, Alcina Dimitrescu.

The images Memories fade like water between fingers.

The normal.

-------------------------------------------------- ----

Entering her studio, the first thing she does is go to her easel. Which, while old is in good condition.

*CRACK*

With a light squeeze the wood is fractured which is more than enough to justify needing a new one.

“Our sisters should stay away from our Alpha.”

Her sisters spend more time with you than with her she should have stopped it as soon as she found out about the private classes.

Cassandra had to use all her self-control not to growl as she talked knowing full well that her sisters would use it against her.

“We knew that Daniela wouldn't think twice before touching”

The smell of the sweets that her younger sister unceremoniously devoured hid yours easily.

Also, why the fuck does Bela know that detail about you? You are supposed to have a separate room to sleep in, you had nothing to do in any other room specially her sister's.

“Alpha shouldn't wear our sister's clothes.”

Bela was the one who punished you unjustly, why did you forgive her so quickly?

“To avoid conflicts in the Pack”

Still, why did you agree to wear her clothes?

Do you also prefer her older sister?

"Is not like that"

Have you already wandered off?

“No, Alpha wouldn't do that.”

Towards the responsible, maternal and feminine Bela.

“Alpha is ours!”

The Perfect Woman.

"Ours!"

If Bela had been an omega...

“Alpha not…”

Would you have chosen her over her?

--------------------------------------

“I gave you clear instructions and you still do it wrong. Didn't my sisters teach you to read?”

Others would have run with their tail between their legs upon hearing the venom in her voice, you stood firm and despite the air of seriousness with which you acted, your scent gave you away.

Happiness, adoration, sadness, determination.

Every time she visited the workshop, the moment you noticed her presence you stopped everything you were doing to focus all your attention on her.

"As it should be"

Growling to avoid purring, she destroyed the six easels you had created in one day in seconds.

“Again, and don't use so much varnish this time.”

“Whatever you want, Lady Cassandra.”

She left the workshop ignoring her omega's protests to stay with you longer.

-------------------------------------------

Cassandra can't help but rub her eyes and pinch her arm hard to make sure she's woken up from her nap.

“It's not a dream” The Omega comments despite sharing the same confusion.

In front of her is an Alpha kneeling with her head lowered and in her hands is a white rabbit's fur, the skin is white as snow without cuts that detract from its beauty, simply impeccable.

“For you Lady Cassandra.”

“A courting gift”

At what point do she grab it?

“Sweet alpha, good alpha”

Clenching her jaw she threw the fur to the ground.

"NO"

“Pathetic,” Making sure to keep her tone of voice neutral, she spoke. “You couldn't even complete my order and you come with more garbage, out of my sight.”

“Take it back! Apologize!” Despair and anger emanated from her omega.

"Shut up!"

A voice distracted her from the discussion.

“If you don't want it, I'll keep it, after all it's too nice a gift to be wasted.” Bela held her fur carefully in her hands. “There's no problem, right, Alpha?”

“It's our gift!”

She could feel the blood on her palm, her nails had pierced her skin.

“No problem, Bela.”

“Alpha stop! How can you do this?” She didn't know if the question was towards her or towards you.

“White looks good on me, don't you think?”

"Take it back!"

The blonde caressed your cheek, and you rested your face on it closing your eyes calmly.

“You are so sweet, dear Alpha.”

*THUMP*

“Our gift…”

"I don't care"

“Our alpha…”

"I don't care"

"Why are you doing this?"

"I don't care"

“She would hate us…”

"I don't care"

"Why do you hate me?"

"I don't care"

"I am you…"

“…”

-------------------------------------------------- -

From that day on her omega remained silent, she felt her presence but not a sound came from her.

It was what she had always wanted so why the hell did she feel so bad?

Her visits to the workshop continued, the easels you made were perfect however the mere thought that you would go after her sisters the moment you had more free time caused her immense fury that led her to destroy it to avoid it.

Your visits also continued and the silence in her mind remained.

Even after seeing her sisters show off the gifts that she had rejected, her omega did not utter the slightest complaint or comment.

The discomfort inside her grew more every second.

“Cass, I really can't believe you reject gifts as beautiful as these.” Just hearing Bela's voice caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise.

“Alpha is really a sweetheart, she is so gentle and hard-working,” Daniela commented as she walked next to her, “it would be a waste to leave her alone, I think I'm going to ask her if she wants to be my mat-

The redhead didn't finish her sentence before being pushed with such force that she went through the wall and the bookshelf behind it.

Transforming into her swarm Cassandra left before Bela could reproach her for her actions.

Silence, in her mind there was only silence.

It was then that she felt it, her Heat had arrived.

And everything turned black.

[raibiesims]

"The Painter's Pack" posepack

Includes

- 15 poses

You will NEED

- andrew’s pose player or WW (tutorial) - teleporter any sim, use mc command center, or use tool - This Paint Palette and Brush - Any easel, I used base game one

feel free to tag me (@missrai.whims) This pose is public.

Do not reupload on ANY website WITHOUT my express permission

Do not claim as your own

Do not change the package files

If you choose to violate these terms, I will issue a permanent ban to access my poses, etc.

Download >HERE<

[i-only-ever-asked-questions]

Aziraphale's bibles

Have you ever noticed how many bibles Aziraphale has just lying about? So. Many. Bibles. Oodles of bibles! In S1 we only saw two, one on top of the desk that he used for checking the number of the beast in Revelations; and the other one on the desk surface, right behind his angel mug when he sat to read The Book (not that book, the other book, the one with the true prophecies).

In S2, we see no less than five bibles on his desk alone and more around the bookshop.

The first one is on the left, right under the little "For the Young: Hymns for Church and Home, with Forms of Services" book, which incidentally opens to: "So shall no wicked thing draw near, To do us harm or cause us fear." (This angel has no shame).

Then there are three more in the desk's middle compartments. One, with a green cover, is on the left slot, right above the tray with pens (this one is a New Testament only). The other two, both with black covers, are right behind the mug, where the RadioTimes watermark is. They look identical but they could be two volumes of the same edition or two different editions. We can probably assume one of these is supposed to be the one from S1. The desk in S1 didn't have compartments, it had drawers so there were no books in that area.

The last one is the on on top of the desk, on the right. This would be the same he used in S1 (although the bible itself is different)

On his right side, sometimes he has an easel where he displays a large book. This is not a bible itself, but an illustrated book of biblical motifs. Sometimes it is closed and sometimes it is open. He normally has it on the Adam and Eve page (cheeky!) but in Ep 2 he opened it to the Book of Job page instead.

There is yet another one in the shelf that Gabriel Jim is organizing

And there is one more in the first backroom (the one with the computer where he talks with Gabriel and Sandalphon). It is on a little table by the door of the private backroom (the one where he confers with Crowley in)

But there is a set of bibles that are even more important to him than any of the other ones. Although the show never mentioned it, the book tells us that in addition to his passion for prophecy books, he also loves and collects misprinted bibles*:

"And he had a complete set of the Infamous Bibles, individually named from errors in typesetting. These Bibles included the Unrighteous Bible, so called from a printer’s error which caused it to proclaim, in I Corinthians, “Know ye not that the unrighteous shall inherit the Kingdom of God?”; and the Wicked Bible, printed by Barker and Lucas in 1632, in which the word not was omitted from the seventh commandment, making it “Thou shalt commit Adultery.” There were the Discharge Bible, the Treacle Bible, the Standing Fishes Bible, the Charing Cross Bible and the rest. Aziraphale had them all. Even the very rarest, a Bible published in 1651 by the London publishing firm of Bilton and Scaggs."

This collection of bibles is hiding in plain sight and readily on hand. Just ask Jim!

The rest are right there on Aziraphale's desk. The tags are hard to read but I found, from right to left, The Treacle Bible, The Discharge Bible, The Unrighteous Bible, then three that I couldn't decipher, the Standing Fishes Bible and The Charing Cross Bible. One of those three is supposed to be the Buggre All This Bible, but none of the tags seemed to fit.

*All the bibles mentioned are real except for the Charing Cross Bible and the Buggre Alle This Bible which in the GO world was printed by Bilton and Scaggs, the publishing company that also printed The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. I have a whole post about Bilton and Scaggs if interested. Now, looking back to S1, as part of his restoring the world, Adam replaced Aziraphale's misprinted bibles with Just William books. Let that sink in... Adam moved Aziraphale's bibles from their righteous place. No wonder Crowley realized it right away. These are Aziraphale's bibles for Go- for Sat- for Somebody's sake!

Fortunately by S2 everything was back to normal.

[runawaydr3amerao3]

The Sims 4 Mods/Custom Content I Use

See my Simsnatural posts here! (Warning: May contain actual or references to Wincest, CGI and animated nudity and sex, kinky shit, and other absolute nonsense.)

I've decided to make a masterpost of the mods and custom content I use to play TS4, so that I can just link back here instead of listing them every time on every post I make of my Winchester Sims. I'll list all of my mods, but I'll only list CC if it's visible in a screenshot I share or mentioned in a post. Otherwise things would get unmanageable.

For reference, I play The Sims 4 with all expansions and stuff packs. EA can bite the big one.

Mods:

Better Exceptions

Bouncing Sim Boobies

Child Birth Mod

Ding & Ditch Smart Doorbell

Education Overhaul

FlirtyFetishes: BDSiM

GeneralPieMenu

MC Command Center

Mood Pack

More Columns in CAS

Pose Player

Selectable Pets Always

SharedTuning

Smarter Pie Menu: Searchable Interactions

Teleport Any Sim

Unlock/Lock Doors for chosen sims

Wicked Whims

Wicked Whims Inappropriate Unlock

XML Injector

Custom Content:

Appearance:

Dimples by PralineSims

Eye colours by PralineSims

Eyebrows by PralineSims

Penis Meshes by Supern4tural

Pierced Penis by Khlas

Clothing:

Boxer-briefs with side mesh by Joliebean

Lace boyshorts by Joliebean & Imvikai

Layered autumn plaid by SimmieV

Pentacle sweater by SimmieV

Sarcasm Inc t-shirt by PralineSims

Gameplay:

Pregnancy Pose Pack by Katverse

Wicked Whims sex animations (shown in posts so far: Anarcis, Artista De Bastardo, FausTTerM, Khlas, MOTHERLODESIMS)

Objects:

BDSM Easel by YrSa

Beer bottles by Around the Sims 4

Glass of vodka by Around the Sims 4

Glock handgun – original by XanKriegor, TS4 edit by SG5150, found here

Naughty TV by Reitanna

Sex toys by 0zzzy: ball gag

Sex toys by asketo: anal beads, dildo with handle, hanging chain, tentacle dildo

Sex toys by chisami: Lovehoney g-spot dildo and wall dildo

Sex toys by Julie J: collar and leash

Sex toys by Khlas: fleshlight

Sex toys by Kodenu: hanging belt and bull whip

Sex toys by Noir and Dark / scaled by wild_guy: chrome dildo, metallic plug, realistic dildo, wand massager

Sex toys by Supern4tural: horse dildo

Whiskey bottle by leosims

Wine cellar by Kaydazzle420 (in-game gallery)

Supernatural-themed Custom Content:

1967 Chevrolet Impala – original by Fresh-Prince Creations, TS4 edit by SG5150, found here

Anti-Possession Tattoo by plumbobfae

Dean's Amulet by BAkalia

Devil's Trap Rugs by WWOM_KittyKatt

Mark of Cain by Nys!k

Men of Letters Bunker by xogerardine

Winchester Bros t-shirt by simmi98x

Sincere apologies if I forget to list anything at any stage. I'm always open to being reminded. And if any links break, do let me know.

Also, please note that I cannot guarantee the security of each link indefinitely. Use your own discretion as well as protective software the way you would/should at any other time.

[bump1nthen1ght]

Do the Crime, Pay the Time (M!Reader x M!Undead Knight)

Pairing: Male!Artist!Reader x Male!Undead Knight

Genre: Urban Fantasy, Misunderstandings

Warnings: Extremely Dubious Consent, No preparation

Word Count: 2254 words

Summary: All you had wanted was to paint, to decorate these abandoned ruins with your art. But it seems your presence is unwanted at these ‘abandoned’ ruins.

Request: i have an idea for a request,,

how bout an Undead Male Knight x Male Graffiti Artist

The Graffiti artist would wander into some ruins away from the city to paint a mural, unknowing of its origins and get caught by the Undead Knight…

Maybe some punishment for trespassing on the ruined kingdoms property,,? 🥹

You should have known this place was too good to be true.

You had stumbled upon it wandering one day, shocked that the crumbling ruins weren't kept behind a “KEEP OUT - PRIVATE PROPERTY” sign. That wouldn’t have stopped you, of course, but the fact the large complex was seemingly abandoned made it all the more interesting.

Most of the ceiling had caved in, remnants of flying buttress and great arches overgrown with moss and water damage. Some remains of stained glass lay shattered on the ground, brushed into the corners by the wind or wandering animals.

But what takes your attention is the surprisingly intact wall, clean of debris and dust. It’s perfect for a mural, and on first site the painting is already forming in your head.

You head home to pack up supplies and pray it stays unsigned by the next day. Your arms shake from all your equipment - a ladder, cans, some brushes and paints - and you mentally cheer once you see the clear wall left intact.

The high of uninhibited artistic creation must dull your senses, because you do not hear the crunching of rusted armor or the dragging of long-slept limbs. No, it’s not until you’re being choke slammed into your easel that you realize this place was very much inhabited.

“Speak your name, intruder.” 

Your attacker’s voice is low, tense and full of authority. Your nails scramble at the armored hand holding you up, trying to pry them off your throat.

I need to breathe to speak, you psycho!

You try to scream with your eyes, feeling your vision go spotty.

All you can see of your assailant is a glowing green eye, trembling like an open flame out from their dark helm. The light from it hints at something underneath, bleach white like bone, but it must be from the lack of oxygen to your brain. Surely he isn’t-

The man loosens his hold on your jugular, blood rushing back in as you suck in a deep breath. You slowly regain your faculties, and your eyes begin to adjust in the low light of the morning.

“I didn’t realize-”

The arm pushes you further against the wall, raising you so your legs dangle like a ragdoll.

“I asked for your name, not an excuse.”

The voice says, no less angry than before. A filtered beam of sunlight comes through one of the stained glass windows, and you see another glimpse of his face. 

Your brain hasn't deceived you. It was bone, a stripped clean skull right underneath a fiery green eye. But it was only one half, the other side being that of a shockingly handsome knight, sharp cheekbones and a smatter of freckles. His more human eyes are the same acid-green as the other, but doesn’t burn or glow the same way.

“___! My name is ____!” You gasp, hands still desperately trying to rip away his fingers.

The knight hums, eyes rolling down your form. It’s just some painter's overalls and a t-shirt, surely different from the thieves and nobles he is more familiar with.

“Why do you trespass on this place that is not your own?” He commands, holding you up with minimal effort. The bulk underneath his armor must not be just for show, especially with the large greatsword he wields on his back.

“I didn’t know someone was here! I just wanted-” You choke, feeling the palm of his armor digging into your jaw. You tap it furiously, and the knight must deem you harmless enough to set you down on the ground without a fight.

You drop to your butt, hands clutching what is surely your bruised throat. 

“I just wanted to paint.” You urge, trying your best to seem innocent and non-threatening. This dude seems to have a hair-trigger temper.

The human eye appraises you again, the knight humming with burgeoning thoughts.

“I see.” The bared teeth of his skull clink together as his mouth grits, brow half-furrowing as he thinks on what to do with you. You eye that massive sword, brain going for the worst.

“Listen, I can go right now. I won’t tell anyone about this place, and once again I am so sorry-”

A palm is in your face, the other creasing the growing knot in the knight's brow. He seems less angry now, more frustrated. The bared teeth clink together.

He keeps his thoughts to himself as he stews, seemingly having a mini argument in his head.

“I see you are not a thief, nor do you seem to have…” Both eyes roll down your outfit again, taking stock in your lack of weapons or tools, “...nefarious intentions. But nonetheless you have disturbed this holy place, and for that my cursed commands I punish you.”

You grab your throat, instincts somehow believing your hand could stop that sword from separating your head from the rest of your body. 

But the knight just sighs, arms not going for his great sheath, and instead kneels before you.

The gauntlet is cold against your flushed cheek, the knight's hand nearly the size of your face as he tilts your jaw to him. His face has fallen back to flat, contemplative and in control.

The human iris feels hot as it looks down the column of your neck, eyes your heaving chest, still full with nervous breaths. You think you see it sweeping lower, lower, before darting back. 

“I suppose I can provide punishment in an alternative way to the convention.” The knight grips your jaw, yanking you forward.

His glowing eye is hard to look away from. You feel like a moth, drawn in by the flickering emerald spits in his eye. Your heart thuds in your ears, wondering if you’re about to get the beating of a lifetime

And then the bastard kisses you.

Well, half-kisses you. The lips he has are soft and plump, conveying a lot of experience with one smooth motion. The bone is a little more jarring, jagged teeth crashing against yours, yet making the same movements as the lips. 

All in all though, not the worst kiss you’ve ever had.

The knight pulls away, no breath being lost on his end as a string of saliva connects your wet lips. Both eyes burn with something familiar,and he flicks a tongue across his half-lip.

“Yes, I think this will do perfectly.”

Before you can clarify, the knight meets you in another steaming kiss. It's quicker than the last, lips traveling down your neck and sucking hickies into the flesh. The knight seems particularly enraptured by your pulse, lingering and nipping at the pumping blood.

Ok, I guess this is happening.

You don’t really have a place to complain, as it seems your options are this or grave bodily harm. But even so, the flight-or-fight, survival monkey part of your brain tries to see the bright side. The bright side being that this guy isn’t too bad looking, and seems to be a very affectionate lover.

“U-uh mister knight-” You stutter out, brain beginning to bounce back from the shock of the last five minutes, “-what may I call you?”

“Sir Arthur.”

“Okay, Sir Arthur.” Your voice becomes breathily as Sir Arthur’s hands drift down your coveralls, deftly undoing your straps and yanking your pants loose around the waist. A metal hand caresses under your leg, groping the bottom of your thigh before reaching the fat of your ass, where it pushes and kneads like it was bread dough. Your body's instinctive reaction is to lurch forward, unintentionally grinding your crotch against his. There's muffled growls against your skin, and those gauntlets are back to yanking off your pants and underwear.

The castle floors send goosebumps down your bare legs, Arthur’s armor feeling ixy as he throws them over his thighs. The steel sends a jolt through you, your hips canting backwards as your cock feels the cold steel. But Sir Arthur’s grip is strong, his forearm keeping your power back in place. His hips swivel, groaning as he paws at your ass.

Does he even have a-

Your sarcastic question is answered with a couple pull of straps and the clank of armor falling to the ground. Something hot, heavy, and sticky thwaps against your stomach, brushing against your cock.

Sir Artur is still lost in kissing your shoulder, leaving several hickeys behind, and you feel comfortable letting your eyes drift downward. Unsurprisingly, his inhuman cock is as green as his eye, though luckily not on fire. No, in fact the ghost-cock seems to ooze a neon fluid, not dissimilar from cheap ectoplasm effects in movies.

Well, I guess we don’t need lube.

Your thoughts take a turn as you're suddenly thrown on your back, ankles still hooked around his back as Sir Arthur pins you to the ground. He’s pulled away from your neck, now focused on pushing your thighs back to your chest.

“Too long I have been without touch. This heat-” Sir Arthur’s chest rumbles with a purr, the flaming eye pulsing, “-it’s addictive.”

A warm head pushes against your entrance and you thank whoever’s up there for that spooky slime he has going on, because wow this man was packing.

Sir Arthur takes his time sinking inside of you, savoring every second of stretching you open. His armor clinks together as his body shutters, head thrown back in a moan.

“By the gods.” He swears in a dead language as he reaches his hilt, green drool seeping out of his skull jaw. A keening whine comes for your chest, your cock twitching as the tapered head grazes against your prostate. 

The first thrust is tentative, but Sir Arthur seems encouraged by the yelp which explodes between your bitten lips. The nex thrust is slightly faster, sending a shock of pleasure all the way down your spine. Your toes curl behind his back, a drunken haze making your nerve ends tingle.

Sir Arthur’s armor trembles again, but it seems he’s found the rhythm he needs, and begins fuckign to you with a feevent desperation. Trails of slime connect your ass cheeks to his crotch as he thrusts down and into you, raspy breaths leaking from between his ribs. 

Beads of precum bubble at your tip, cock aching for a single touch. Your balls twitch and tighten with each of his guided humps, all targeted perfectly at your sensitive spot. Bubbles of blood come from your worried bottom lip, and your needy moans echo across the destroyed ruins of the castle.

A part of you prays no one else stumbles upon this site and overhears your debauchery, sees you spread wide open for this hulking beast of a corpse. This knight who is far too good at fucking, whose cock deserves to have a dildo modeled after it. With a slime function, of course.

Heavy balls slap against your ass, cold trails of Sir Arthur’s ooze dripping down your ass crack and onto the floor. An armored thumb presses down on your lower lip, prodding you to open your mouth. With a brain too cock-drunk to fight your jaw opens easily, the taste of polished metal on your tongue.

“Suck, whore.” Sir Arthur commands, voice dripping with desire. Your tongue wraps around each groove and sucks, your cheeks hollowing as Sir Arthur groans at the sight. The tears bubbling at the corners of your eyes, the mating press, it all drives him wild. The position of knight suits him well if all it takes is a little power to make him horny.

He’s not a particularly loud lover, Sir Arthur. Most of the noises is slapping skin and clinking armor, only some low grunts and curses joining the cacophony as fucks you with more and more fervor. But it’s the way his fiery eye begins to ignite, the way he bites his half lip enough to draw sickly green blood, and the tightness of his balls which tell you he’s close.

“I’m going to fill you to the brim.” Sir Arthur punctuates his sentence with a hard thrust against your prostate, spots dotting your vision. “You will leak of me for days, trespasser. I will make sure of it.”

You feel your own orgasm brewing in your stomach, cock weeping as your balls grow tight. Your eyes roll to the back of your skull.

“F-fuck.” Sir Arthur draws out his vowel as he ends with several harried thrusts, hilted deep inside when he finally climaxes. What feels like a gallon of oozing, green-tinted cum fills you up, bursting from between the seams of your connection and spurting into the floor. He was right, you will be leaking him for days. Your own orgasms comes just as dramatically, mouth open inna breathless scream as you finish all over your stomach,

You don’t quite remember him leaving you, only the gaping emptiness left behind. It's taking a bit for your consciousness to reboot, to remember where you are. But there’s the sensation of cold against your skin, a wet rag rubbing down your sore entrance and across your stomach. A dull heat radiates through metal, massaging your thighs and neck as you’re laid on your back.

True warmth comes in the form of a heavy blanket, and your eyes flutter close under its softness. 

“Rest your eyes, artist.” Sir Arthur whispers. “I will escort you back when you awake.”

Your last thoughts are vague, somewhat remembering the various paints you brought with you, and the pain they’ll be to carry home unemptied.

[talesofadragon]

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐌𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞

Chapter IV - Synopsis: Steve had resigned himself to being the perpetual third wheel—Tony and Pepper, Clint and Laura, Bucky and Natasha. But with Y/N and Nyla, it felt different. It was almost as if he was meant to be part of their world.

Pairing: Professor!Steve Rogers x Student!Reader/Mum!Reader

Warnings: Age Gap (14 years. Both are adults), teacher/student dynamic, abusive relationship, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, terrible partner, co-parenting. 

Genre: Angst | Fluff | Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Slow Burn | Age Gap | Teacher/Student

Word Count: 6K Words

All Masterlists | Paint Me Midnight Blue Masterlist

“𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐓, 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐘. I will not have you corrupted by the Rogers’ dour genes. You’re too good for that stick-up-the-ass attitude!

A laugh tumbled from Y/N’s lips, her chest vibrating with the sound. She pulled her glasses from her nose, her previous scowl giving way to a playful smirk. “Professor Barnes,” she greeted joyfully, glancing at the man by the door. 

Though best friends, Steve and Bucky were strikingly different. While Steve was sunkissed adorning a radiant smile and aureate locks, Bucky was night sky personified. His dusky hair accentuated his starlit eyes–a rich shade of deep blue that effortlessly commanded attention. Despite their contrasting appearances—one radiant and the other shadowed—their exteriors were deceiving. Steve’s sunny demeanor occluded his serious side, while Bucky’s dark exterior masked a surprisingly playful nature.

“Y/N, doll. You’re a staff member now,” Bucky said, his tone carrying a teasing edge. “I told you to stop calling me Professor.”

“A lot of the staff call you that. Faculty, too,” Y/N replied with a grin.

Bucky narrowed his eyes at her and moved closer to her desk. “Did you pick up the Rogers’ cheek, too?”

“No,” Y/N said with a shrug, her smirk unwavering. “That’s all mine. Professor Rogers only has it because he caught it from me, not the other way around.”

Bucky chuckled, tilting his head to one side. He pulled up a chair and settled into it. At first glance, Steve’s office seemed smaller than his own, which was surprising since Steve was the Head of a department. A closer look revealed that the space only appeared compact because it held iridescent portraits, easels, and shelves. This gave it a vibrant and distinctly Steve-like feel—charming, inviting, and brimming with energy.

Bucky had to admit, Y/N fit perfectly into this lively setting.

“Speaking of Steve, where’s the punk?”

“He’s in a meeting with Mr. Stark,” Y/N replied. “He should be back soon. His next class is in thirty minutes.”

“Have you had lunch yet?” Bucky asked. When Y/N shook her head, he waved the paper bag he’d been holding in the air, swinging it from side to side like a prized trophy. “Call me your fairy godmother and blow me a kiss. I’ve got just the thing.”

Y/N squealed in delight, eagerly clearing the desk. Over the past few weeks, the History Professor had managed to break down her walls as if they were never there. He was easy to talk to and laugh with, making her feel completely at ease. Steve, who was now her boss as well as her professor, and Bucky often dropped by each other’s offices for friendly chats and quick catch-ups.

Given their close friendship, Y/N had come to know Bucky better. He always greeted her with a warm smile in the corridors and helped keep her sane when she dove too deep into her work. She had never seen this side of him before she started working as Steve’s assistant.

Y/N took a bite of her food, a pleasured sound resounding from deep within her. “It always surprises me how good our cafeteria’s tacos are. They’re even better than Taco Bell’s!”

“I’m not usually a fan of food that’s not homemade, but these tacos are definitely worth the hype,” Bucky nodded vehemently, practically drooling over his taco.

“They are really good.”

“Just good? They’re perfection! I’d trade Steve for these tacos. Whatever magic Chef Wong is working, it’s worth any sacrifice.”

“Nice to know that two decades of friendship amount to a cafeteria taco the size of my palm, Buck,” Steve’s voice interrupted the conversation. 

There he was, casually leaning against the doorframe, his muscular arms defined beneath his fitted red-striped polo shirt. As he entered the room, his keen eyes immediately caught the small smudge of drool at the corner of Y/N’s mouth. She jumped in her seat, her hands darting up in a futile attempt to wipe it away. Her face flushed with a mix of surprise and embarrassment.

“Professor Rogers,” she said, trying to regain her composure.

“Steve, Y/N,” Steve insisted with a warm, reassuring smile. He raised a hand as she stood, signaling for her to stay seated. He walked over to the desk with easy-going strides. “You can call me by my first name outside of class hours. No need for formality here.”

“She doesn’t even use my name, and I’m not her professor,” Bucky provided with a mouthful of taco. He didn’t care if Steve saw him devouring the palm-sided delight voraciously. He was well on his way to polish off the entire stash and leave Steve with nothing but crumbs for lunch.

“That’s because you’re a nuisance, Bucky.”

“Yeah, right. Alzheimer must’ve caught up with you if you forgot who used to make all the ladies swoon.”

“Used to,” Steve replied with a smirk as he crossed the room, closing the distance between the doorframe and his desk. “Should I call Laufesyson to give you a refresher on the difference between the past and the present?”

“Alright, listen up, ‘Captain America.’” Bucky rolled his eyes, his tone light but teasing. “Just because you’ve got that brooding artist vibe going on now doesn’t mean every woman’s falling for it.”

“No,” Steve conceded as he picked up a nacho and dipped it in sauce. He glanced over at Y/N, subtly motioning for her to join them and eat. She complied, a smile of amusement easily visible on her face. “Just the ones that count.”

Bucky snorted, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Oh, so we’re talking about the ones that can actually be counted? How many admirers are we talking, Steve—one finger’s worth or are we stretching it to a whole hand?”

“Well, one finger is most definitely worth highlighting in this conversation.”

Steve saw Y/N’s hand fly to her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she coughed loudly, tears of amusement welling in her eyes. She desperately tried not to laugh, but it looked like she might have choked on her drink in the process.

Bucky didn’t share the amusement. He placed his hand over his heart, his face etched in mock offense. “If there weren’t a lady in the room, I would’ve shown you that finger.”

“Flash it all you want, Buck. I’m still not putting a ring on it,” Steve quipped, playfully tapping his bare ring finger. “Try asking Chef Wong to magic you a pick-me-up. It’s worth a shot.”

Y/N’s laugh erupted from her, sending her sprawling back in her chair. She kicked her feet in the air, her hands barely able to stifle the full force of her laughter. Steve joined in, their laughter a chorus of merriment that filled the room above Bucky’s feigned impassivity. He scoffed, reaching for his beer and taco, mumbling something about not being appreciated enough, though everyone knew he was only pretending to be offended.

As soon as the office door closed behind Bucky, Y/N and Steve exchanged a quick glance. Steve bit his lower lip while Y/N inhaled deeply, her cheeks puffing as she tried to contain her laughter. They couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst out laughing, gripping the table, their stomachs, or whatever was within reach.

Their laughter eventually subsided enough for them to catch their breath. Steve’s eyes remained on Y/N as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She gently tapped her rosy cheeks, almost as if soothing them. Reaching for her water bottle, she took a sip, completely unaware that Steve’s gaze never left her.

“He wasn’t too annoying before I got here, was he?” Steve asked casually, picking up his taco to continue his lunch.

Y/N shook her head, mirroring his action. “No. Professor Barnes—Bucky, should I call him that or stick with James? Anyway, he was just keeping me company. He’s really nice.”

Steve bit the inside of his cheek, pretending to wipe his mouth to hide his growing smile. “Bucky. He prefers Bucky. And yeah, for all the years I’ve known the jerk, he’s always been the best man I know.”

The seconds following his response were filled with silence. While Steve continued eating, not overly concerned with the lack of conversation, he couldn’t help but notice Y/N’s hesitation. She nibbled on her lower lip, a habit he had seen her do often.

Her eyes lowered to her shoes as her voice wavered, “He’s not…you’re not—I mean. This isn't all about Nyla, is it?”

They hadn’t discussed Nyla at all—neither during office hours nor outside of them. Steve had only asked about her on the day Y/N took the job as his assistant and was permitted to enroll Nyla in the university’s Early Childhood Center. He was careful not to cross any invisible boundaries, so Nyla was only mentioned when Y/N brought her up.

He wanted to place a reassuring hand on Y/N’s arm but wasn’t sure if it would be appropriate. Even though she was his assistant and more than just any student now, he couldn’t predict how she might react. So, Steve settled for words, the only encouragement he could offer in this situation.

“Whatever circumstances have affected your personal life are yours. We’re not judging you for that. And, if it helps, we actually admire you for it.”

“Admire me?” Y/N raised her head, her shock rebounding against the walls.

“Yes.”

She stared at him in disbelief, her eyebrows creasing at his reassurance. “What’s there to admire?” The self-deprecation in her voice crawled under his skin, unsettling him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

Steve pushed aside his food, clearing the space between them. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, reducing the distance between them. They were still a few inches apart with enough personal space to breathe easily. Yet Y/N’s composure faltered, her attention exclusively dedicated to the peach polish on her nails.

“You’re a good student, Y/N. You were good before we knew you were a mom, and you’ve only gotten better since. You put effort into everything you do, never offering excuses. Just dedication. Mid-terms are a few weeks away, and you’ve helped me draft the exams, taught your daughter, cared for her after school, and still managed to get the highest grades in my class. Bucky told me you were a great student, but I think you’ve redefined what ‘great’ means.”

She wore peach like the first blooms of spring—on her nails, across her cheeks, even her lips. Steve noticed the soft, peachy tint that added a delicate charm to her already captivating smile.

To his surprise, her hand brushed lightly against the back of his, and his breath caught in his throat. He paused, as if trying to freeze the moment, unsure of its reality. He dared to blink, eyes darting to where their hands were now lightly connected.

“Thank you, Professor,” Y/N whispered, her voice soft but filled with emotion. “What you said, and everything you’ve done, means a lot to me.”

“Steve,” he corrected. Not because he wanted to hear how his name sounded on her lips. No, that would be inappropriate. All Steve ever wanted was to make her comfortable. It was unfair. The world had been a cruel mistress to her and her sweet daughter. And if he had the power to help her—even just a little bit—he’d do it.

“Steven,” Y/N muttered with a nod.

“My government name? Seriously?”

“What? You’re still my professor.”

“You didn’t call Barnes by his government name,” he remarked, drumming his fingers against the wood. 

Y/N smirked, a glint of mischief lighting her irises. “Very well observed, Steven. That’s because Bucky’s no longer my professor.”

“Oh shoot. You got me there!” Steve whined, drawing out the last word in a way a toddler would when expressing their displeasure. “Fine. But you need to promise that when the semester is over, and you’re no longer taking my class, you’ll call me by my name.”

Y/N pretended to ponder the idea, the length of her silence making Steve’s eyes narrow. “Okay,” she conceded in the end.

Steve extended his hand. “Pinky promise?”

“Pinky double promise.”

“Doesn’t this promise come sugar-coated with a wet kiss on the cheek?”

“Oh, damn you!” Y/N lamented, playfully slapping Steve’s arm. Of course, he’d remember the interaction between her and her daughter.

“Language,” Steve pointed out, barely managing to say the word while laughing at her frustrated demeanor.

“Oh, grow up, Rogers. What are you, a man from the forties? College kids say worse!”

Steve groaned, dramatically rubbing his temples. “How much time have you and Bucky been spending together?”

“Enough to know that your very first gig after graduation involved spangles and tights.”

“Goddamnit!” Steve cursed, acutely aware of the wide smirk Y/N now wore proudly. It was coming. He knew it was.

“Language, Steven.” There it was.

“I’m banning Barnes from this office.”

Even though he had used his authoritative voice to state his claim, Steve crumbled when he met Y/N’s amusement. Their laughter blended together, echoing in the room. And even though it was filled to the brim with art and ardor, it was the very first time that Steve felt it come to life.

“Do you think the baby bears are happy when we take them home or sad?”

Y/N cradled her daughter’s tiny hand, delicately squeezing her small fingers. Even though Nyla was only four, her innocent questions and sparkling eyes, never shying away from wonder, always surprised Y/N. Her curiosity, eagerness, and especially her empathy were among the traits Y/N hadn’t realized Nyla would develop so early in her childhood.

“I think they’d be happy,” Y/N answered, swinging their entwined hands as they walked. “Teddy bears—”

“Baby bears,” Nyla asserted. She didn’t like the term "teddy." According to a conversation she’d had with Y/N, “teddy” was not a real word. It was a child’s term. And Nyla was no child.  

“Baby bears,” Y/N acquiesced. “I’m sorry, Ny. It slipped.”

“It’s okay, Mama. What were you saying?”

The surrounding area was getting more crowded, leaving little space to walk. It was the third day of the local fair, and like Y/N and Nyla, many families were attending today. It was a Saturday, so both parents and children were free to explore the site and the activities around them.

Nyla squealed when Y/N secured her in her arms. The older woman playfully booped her nose, trying to make her frown disappear. Another thing Nyla had picked up at an early age was her independent spirit—a trait undoubtedly inherited from her mother.

“I was saying that baby bears are meant to be children’s best friends. They get excited when they see you come close to where they’re sitting on the shelves. And every time you look at them, they make a special wish that they might get to go home with you.”

“But what about their mamas? Won’t they miss them?” Nyla asked. When Y/N didn’t answer immediately, she cupped her mother’s face to emphasize the seriousness of her question. It couldn’t go unanswered.

“Baby bears are…like Franny the kitty. You remember Mrs. Lorise’s cat, yes?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cats age differently than us. Like Franny, for example. How old do you think she is?”

“Franny is a baby,” Nyla asserted, blinking owlishly at Y/N. She probably wasn’t following where this conversation was going or what it had to do with the baby bears. “She’s like me when I was small!”

Y/N chuckled, holding tightly onto her daughter. One of her hands caressed Nyla's hair, which was styled in two cute little pigtails.

“Franny is six months old. You’re right. She’s a baby to us. But to other cats, Franny is almost ten.”

“Ten!” Nyla gasped, her mouth forming an "o." She looked down at her hands, tracing her fingers with her eyes. “That’s all my fingers! How?”

“Yes, that’s all your fingers, my heart,” Y/N chuckled, “And it’s because cats age differently than we do. Like baby bears.”

“So, baby bears aren’t really babies?” Nyla’s body bent forward, her voice almost a whisper in anticipation of her mother’s response.”They’re grown bears?” 

“Let’s put it this way. Baby bears may be older than you are, but they still need a lot of love and care to become grown-ups. So, their mamas send them on a special mission when they’re old enough, and it’s to find their best human friend and grow alongside them.”

“Me!” Nyla chimed in enthusiastically, placing her hand on her chest as if to validate her statement.

Y/N nodded fervently, maneuvering around the passersby on their path. “Uh-huh. So, are you ready to take a baby bear home?”

“Yes!”

When Nyla began wiggling, Y/N immediately took the hint and set her down on the pebbled ground. Her light green shoes had barely touched the surface when she clasped her mother’s hand and tugged her along. With the crowd’s taller figures and Nyla’s small frame, it was easier for the little girl to weave through the throng and make her way to her desired destination. It was Y/N who had the short end of the stick, holding onto her daughter’s hand for dear life, profusely apologizing to everyone she bumped into on the way.

At some point, Nyla’s zest for making a new baby bear friend and bringing it to the comfort of her home almost made Y/N knock down two young twins. She cursed, hastily apologizing to the families, though she may have needed to apologize again for the profanity that accidentally slipped out.

“Nyla, could you please—”

Y/N’s sentence was cut off abruptly, literally, by Nyla’s sudden halt. The former dug her shoes into the ground, almost toppling over.

“Oh my god, Mama! Look!”

Y/N barely had time to compose herself, inhaling as much oxygen as her lungs could muster. Nyla was pointing at something. At first, Y/N thought it was an attraction or maybe an ice cream truck. But when she followed the invisible trail Nyla’s finger traced, that was when she felt the burn in her lungs, and all the air she had greedily gulped was knocked out of her again.

“Nyla,” she rushed to speak, bending her knees, and taking her daughter in her arms. “Ny, angel. The baby bears are waiting for us. Don’t you—”

“Steve!!” Nyla jumped in her place, completely ignoring her mother. Her hands flailed enthusiastically, an extension that the toddler hoped would catch his attention.

To Y/N’s dismay, even though there was a procession of people congregating at the fair, Steve still picked up on her daughter’s voice. Did he have super hearing or something? Knowing her daughter, even if Steve hadn’t heard, she wouldn’t have hesitated to call out to him again.

Steve whipped his head around, and somehow, as if guided by some unseen force, immediately landed his gaze on Y/N and Nyla. He wasn’t alone; beside him stood a man and a woman, presumably a married couple, judging by the three children gathered around them.

Steve exchanged a few words with the man, his attention never straying far from the girls. Nyla was bouncing impatiently on her toes, her little body brimming with anticipation. After a brief pat on the back between the two men and a quick kiss on the cheek from the woman, Steve stepped forward, his winsome smile dazzling.

“So, it seems I’ve been humbly summoned by her royal cuteness. How may I serve you, Little Princess?” he asked, his tone light and playful.

Nyla’s bouncing ceased the moment he arrived, but her excitement was still evident. “Steve!” she exclaimed, skipping closer to him and stopping by his leg. She paused, almost hesitantly, and glanced up at Y/N. Her mother smiled meekly, though she couldn’t completely hide her reluctance. Encouraged, Nyla turned back to Steve, placing both her hands on his jeans as she looked up at him.

“What are you doing here? Are you picking up a baby bear too?”

To his credit, Steve did his best to mask his confusion, his lips straining as he tried not to twist them into a frown. He quickly glanced at Y/N, silently pleading for help.

“Teddy bear,” she mouthed, careful not to make a sound. Both her hands moved in parallel, tracing the shape of an invisible stuffed toy.

“Baby bear, ah, yes.” It finally clicked for Steve what Nyla was referring to. “My bed is feeling empty, and it could really use some company. Of a baby bear, I mean! Those little ones sure know how to light up a room,” he panicked at the end, the double meaning behind his words sinking in like sharp claws in his skin.

His cheeks burned with embarrassment at his slip-up, Y/N’s amused expression fanning the flames of his embarrassment.

Nyla, bless her innocent heart, was too young to catch the nuance and skipped over the technicalities of his statement. She caught his hand and spun around to face her mother. “Can Steve join us, Mama?”

Y/N’s shoulders tensed, her amusement fading. “Umm.” She hesitated. “I’m sure Professor—”

“Steve,” he corrected instinctively.

Y/N didn’t look at him, but her next words showed she had heard him. “Steve is probably here with someone, Ny. It wouldn’t be very nice of us to pull him away from his friends, would it?”

“Actually, I’m free to tag along,” Steve said, watching Y/N’s reaction closely. “If you don’t mind my company, that is,” he added when he noticed her guarded expression.

“Weren’t you with your friends before Nyla called you over?

“I was,” Steve confirmed, casually slipping one of his hands into his pocket. “Stark and Pepper already left. Clint and Laura followed them just before I walked over.”

Y/N blinked rapidly. “Stark?” she squeaked, her eyes darting around the area, suddenly on high alert.

Sensing his mistake, Steve extended his hand, though he didn’t touch Y/N. The gesture was enough to draw her attention away from scanning the crowd. “Tony left ten minutes ago, Y/N. It’s okay.”

“Professor, you cannot—”

“Steve. Please, Y/N. We’re not at college.”

“Yet, evidently, the college’s owner was around here with his family. Being seen in an academic setting is one thing, but being spotted at a fair with a toddler is grounds for serious allegations!”

Steve raised an eyebrow at Y/N. She was anxiously wringing her fingers together, her gaze flickering between Steve and the bustling fair as if daring Tony to appear out of thin air. Nyla, oblivious to the tension, occasionally tugged on Steve’s hand while watching her mother, eager for the conversation to end so they could go claim her baby bear.

“I wasn’t aware our relationship transcended the boundaries of friendship,” Steve remarked, leaving Y/N momentarily speechless.

“We cannot be friends,” she responded carefully. “Not outside of college.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Y/N, and I’ll respect whatever decision you make. But let me assure you that it’s possible to interact outside of the classroom. We’re at a fair, not at a romantic dinner.”

“With a child.”

“Your child.”

“I’m not a child!” Nyla interjected, her little arms crossed over her chest, her expression full of indignation. “Mama,” she turned to Y/N, her eyes pleading, “Can Steve come with us? Please?”

Despite Nyla’s impatient appearance, Y/N was the exact opposite. Her response wasn’t quick; in fact, she didn’t have one at all. Sensing her inner conflict, Steve bent down to Nyla’s level, intending to gently let her know he had no plans to join. But before he could speak, Y/N’s voice rang out around them.

“As long as he doesn’t hog all the baby bears,” she said, her voice clipped and resigned. Nyla’s face lit up, but before she could express her joy, Y/N scooped her up into her arms. The toddler wiggled, her limbs flailing as she attempted to free herself from her mother’s hold. 

Steve followed after them, a smile playing on his lips to appease Nyla’s agitation. “Keep your distance, Rogers,” Y/N added, her voice taking on a more serious, maternal tone. “Or you’ll end up blocking the bears’ view of Nyla.”

The sudden mood shift wasn’t uncommon. Whenever Nyla became the subject of conversation, especially when she was physically present, Y/N’s stance would shift. She’d become rigid and guarded, with her daughter being the only clear indicator of her behavior change.

If he was honest, Steve didn’t know why he had tagged along. He wasn’t even supposed to be here today. Clint and Tony were his close friends, the only ones in his trusted circle who had children. Steve loved kids, and kids loved Steve. Morgan, Tony’s daughter, along with Lila, Nathaniel, and Cooper, Clint’s children, had insisted he join them. Somehow, by some twist of fate, he had become their favorite uncle—a title he always thought would go to Bucky.

Many of his friends had something going on in their lives. Tony and Clint were happily married with children, Bucky and Natasha had been married for a little over three years, and Thor, Loki’s brother and a part-time instructor at Stark University, was on a honeymoon with his new wife, Sif. Even though Sam and Bruce, his friends and colleagues, weren’t making novel advancements in the romantic department, it didn’t mean they weren’t dating or in a steady phase of their relationships.

Steve was the only one at a standstill. He had dedicated so much time to his career that people thought he was romantically unavailable. The truth was, he had never found a woman who piqued his interest—a partner with whom he could share his life and build his dream life.

But Y/N never made him feel empty. She, and her daughter, made him feel like he had a purpose beyond teaching crass adults, painting his melancholy, or merely living up to his “uncle” potential. Maybe that’s why he wanted to join them. A selfish part of him sought to be part of something, too.

“Steve!” Nyla’s voice pulled him out of his brief reverie. The little girl held a mallet that, though small, still looked heavy in her tiny hands. She pointed at the high striker game and then at one of the teddy bears on display. “Can you pretty please help?”

“Why don’t we let your mom try?” Steve suggested, hoping he wasn’t overstepping. He didn’t want to cross any invisible lines.

Nyla glanced at her mother, her lips forming a pout. “She’s not very strong,” the young girl whispered. Steve tried to stifle his laugh with a cough, but it was in vain. Y/N had already heard.

“Not very strong!” Y/N scoffed. Without a word, she extended her hand, palm open and closing expectantly. Nyla handed her the small mallet and shuffled closer to Steve’s side. He glanced down at Y/N, whose eyes challenged him with an inaudible “Watch this.” 

She licked her lips, raising the mallet above her shoulders. Y/N swung down forcefully, sending the metal weight soaring with surprising speed. It rose high, nearly ringing the bell at the top. Y/N held her breath while Nyla blinked idly, clearly uninterested. The metal weight hovered a few inches away from the collision. It stilled suddenly, tantalizingly, before crashing down to the bottom.

“No!” Y/N whined as Nyla muttered a “Told you so” to Steve.

Complaining about the game being rigged, Y/N reluctantly handed Steve the mallet, folding her arms in defiance as he took her place. For a brief moment, Steve was reminded of his childhood fairs and carnivals, the ones he attended with Bucky.

In his younger years, Steve had been skinny and meek. His job was to fail at the games while Bucky’s was to casually swoop in, win, and impress the ladies. As Steve brought the mallet down now, the metal weight hitting the bell was barely audible, overshadowed by Nyla’s enthusiastic cheers and Y/N’s quiet muttering.

Nyla leapt at Steve, gushing over his strength and eagerly pointing out the “baby bear” she wanted to take home. Y/N, on the other hand, responded to his small grin with a mockingly exaggerated grimace. For someone who was usually so cautious about crossing professional boundaries, she was teasing him as if they were two kids squabbling over castles in a sandbox.

It turned into a sort of competition after that. Y/N had kicked “Steve’s pretty behind” at ring toss, celebrating with a joyous cheer and an impromptu dance. Her victory was short-lived, though. She stuck out her tongue and stomped her feet when he beat her at the shooting gallery. The playful back-and-forth continued through six games, with Y/N’s mood swinging between pride and vengeance, while Steve’s smile seemed to be permanently affixed to his face.

By now, Nyla had accumulated six bears, and they were struggling to carry them all. The worst part was that Nyla wasn’t ready to stop. Y/N’s steps grew heavier, her energy waning from the effort. Thankfully, Nyla had one more attraction in mind—one that involved sitting and didn’t include any more stuffed friends.

“Camel race,” Steve pointed out. Y/N and Steve deposited the bears on the ground, the latter with a huff and a hand on her back for dramatic effect. Steve bit down his grin as they watched Nyla step up to the employee, handing over the tickets. The young woman accepted them with a grateful nod and started up three machines.

Steve leaned in toward Y/N, lowering his voice to a whisper. “So, now that Nyla’s involved, should we let her win?”

“Absolutely not!” Y/N looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. Her sudden outburst left him momentarily speechless. He jerked backward, watching her with curiosity. “She’s my daughter. Do you really think she’d appreciate us pretending to lose just to make her win?”

Steve remained silent, observing her as she gathered the small balls and prepared for the game.

“What happened to my sweet and charming student?”

For a moment, Steve feared he’d made a misstep. His mouth clamped shut as soon as the words were out. Think before you speak! he chided himself, puzzled by why those words had slipped out.

Y/N’s rigid expression eased, her eyes shining with a hidden emotion. Steve watched as her fingers made a small, nervous movement and her throat shifted. In a heartbeat, her serious demeanor vanished, replaced by a playful sparkle.

“Oh, Steven. Artists know better than to keep their palettes monochrome,” she shot back as the race began. Steve, momentarily distracted by the tug at his heartstrings from her taunt, missed the bell entirely until he saw her fling a shot.

“You cheat!”

“You snooze, you lose!” Nyla cheered, tossing her own ball into the holes as Steve made his way to the game.

Steve blinked, his mouth agape. “Like mother, like daughter!”

“More talking, more losing,” Y/N mocked.

“Oh, you’re on,” Steve retorted, rolling three balls at once.

The competition escalated as the three raced to outdo each other. Nyla won the first round, with Y/N coming in second and Steve in third. Steve demanded a rematch, which Y/N initially refused, but Nyla eagerly agreed. Y/N lost the second round—karma, Steve teased.

They played round after round, spending their remaining tickets and buying new ones to ride the momentum. Their voices created a chaotic symphony of whines, cheers, and colorful alternatives for more severe expletives. It was messier than a football match or game night at Tony’s penthouse. Even those waiting patiently for their turn couldn’t help but watch the fray unfold.

At some point, Steve began playing dirty too, swatting Y/N’s hands away and bumping her with his hip. She retaliated by tugging at his hair and stepping on his toes. It was almost as if they were squabbling four-year-olds and Nyla their chaperone. They both knew she was winning, and they let her, her excited cheers and overzealous commentary adding to their playful banter.

After countless rounds, the two finally called it a tie, crowning Nyla as the Queen of the Desert. She clutched her stack of stickers happily while Y/N and Steve carried the bears. Pace turning languid, Y/N’s footsteps slowed at the entrance of the fair. Steve picked up on her implicit cue and faced both girls. “Well, this was fun,” he exhaled in one breath. His voice weighed heavier from the strain of their last few matches but carried the same steady air of contentment.

“This was the best day ever!” Nyla chimed happily.

Despite the three bears under her arms, Y/N wrapped Nyla tightly in her embrace. She planted a kiss on the crown of her head, a soft yet deep peck that hid the smile blooming on her lips.

Her lashes fluttered, glistening eyes now staring deeply into Steve’s soul. “Yeah,” she hummed. “It was really fun. Thank you for joining us, Steve. And for winning those rascals that are surprisingly heavy to carry around.”

Steve chuckled heartily, his merriment coming easily with Y/N. “You’re welcome. I think that’s your sign to hit the gym. Old age must be catching up to you.”

“You brute!”

Y/N playfully swatted Steve with a bear. Nyla, not pleased with the bear’s treatment, rushed to defend it. She hugged it tightly and then reached for another bear, taking it from her mother’s hands.

With an apologetic smile, Y/N pulled Nyla into a tight embrace. They shared a meaningful look, and Steve wished he had an easel and a palette to capture and immortalize this moment. Not wanting to intrude any further, Steve took the bears from under his arms and extended them to Y/N.

“Here. I really had fun. Thank you for including me in your little adventure.”

Y/N reached out to take them when Nyla stopped her. “No,” she shook her head. Her little feet carried her to Steve’s side as her eyes met his. “Keep them. So you don’t feel lonely anymore.”

There were no words that came to Steve’s mind, maybe because artists were better at feeling than at talking or thinking. His heart swelled with something innocent and comforting, akin to the warm strokes of a bonfire or the elusive kisses of a butterfly.

He bent down, licking his dry lips. Wordlessly, he coaxed Y/N’s reaction, asking for her permission. An imperceptible nod was enough for him to affectionately pinch Nyla’s cheek. “Thank you, Little Princess. I will cherish your gifts and this day forever.”

Without prior warning, Nyla lunged forward. It all happened swiftly, in the blink of an eye. She wrapped her arms around Steve’s neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. If it hadn’t been for the tingles he felt on his skin, like fading stardust trailing behind a shooting star, he would have never known it happened.

Nyla ran to her mother’s side, taking Y/N’s hand in hers. There was a certain softness in Y/N’s tumultuous irises, the only explicable emotion amidst the raging tides.

“Bye, Steve,” Y/N whispered. “I’ll see you later.”

“Bye,” Steve replied under his breath. Only when their silhouettes faded, blending into the wave of colors of the street around them, did Steve add softly, with a touch of reverence, “I’ll see you later, Twilight.”

Series taglist: @crazyunsexycool @imaginexred

Steve is girl dad coded!! I love it when the story sort of guides itself and walks me through its narrative. I've updated this story's structure several times to fit its potential, and I love the direction we're heading. I wasn't planning on giving our reader a nickname, but Twilight seems fitting. What do you think?

[quillsandblades]

Shades of Another World

Based on the art by @catyypss

Levi has a way with colors and paints that is unlike anything Hange has ever seen before. The moment he sets up his canvas and arranges his equipment, she knows that he’s just a paintbrush’s stroke away from capturing the whole universe and translating it on his canvas in streaks and splashes of color. 

It’s beautiful to watch, and she feels quite privileged to be able to see him paint. Best friend or not, Levi has always been secretive about his art. He stores his pieces in his workroom, letting only a few of them be seen by anyone (Which kind of makes sense because they’re the reflection of his innermost self). And Hange’s sure that no one in the entire world has ever been allowed to watch Levi Ackerman paint. So it’s only natural to feel absolutely giddy and warm when Levi finally allows her to see him while he worked—but only after years of insistence. 

Hange Zoe marvels at her friend’s command over the shades of the world, the way his slender fingers move the brush, and guide the reds and blues and greens. At first it looks like haphazard colors strewn over the white surface, but then they take shape and arrange themselves, and Hange realizes that each stroke had a meaning, a purpose to the bigger picture, and how the absence of even a single speck would have diminished the final effect. 

She just sits in wonder as Levi leans back on his chair, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. He has made a horse galloping in a field, with the wide sky spread above. Sunlight plays on its mane and flank, and shadows dance on its body in just the right places. The field is full of flowers, lifting their faces in the gold pouring from the sun above. 

It feels like the painting is breathing. 

She’s sure she can hear the grunts of the horse, and the telltale whistle of the breeze. 

‘You’re amazing Levi,’ she says a little breathlessly, turning to smile widely at him.

He just clicks his tongue and looks away. 

Hange giggles. When will that shorty learn to take a compliment? 

‘You know what?’ Hange leans her elbow on his desk. His eyes narrow suspiciously. ‘You should teach me how to paint this good.’

‘Fuck no,’ Levi glares. ‘I don’t teach. And especially not to morons like you.’ 

‘C’mon Levi,’ she whines. 

‘No. You’ll probably manage to break everything you touch.’

‘Hey! I’m not like that!’ she cries indignantly. ‘And besides, I do know some basics; I just need to get my hands settled on it. I know it’ll never be as good as you, but I want to learn. Pleeeease.’

She stares at him with wide pleading eyes. 

He folds his arms and glares at the window beside him. Hange pokes his shoulder hard with her finger and continues to do that repeatedly when he ignores her. 

‘C’mon you grump, don’t be selfish. Share your talents.’

He grabs her finger and glares at her as she pokes him again. Anyone else would’ve pissed themselves at his menacing expression but Hange just grins.

‘You’ll love it too! I promise it’ll be fun.’ 

He sighs and pushes her away.

‘Fine,’ he grumbles.

‘Yesss!’ She punches the air. 

*****

 

Levi has a shed in his backyard where he has set up his art studio. Next morning, Hange walks into it for the first time ever. It’s as neat as she expected, with paint tubes, canvases, sketch pads and so many other colorful things arranged in neat piles and labeled boxes in shelves. An easel and a comfortable chair are standing right next to the window, and a large work table is set beside it. A fair few of his paintings are hanging from the walls. 

Hange takes off her jacket and hangs it. Levi follows her in and closes the door behind them quietly.

‘So what will we start with?’ Hange exclaims, picking up a brush excitedly, hovering next to the canvas.

‘Not that,’ Levi pulls her by the arm towards the table. When they’re both seated, he passes her a blank sheet, a paintbrush and a tube of paint. ‘First I need to see how good you are at handling a brush. Start.’

Hange looks at him uncertainly, ‘Um, so what exactly should I do?’

‘Anything. I just need to see how you use a paintbrush.’

‘Okay . . .’

She begins with simple shapes and figures and he silently watches her work. In between he sometimes asks her to make something.

‘Your grip seems fine, on the whole,’ he says when she’s finished. ‘But there’s still a lot you need to work on.’

Hange nods eagerly.

Levi then proceeds to explain the basics of using a brush, different types of grips for various strokes, when to apply pressure and so on. Then he observes her as she follows it all and guides her in places she goes wrong. They sit there until the sun dips low in the sky and the shadows stretch out against the ground. By the time Hange gets up to leave, she’s dead tired but happy.

Their routine continues, and each day he takes her one step ahead, explaining the basics of color theory, shading and so much more. Hange finds out that she’s seen Levi talking more than she ever had, in those classes; he seems relaxed, in his element. And Hange likes to think that it’s because he’s sharing his favorite thing, a part of himself, with his closest friend (as she prefers to call herself). And of course the thought makes her pleased beyond measure.

 

 

It’s another one of those days; Levi and Hange are in his studio and outside the summer sun shines in all its glory. She’s working on a technique he showed her, blotting a paper with paint-soaked fingers, trying—and failing—to bring about the proper effect. Levi is sitting by a canvas, painting away. 

Hange drops her head on the table, and regards him over the rim of her glasses; sunlight dips over his face, slanting along his cheekbones. His brows are drawn in concentration, eyes following the constant sweep of his hand over the canvas. 

‘Levi.’

‘Hmm?’

‘What’s your favorite thing to paint?’

‘Are you done with that?’ he points at the sheet in front of her.

‘I can’t get it right, but tell me—’

‘Then finish it up.’

‘Levi,’ she complains. ‘It’s a harmless question, I’m not gonna do anything else until you answer me. What do you like to paint the most?’

He sighs and puts his brush down, then leans back on his chair, contemplating her words. Hange waits in the wake of his silence.

‘The sky,’ he says after a while. 

‘Why?’

‘Can’t you be satisfied with one answer?’ he grits out.

‘Not in my nature, shorty,’ she chuckles.

He picks up his brush and starts working again. She’s about to pester him further when he speaks softly.

‘It just . . . makes me feel free. The sky is unrestrained, limitless. I don’t know but, something about it just draws me in.’

Hange waits, knowing there’s more. She sees his fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles turning white. His next words come out fast and fumbling.

‘Every time I look up, I feel like I can breathe a little more easily—I'm so damn relieved that there’s—that there’s actually an open sky up there rather than—’

The brush slips from his finger as he stops short, eyes wide and staring into space.

‘Hey, are you okay?’ Hange gets up, rushing over to him. Levi blinks rapidly, shaking himself out of whatever is going on in his head. Hange puts a hand on his shoulder and he turns to her.

‘’M fine,’ he mutters, brushing her off. ‘How’s your progress?’ he gets up. 

‘I can’t get it right!’ Hange grouches. ‘Why do I need to paint with fingers in the first place?’

‘It’s important for some pieces. It also helps to bring out a texture that a brush can’t manage at times,’ he explains patiently. 

He dips his finger in some paint and shows her once more how to do it. They sit side by side and work on the sheet, and Levi corrects her wherever she goes wrong. But Hange has to admit that it's a boring practice and she’s seriously lacking some entertainment. So when Levi is focused on the sheet in front of them, she stealthily scoops up some red paint and smears it right on his cheek.

He freezes. 

Hange knows she has a literal second before he’s after her; she jumps out of her seat with a shriek before he can snatch her arm and bounds to the other side of the room. 

‘You. Are. So. Dead,’ he promises darkly and chases after her in a flash.

Hange sprints around the table, cackling like a madwoman, with Levi on the tail. In her chaotic scuffle she grabs onto the rest of that paint and as he gains on her, she splashes it squarely at him. With Levi dripping in red, Hange knows she’ll be dead for sure if he catches her now. She pelts out of the shed and into his backyard. Her howls of laughter echo in the silent afternoon and they both run in circles around the garden like some frisky children. 

When he almost catches her, she turns around abruptly and jumps on him, taking him by surprise as they both tumble to the ground. He’s pinned beneath her and scowling through the mess on his face. 

Everything is silent around them save for the chitter-chatter of birds and Hange’s giggles. Summer seems to be pouring on them lazily and she can see how his face shines in the warmth of the sun. She’s left him quite disheveled; he’s panting slightly; his shirt is stained and streaks of red are sliding down his forehead, cheeks and nose and—

Shrapnel is embedded in his face, blood trailing down his once flawless skin. He lays limp in her arms, dragging down her heart like an anchor to the bottom of the sea. Don’t die, her broken, wounded heart pleads, please don’t die. 

Hange’s laughter tapers off. She stares at him with wide eyes.

‘Oi,’ Levi is frowning, sensing her sudden rigidness. ‘Four-eyes.’

She shivers violently and Levi pushes her off him gently. She sits upon the grass as her head pounds and her vision swims. She sucks in heavy breaths feeling like her lungs are in a chokehold. With a long breath, she pulls herself together and looks around. Levi is nowhere and she’s sitting alone in the yard.

‘Levi!’ she shouts, irrational panic laces her voice. She stumbles to her feet, searching left and right. He was right there with her, where did he go? Where could he have—

‘Relax,’ his steady voice sounds from behind her. She whips around to see him coming out of the house, holding a glass of water in one hand and tissues in the other, with which he’s wiping his now wet and blood—paint-free face clean. Her anxiety diminishes a touch.

He hands her the water and she gulps it down shakily. The cool liquid soothes her throat and calms her jangled nerves. Levi is gazing at her apprehensively and she wants to tell him that she’s okay and it was probably just the heat, but the words are trapped in her throat and nonsensical thoughts are swirling in her head—thoughts that are screaming that he’s gonna slip out of her grasp and die any second if she doesn’t do anything right now because he’s bleeding and dying out in her arms and they’re surrounded and there’s no way out. 

‘Hange,’ she feels a cool hand on her arm, her gaze catches his, steel-blue irises watch her intensely. 

She raises her trembling fingers and softly brushes them against his cheek, pale and smooth, not cut up and bleeding. He’s still under her touch, his eyes searching. She lets her gaze flit across his features, trying to release her throat from that chokehold.

‘You’re not . . . hurt?’ her whisper is small.

He frowns and seizes her hand, squeezing her fingers firmly, ‘No four-eyes. I’m fine.’

‘But you were,’ she murmurs feverishly. ‘And I . . . I couldn’t—’ 

She drops her forehead on his shoulder and shudders ‘Don’t do anything so reckless again.’

She doesn’t know how long they stand there like that, but Levi doesn’t move and she just breathes. Maybe he thinks she’s finally gone mad, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't push her off. In truth, she can’t understand a thing herself, or the words she’s saying, but she knows that something made her feel like she was losing Levi. And the thought was terrifying. 

‘Let’s go inside, I’ll make lunch,’ he sounds indifferent as ever, but she can detect hints of worry in his voice. She presses his hand.

‘Okay.’

*****

Levi eventually gives her the spare keys so she can come to his studio and practice whenever she feels like. It’s helpful, because now she has pretty much mastered most of the things he taught her over the months and she sometimes feels the sudden urge to paint something that pops in her head, and rushes to his shed right that instant if she can. She’s still not perfect, and there are many things she struggles with, but she likes her progress.  

‘Leviii,’ Hange drawls, slumped over the chair by the window, pouting at her canvas. 

‘I can’t draw the sea foam.’

He sighs from the other end of the room where he’s arranging his new supplies, ‘Have you learnt nothing all these months?’ 

‘But it’s difficult. I can try but there’s only a sixty percent chance that I’ll get it right and I don’t wanna ruin this canvas.’

Previously she made two paintings on a canvas, only because she was confident that she’d get them right, and she’d practiced on a rough paper beforehand. One was a sunset, and the other was a sea port. Both of them are now hanging on the walls. The one she’s currently working on is of a raging sea and so far everything’s going good except for that damned sea foam. 

Levi approaches her, observing her work critically. She extends the paintbrush towards him and grins, ‘You’ll do it for me, right?’

‘No.’

‘But it’s just one tiny detail, nothing will happen if you help me out shorty!’

‘I’ll help out all right, but I won’t do it for you,’ he grumbles. 

And before she can protest, he moves at the back of her chair and clutches her hand from behind, leading it to the blue and gray strokes she has made. He positions her fingers in the right way, ‘You do it like this,’ he says softly. His breath tickles her neck and she suppresses a shiver. He’s close. Very close. 

He moves the brush lightly over the canvas and she sees the sea foam manifest before her eyes effortlessly. He guides her hand over the rest of the painting in the same way. His grip is warm and steady, whereas her own hands are trembling slightly. Hange is not averse to physical contact, especially with her friends. But Levi has never before initiated it first, and she tells herself that it’s the sole reason she feels shaken right now. 

‘You get it?’ his low voice spills over her ear. 

‘Y—yes,’ she manages, feeling breathless for reasons beyond her. 

‘Good,’ he pulls away slowly and she exhales. ‘Don’t mess it up again.’

She’s sure she wouldn’t. Not when the phantom touch of his fingers is still burning on her hand.

Hange wakes up to the morning light with a start, gasping for air. Her heart is racing in her chest and cold sweat slicks her face. She looks around and realizes that she’s at home, at her desk where she fell asleep last night. Files and documents are jumbled around her, and her muscles are sore from sleeping in an awkward position. She checks her phone; it’s eight in the morning and Sunday. 

She runs a hand over her eyes. There’s an odd restlessness in her heart, and she knows it’s got something to do with her dream. Its memory is hauntingly fresh in her mind, so much so that she can even feel all those sensations. Suddenly the room is too hot and stifling. She gets up, grabs her jacket and the spare keys Levi entrusted to her and rushes out.

His shed is empty at this hour, and she knows he won’t be surprised to see her when he’ll come in as he’s already used to finding her cooped up in there at odd hours. 

She grabs a palette, paints, brushes and fixes a suitable canvas on an easel. Then she perches on that chair beside the window and starts to work. Colors merge and dance over the blank surface, filling it with life. She works with focus this time, and yet her hands shake, but not due to nervousness. Maybe it’s anticipation, because surprisingly Hange doesn’t know herself what this will lead to. Her muscles seem to be obeying that hazy, murky part of her brain that’s ruled by the incoherent; the part that perhaps knows and remembers the dream she had today, much more vividly than her. 

Red, blue, yellow, gray. There’s a story in every stroke. She’s waiting. Waiting for it all to come together and assemble, and finally give her the answer she craves. Outside, the sun climbs higher and the day gets steadily brighter. Light streams in, shining curiously upon her as she works, unaware of the world.

When she finally concludes her painting with a last shade of swirling orange, she freezes. Everything is silent around her, sunbeams dip into the room, her heartbeats are loud in her ears. 

In her painting is a port, and giant skeletal creatures wrapped in raw muscles are marching over everything. She’s high up in the sky, zipping towards them in rage. Burning. Below, in the shadow of it all, small figures of people are rushing around a plane. 

Hange drops her brush and stares at the scene before her. She’s not sure why she made this, or what compelled her mind to come up with an image like that. She wants to brush it off as a spur-of-the-moment inspiration, but the fact remains that she wasn’t even aware of what she was drawing half the time. The image made itself. And then there’s this suffocating ache in her chest that she can’t define, it’s squeezing her in an iron grip. She leans back and throws an arm over her face, breathing deeply. 

The fire licks at her body and screams rip her throat. Pain beyond measure stabs her all over but she has to move forward, she has to finish them off, has to buy them time, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much she wants to live. She must sacrifice herself. 

The door opens. 

‘What’re you doing this time?’ Levi’s voice pulls her out of the drifting currents of her mind.

She looks up at him with tired eyes. How long had she been sitting there, working nonstop?

‘What’ve you made?’ he comes over to her, leaning over to look at her work. Hange watches him closely.

She hears his breath hitch, sees his eyes widen and expression morph into something unguarded and open. He gazes at the scene for a long moment without saying anything. Then he raises his hand and touches the painting, the part where she is drawn in an odd suit, wielding swords and engulfed in flames. The painting’s still wet and the reddish orange color of the fire stains his fingers. 

‘You . . .’ he looks back at her, and this time Hange can see something more in his expression: pain. ‘Why did you make this?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘It felt like my hands had a mind of their own. I couldn’t stop.’

He straightens and lets out a heavy breath. His eyes are weighed. He grabs her hand and leads her to a door at the corner of the shed that Levi never let her open before. They enter a small room which is full of paintings of different sizes—Levi’s art, she realizes. At one side, some of them are covered with a large white sheet. He yanks it away to reveal more pieces, only these are different from the others. 

As soon as Hange looks at them, the same restlessness she felt today crashes back into her heart. There’s something achingly familiar about those pictures. They show green fields, stables and dark, stone castles. They show people sitting around fires, but their faces are hazy, as if the moments were captured from wispy dreams. She does recognize some people though: a blur of color that resembles Levi, a similar one that could be her. She even spots Erwin’s indistinct form among many others. Then there are paintings with giant distorted creatures and people zipping through the sky.

She turns to Levi, ‘What is this?’ her voice begs for answers.    

‘I don’t know,’ he mirrors her words from earlier. 

It’s something for sure, they both feel it and she knows it’s important in some way. 

Levi seizes her arm suddenly; his brows are furrowed and his fingers are digging into her skin. 

‘You’re . . . here? Right?’ and the helpless look he gives her just confirms that he’s feeling exactly as she did that day when she splattered paint over him. He needs to know that she’s okay, and he’s not going to lose her. He needs her to destroy the images in his head that are probably playing a twisted scene of her death.  

Hange laces her fingers with his and presses reassuringly, ‘I’m right here shorty. And I’m not going anywhere,’ she promises. 

He nods, but maintains the death grip on her hand. They both walk out of his shed and Hange pushes all those tangled thoughts to the back of her mind. She’ll think about it later, talk to Levi and make something of this. But for now she has to assure him that she’s with him and they’re fine. They’re okay and they’re together and they’re alive.

And there’s nothing more she can ask for. 

[preciouslittle-bhaalbabe]

"Star" A cute one shot fluffy fic of Astarion and Esme being sweet together <3

Astarion finally agrees to let Esme paint his portrait. He had no idea what to expect.

Esme was mixing paints on her palette in comfortable silence while Astarion sat patiently on his bedroll. "What pose would you like me to do?" "Just do whatever you feel comfortable with!" Esme says, her attention on making sure she's got the perfect shades of yellow. "Hm, I'd be much more comfortable in the nude" Astarion teases. He was wearing some old robes they found in abandoned house in the wilds. Not very luxurious, but it would do.

"Oh, hush you. Now is hardly the time for that type of talk. Portrait painting is very serious work!" "I'm sure it is darling." He stands and wraps his arms around her, landing a small peck on the top of her head. Then, he gets a stool and sits in front of her easel, waiting for her command. "Alright now, you can talk, but try not to squirm around too much". "Can do. So um, when did you start painting?" Astarion asks. "I..Don't know exactly. It feels like I always have". She places her paintbrush in a dark navy blue shade, and starts pressing light and quick strokes onto the canvas.

"Painting and music seem to be the only things I've been able to hold onto" Esme says, her mind clearly elsewhere. She looks over and studies Astarion for a moment. Taking in each of his features. "What made you change your mind about me painting your portrait?" Esme asks, taking out another wider brush and dipping it in white paint. "I'm not sure. I know you've described to me what I look like in great detail. But I want to know what you see when you look at me." "I will show you exactly how I see you then" Esme says with a smile. Some time passes. The quiet sounds of the night, some light rain pittering on the tent roof, and the soft strokes of Esmes paintbrush fill the empty space. A small moment of peace. Esme is completely engrossed in her work, looking over at him every so often. He loves watching her when she's like this. The usual concern and worry on her face softens as she focuses. Her lips parted slightly. He wants nothing more than to get up from his stool and kiss her. But she looks so entranced by her work, it would be a shame to interrupt her. "Alright! Just a little white over in this bit and...Done! Close your eyes for a moment". Astarion does as he's told. "Are you nervous?" "A little" "It's alright, I may have taken some artistic liberties. But this is how I see you".

The shuffling sound of Esme taking the canvas off the easel makes Astarions stomach drop. "Alright, open your eyes whenever you're ready". Astarion takes a breath, and opens his eyes to see Esme holding a painting of what looks to be a being made of pure light surrounded by a night sky. When he looks closer he can see all the features she told him about. His crimson eyes, his cheekbones, his white curls and dangerous smile. But everything is bright and warm. The figure is posed as if reaching up to the heavens. Wearing soft silken robes made from stars that dance along his pearlescent skin. The expression on his face is hopeful and joyous. Small stars surround him leaving a trail. He is glowing. A light in a dark expanse. "Your name means 'Little Star' does it not?" Esme asks. "It does, Esme this is, beautiful. I thought you'd be just making a portait of me as I am, but this is something else" "This is you, this is how I see you" "What are you calling this painting then?" "Ssussun elgg oloth, light slays darkness." "You are one of a kind my dear, do you know that?" Astarion says. His voice close to breaking. He has never felt seen in this way. He was expecting just a regular painting of him sitting in this dingy tent in low light. Nothing like this. He hasn't thought much of himself besides being a monster for so long. A dark creature of the night, groveling and hiding in the shadows. This painting alone made him feel like more. Radiant, hopeful. "I'm glad you like it then!" Esme smiles. "You're a wonderful muse". "That's quite the understatement my dear. I love it. I'm going to put it outside for everyone to see once the paint dries...Thank you." Astarion stands and walks over to Esme, grabs the painting from her hands, sets it back on the easel carefully and pulls her into a tight embrace. His angel. His home. His sweet little Selûnite. His light in an ever growing darkness.

[reveneovs]

prologue

the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.

rhaenyra x alicent au. loosely inspired by the portrait of dorian gray and my disappointment over the upcoming netflix adaptation of it. this is very wordy and i hardly proofread, so accept my apologies.

as this is a sideblog and i can't follow people back, leave a note if you'd like to be tagged in the continuation (i have it in me to write more i promise i promise).

the walls of the academy of saint catherine were ancient, worn by the hands of time, with dark wood paneling and the flickering glow of gas lamps casting shadows that danced upon them. the scent of turpentine and linseed oil permeated the air, mingling with the faint aroma of old books and parchment. a marble staircase spiraled upwards in the center of the atrium, its bannisters polished smooth by generations of aspiring artists who had walked these halls before.

rhaenyra targaryen stood by one of the tall, arched windows, her silver hair catching the pale light of the overcast afternoon. she was like a living painting, a study in contrasts. her skin, porcelain and flawless, seemed almost too perfect, a stark juxtaposition to the fiery determination in her violet eyes. she held a sketchbook loosely in her hands, though her attention was elsewhere, her gaze fixed on the fog-laden streets outside.

behind her, the cavernous room was filled with the quiet hum of students absorbed in their work. easels were spread out, each supporting canvases at various stages of completion, and the soft scratching of charcoal on paper provided a gentle background to the ticking of the grand clock above.

in one corner of the room, bent over a canvas, was alicent hightower. her auburn hair was pulled back in a simple braid, strands escaping to frame a face that was earnest and delicate, her green eyes bright with concentration.

alicent's hands moved with the certainty of someone who saw the world in layers of light, shadow, and color. someone who knew how to translate the ephemeral into something tangible. yet today, her hands trembled slightly as she worked, her brush hovering over the canvas as if hesitant to complete the stroke.

she was painting rhaenyra.

alicent had asked rhaenyra to sit for her portrait weeks ago, though in truth, she had wanted to capture her since the moment they met. rhaenyra, with her effortless grace, had become her muse. but the emotions that stirred within her were confusing, a mixture of admiration and envy, affection and fear. alicent feared what would happen if she finished the portrait, feared what it would reveal—about rhaenyra, about herself.

rhaenyra turned from the window and crossed the room with a fluidity that caught the attention of more than one student. she moved with a quiet power, a confidence that commanded respect, and yet there was a softness to her that made her impossible to resent.

she approached alicent's easel and looked at the painting in progress. the likeness was uncanny, but there was something else there, too—something in the eyes that alicent had captured, something that spoke of a deeper truth, a hidden vulnerability. rhaenyra smiled, a small, knowing smile, and alicent's heart skipped a beat.

"it’s beautiful, alicent," rhaenyra said softly, her voice like velvet, wrapping around the words.

alicent looked up at her, her cheeks abloom. "thank you, but it’s not finished. i’m not sure it ever will be."

rhaenyra reached out, her fingers lightly touching the edge of the canvas, as if she could feel the emotion infused within the paint. "art is never truly finished, isn't it? it lives, breathes— changes. like us."

alicent swallowed, trying to find the right words, but all she could think about was how close rhaenyra was, how intoxicating her presence was. she had painted rhaenyra’s eyes numerous times, but seeing them now, with but a sigh's distance between them, was like seeing them for the first time.

"why did you choose me?" rhaenyra asked, her voice a mere whisper, yet heavy with meaning.

alicent's eyes flickered with uncertainty, her hands tightening around the paintbrush. "because you are… different. you’re not like the others." the words felt like an oversimplification, though that was all she could muster in the moment.

rhaenyra tilted her head, studying alicent with a gaze that was both curious and intense. "different, how?"

alicent felt a shiver run down her spine. how could she explain the way rhaenyra seemed to exist on another plane? how could she explain the way her heart ached with both admiration and desire? she couldn’t. the words wouldn’t come.

"you have a light," alicent finally managed, her voice trembling slightly. "a light that shines so brightly, it’s almost blinding. and yet… there’s a darkness there too, hidden beneath the surface."

rhaenyra’s expression softened, a flicker passing through her eyes—regret, perhaps, or sadness. "we all have our darkness, alicent. but it’s the light that defines us, don’t you think?"

alicent didn’t know how to respond, so she simply nodded, her throat felt tight, like it would cease up the further she was questioned. rhaenyra turned her gaze back to the painting, her expression unreadable.

"finish it," rhaenyra said suddenly, her voice firm.

alicent blinked in surprise. "but… i’m not ready. it’s not ready."

rhaenyra’s lips curled into a faint smile. "you'll never be done, if that's the case. you'll be waiting and waiting and waiting— why not be reckless and let whatever it is that led you to this point sweep you away further?"

before alicent could respond, rhaenyra turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing softly in the dimly lit room. alicent watched her go, her heart heavy, the weight of the unfinished portrait pressing down on her. she knew what rhaenyra was asking of her, what it meant to finish the painting.

but as she lifted her brush once more, alicent realized that the true masterpiece was not the portrait itself, but the emotions it stirred within her—the passion, the longing, the fear. and perhaps, in capturing rhaenyra’s likeness, she could capture a piece of herself as well, a truth she had been too afraid to face.

the brush touched the canvas, and with each stroke, alicent felt a part of her soul unravel, intertwining with the image before her. the darkened room seemed to close in around her, the shadows growing longer, deeper. but she did not stop.

she could not stop.