#Face painter near me

[11facepainter]

Face Painting: The Perfect Kid's Entertainment for Memorable Events:-

When it comes to entertaining children at events, face painting has become a timeless favorite. It adds an element of magic and excitement, allowing kids to transform into their favorite characters, creatures, or designs. As a professional face painter, you have the power to captivate young imaginations, create unforgettable experiences, and bring smiles to children's faces. In this article, we will explore the reasons why face painting is the perfect entertainment option for kids, how it sparks creativity and self-expression, and the various themes and designs that can make your face painting services truly extraordinary.

a) Sparking Creativity and Imagination:-

Face painting provides a canvas for children to unleash their creativity and imagination. As they browse through design options or share their ideas with you, their excitement builds. They can transform into superheroes, princesses, animals, or anything they desire. By encouraging them to express their preferences and preferences, you allow them to explore their individuality and develop their imagination. With each stroke of the brush, you bring their visions to life, helping them believe in the power of their dreams and fostering a sense of wonder.

b) Themes and Designs:-

As a face painter, you have a vast array of themes and designs to offer, allowing children to select their desired look. Consider the following popular themes:

Superheroes: Bring the likes of Spider-Man, Batman, or Wonder Woman to life, empowering kids to become their beloved heroes.

Princesses and Fairies: Transform little girls into princesses with glittering tiaras, shimmering gowns, and delicate fairy wings.

Animals: Paint faces with animal designs, such as tigers, butterflies, dolphins, or cats, letting children channel their favorite creatures.

Fantasy: Unleash the magic of unicorns, dragons, and mermaids, taking kids on a journey to mystical realms.

Sports: Cater to sports enthusiasts by painting faces with their favourite team logos, sports equipment, or athlete-inspired designs.

c) Safety and Hygiene:-

As a professional face painter, prioritizing safety and hygiene is crucial. Use high-quality, hypoallergenic face paints that are approved for use on the skin. Ensure that your brushes, sponges, and other tools are thoroughly cleaned and sanitized between each child. Communicate with parents about any allergies or skin sensitivities their child may have and avoid using paints containing harmful chemicals or irritants. Taking these precautions not only guarantees the well-being of the children but also helps build trust and maintain a stellar reputation for your face painting services.

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

In the deleted scene where Kane is getting breakfast, he doesn’t put the lids back on the containers of food or put them away after he uses them. Now, either this was an acting decision made by John Hurt to imply that the food containers were going to be left out for the other crew mates to use, or the man had something affecting his executive functioning ability and that’s just how he made breakfast.

[plutotheplum]

chapter two | the magician

rafayel x fem!reader

“Perhaps a painting of you, swollen with my child… although perhaps I could capture it better with marble.” Rafayel purses his lips, his gaze flitting towards the sculptures. “Yes,” he breathes out, “swollen stomach, a content expression; I can see it now.”

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, modern au, smut, fluff, kissing, vaginal fingering, blowjob, oral sex, mirror sex, p in v, breeding kink, praise kink, unprotected sex

wc: 5.2k

a/n: ummm first rafayel smut fic... kinda nervous🧍🏽‍♀️ for the taglist dw if i haven't replied, you will most likely be added if you have your age somewhere <3

also on ao3!

series masterlist | next up: the star

You’re distracted by sculptures outside Rafayel’s house.

Carved beautifully, the stone marble somehow manages to look soft, the dimpled flesh making your eyes widen as you near them. A new addition to his decor, apparently. You’d never seen them before when you’d visited.

Your fingers reach out greedily to touch the marble, but you think better of it, drawing your hand back with a sigh. You weren’t exactly here to admire the art, although perhaps it was a perk. Maybe you’d end up with a child-prodigy.

You shake the thought from your head, too nervous to go in just yet. Instead, you loiter outside awkwardly, pretending to take great interest in the flower bushes that were in full bloom, your head dipping to catch the scent of the delicate flowers.

“Having second thoughts?”

You shriek, spine straightening as you whirl around to face Rafayel, watching the amused expression on his face as you tremble from the fright.

“Don’t-” you pause to place your hand over your pounding heart. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“You’re such a baby,” he chastises, tilting his head, eyeing the bag pulled over your shoulders. “What’s that for? I think you’ve got enough things to go camping.”

Eyes narrowing, you glare at the purple-haired man, adjusting the straps of your bag. “I wanted to be prepared!”

“To have sex?” he asks bluntly, raising his brows.

Huffing out a breath, you find yourself growing vexed. As blunt as it was, you were here to have sex, with him. You decide not to dignify him with a response, averting your gaze to stare at the statues you’d been looking at earlier, your annoyance simmering. 

Rafayel pouts when you look away, sidling up beside you, his gaze following yours. “I thought you’d like them,” he murmurs, his expression sobering up a bit, “sculpted by yours truly.”

You frown, sneaking a glance at him before begrudgingly replying, “I do like them, but I thought you were a painter, not a sculptor.”

“The term artist covers a great many things,” he says lavishly, gesturing to himself with a graceful motion of his hands. “I finished them in time for my art collection, but,” Rafayel trails off, his eyes roving over the sculptures thoughtfully, “I couldn’t quite find it in myself to part with them so soon.”

“They are beautiful,” you sigh, shoulders sagging as you let the previous tenseness in them pass, the gentle, flowery breeze putting your mind at ease.

“What else would you expect from a man of my calibre?” Rafayel muses, his gaze dipping down to you, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Maybe a sense of introspection,” you retort, rolling your eyes.

“You’re so mean to me,” he whines, tugging your bag free from your hold and dumping it onto one of the stepping stones leading up to his house.

You make a noise of protest, reaching out to grab your water bottle that had begun to roll away, only for Rafayel to wrap his arms around your waist, his face pressing into the crook of your neck. He’s warm, the heat of his chest bleeding into your back through your clothes as he presses himself closer, his nose grazing your neck as he drinks in the scent of you.

His hand smooths over the curve of your hip, toying with the hem of your sweater.

“It would be nice,” Rafayel murmurs absentmindedly, his fingers trailing over your stomach before drifting lower, under your skirt to caress your thigh gently.

“What-” your breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut as you lean your head back against him, “what would be nice?”

“Art of you,” he mumbles, kissing the spot under your ear teasingly. “Perhaps a painting of you, swollen with my child… although perhaps I could capture it better with marble.” Rafayel purses his lips, his gaze flitting towards the sculptures. “Yes,” he breathes out, “swollen stomach, a content expression; I can see it now.” 

Your cheeks feel hot when you hear Rafayel’s low muttering, his words making your thighs press together.

“Zayne- Zayne said it would take at least five days for it to take,” you manage out, head tilting when Rafayel noses against your neck, dragging it over the curve between your shoulder and neck, breathing you in again.

“Five days; five men,” he sighs, his head lifting to peer into your eyes, “you really thought this out, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t expecting all of you to agree,” you say in protest, fingers sliding through his silky, soft hair, tangling in the strands as he kisses your neck again. 

“But how could you resist?” Rafayel continues, his tone turning accusing, “five men, wanting to give you their baby, wanting to breed you and now… now I have to share, all because you’re so greedy.”

“‘m not- ‘m not greedy,” you whine, squeaking when he squeezes one of your breasts through your sweater. “You’re just jealous.”

“Any man in their right mind would be jealous,” Rafayel snaps lowly, turning you in his arms so he can see you properly. His gaze roves over your flushed face hungrily, the desire in his eyes making you squirm. 

“At least you get to go first?” you offer, hoping it provides him with some sort of consolation. “Besides,” you mumble, averting my gaze, “it was my decision as much as it was yours.”

Rafayel lets out a noise of dissatisfaction, his annoyance ebbing away into something more petulant, his lower lip jutting out in a pout. “Doesn’t mean I have to like sharing,” he grouses, his fingers smoothing over your skirt, trying to erase the ruffles.

Your fingers spread out over his chest, rocking up onto your toes to peck his lips gently. “Feel better?” you ask tentatively.

Rafayel looks taken aback for a moment before he schools his expression into one of sullenness, shaking his head. “Perhaps another kiss would do the trick,” he mumbles, his head lowering.

You bite back a smile, tilting your head to peck his lips again.

“Another,” he requests, puckering up his lips, the sight ridiculous enough to make a soft  laugh slip out of you. “Don’t laugh,” Rafayel grumbles, his arm curling around your waist to pull you closer, “you ought to vanquish my sadness.”

“I’m not a witch,” you whisper against his lips, arms wrapping around his neck. Your eyes flutter shut, this time Rafayel taking the lead as he kisses you, his hand sliding up over your neck to cup your cheek, his fingers cool against your skin.

“You might as well be,” he whispers, “with the way you have me wrapped around your evil, little finger.”

“Evil?” you scoff, feigning offence, trying to pull away from him.

Rafayel doesn’t you, letting out a noise of protest leaving him as he tightens his grip, holding you closer. Your eyes slip shut when he presses his lips against yours, your hand sliding up his firm chest, a soft sigh escaping you. 

He kisses you languidly, unhurriedly as though savoring the moment. It is nice, you think hazily, fingers slipping up into his hair, tugging at the strands gently. Rafayel’s hands smooth against your waist, caressing your sides before his arms wrap around you more firmly.

He whines when you pull away, his breath hitching when you kiss his neck, Rafayel’s head tipping to the side to bare more of his skin to you. Your teeth scrape against his throat, mewling softly when he squeezes your hips jerkily, able to feel the beginnings of his arousal against your hip.

You bite down, not enough to hurt, laving your tongue over the bite as you revel in the airy noise he lets out. 

“Okay,” you whisper, “I‘m ready to do this.”

“What?” Rafayel asks dazedly, blinking rapidly to try and clear the haze of desire that’s settled over him.

“I said I’m ready to do this,” you murmur, hand sliding down to palm him through his trousers, smiling when his hips buck, his head falling onto your shoulder. “I want a baby, Rafayel.”

“Baby,” he mumbles, “yeah… yeah, I’ll give you a baby, angel.”

You hum happily, reaching down for your bag only for Rafayel to tug you back up. A squeak escapes you when he tightens his grip on your wrist, tugging you into his home.

“My- my bag!” you protest, looking back at your bag of belongings sitting pathetically on the stones.

“Thomas will get it,” he mutters, managing to maneuver you in front of him, trapping you against his staircase.

“Thomas is here?” you squeak out, cheeks flushing.

“He’ll be dropping by to collect some art pieces,” Rafayel replies, his fingers shoving up your skirt impatiently, a groan escaping him at the sight of your panties. “Now stop talking about other men.”

“But- but oh-” 

“Silk?” he interrupts, tugging your panties up a little more to stare at the way they sit prettily on your hips, the soft fabric glistening in the natural lighting when he tilts his head. “You wore silk panties? How badly do you want this baby?” he muses. “Practically begging to bred, angel.”

“Thought-” you let out a muffled noise, head dropping forward. “Thought you’d like ‘em.”

“Oh, I like them,” Rafayel murmurs thoughtfully, his fingers spreading out over the fat of your ass, squeezing. “Wear them for me again. I’d like to take a photo, for reference, of course.”

Your shoulders sag immediately when he grazes his fingers against your panties, your thighs pressing together involuntarily, barely able to listen to Rafayel as he rambles something about painting you naked on a canvas, with only your panties on. 

It’s difficult when you’re like this, pressed up against the railing of his winding staircase, panting against it as you twitch, Rafayel’s hand sliding up over your neck to make your head rest against his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he breathes out, kissing your cheek while he grinds his cock into your ass, panting softly into your ear.

You whine, fingers reaching out to curl around the balustrade, hips swaying back to press against his hard cock more firmly, mouth opening in a silent moan when he rubs your pussy through your panties.

“Raf,” you call out his name needily, head tilting to meet his lips eagerly. 

His kisses are more urgent than before, his tongue delving into your mouth greedily. You sag against him, letting out a content noise when he pushes your panties to the side, smiling when you feel him groan against your lips.

“So wet,” he mumbles, lips dragging across your jaw sloppily, mouthing at your skin hungrily.

Your brows furrow when he teases you, his graceful fingers circling your clit for a moment before drifting lower, pressing into your cunt briefly before he draws them back out, fucking you shallowly with his fingers.

“N- no,” you complain, shaking your head, trying to press down against his hand to get his fingers to sink in deeper. “Raf, I need more.”

“Always so greedy,” Rafayel hisses. “You don’t need more. You’ll have five cocks in due time.”

“P- please,” you whimper, desperation making you unabashed enough to beg, “I need your fingers. Just- just put them in!”

He clicks his tongue, fingers readjusting against your neck, squeezing. “So fucking demanding, hm?”

You yelp when he spanks your ass, body jerking against the balustrade.

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, close to tears when he thrusts his fingers in and out you, pushing them in deep enough and curling them perfectly to hit where you need them to. “Please- just- I need to cum!”

Rafayel sighs heavily, his fingers withdrawing from your clenching cunt, turning you around in his arms. You blink up at him, pawing at his chest, unbuttoning his shirt quickly, biting your lip when it falls off of his shoulders onto the floor.

“Show me,” he whispers, pressing closer.

“What?” you breathe out, cupping his jaw when he lowers his head, lips parting for the heady kiss he gives you, fingers squishing his cheeks.

“Show me how much you want to cum,” Rafayel murmurs, “show me how much you deserve it. How much you deserve my cum.”

You swallow nervously, eyes fluttering shut when he kisses you again, his teeth grazing your lower lip.

“Okay,” you mumble, stealing a quick kiss before sinking to your knees.

“What?” he says confusedly, his brows furrowing as he stares down at you, pupils dilating when you nuzzle into his trousers.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” you ask in return, pulling his trousers down along with his boxers.

“You don’t have to- I didn’t mean- oh- oh fuck, angel-”

Rafayel nearly cums at the sight of your innocent eyes blinking up at him, mouth wrapped around the head of his cock while you suckle gently, tongue lapping at the tip of him.

You smile drunkenly, mouth opening to show him how his cock sits on your tongue prettily. Rafayel whines at the sight, his hand sliding over his face to cover the deep flush that’s begun to color his cheeks.

“I thought this is what you meant,” you whisper, kissing the tip of his cock, pre-cum clinging to your lips when you pull away.

You move your tongue, swirling it around the string of pre-cum, letting the heady taste of him sit on your tongue.

“You may as well be a succubus,” he mutters, barely able to keep his eyes open, his fingers threading into your hair when you move your head forward, taking more of his cock into your mouth.

“‘m your angel,” you pout, mouth opening wider, sucking harder. Rafayel’s cock throbs and you mewl at the taste of his pre-cum, hand sneaking between your thighs to relieve the ache that’s begun to settle in your empty pussy.

“I don’t- shit- know what you are,” Rafayel slurs, his hips jerking forward unevenly.

You let out a muffled noise, nails digging into his thighs. Rafayel whimpers at the sensation, the combined pain and pleasure going straight to his cock, his hips pushing forward until your head is trapped between the side of the staircase and his hips.

Despite the pleasure he had denied you earlier, you sink two fingers into your dripping cunt, moaning around his cock. Rafayel watches drunkenly, his half-lidded eyes doing their best to try and take in the image of his cock buried in your hot mouth, the gentle bounce of your body as you fuck yourself on your fingers.

“Fuck!” Rafayel curses, his head tipping back when you lap at the tip of his cock, his fingers sliding down your cheek to cup your jaw. “You- you can’t do this with the others.”

You let his cock slip from your mouth with a kiss to the heated length, nuzzling against the underside while you mouth at his balls lazily.

“Feels so fucking good,” he whines, thighs twitching.

Rafayel’s hand wraps around his cock, and you watch with hazy eyes as he begins to jerk himself off, each measured pump and suckle of your mouth sending uneven shudders through his body.

“Please fill me up,” you whisper, hoping your voice sounds sultry enough, “I want your cum, Rafayel. You promised me a baby.”

“Keep mouthing at my balls and I won’t be able to fill you up,” he rasps out, slapping a hand against the balustrade to steady himself when you suckle at the head of his cock again. “Let alone give you a baby.”

You pout, begrudgingly stopping your mouthing. Rafayel peers down at you, grasping his cock as he nudges it against your lips, smearing pre-cum all over your lips and across your cheek. You smile, drunk on the taste of his pre-cum.

“Am I pretty enough to be your muse?”

A disbelieving laugh escapes him, his hand running through his hair before he’s tugging you up onto your feet, lips slotting over yours. Arms wrapping around his neck, you whine, letting him pull your skirt down and your top over your head, along with his bra.

“You’re insane,” Rafayel murmurs, his head dipping to pepper kisses across your chest. 

You bite your lip, head tipping back as he drags his tongue over your nipples, nose pressing into the fat of your breast as he sucks and swirls his tongue. 

The crunch of gravel outside makes you pause, Rafayel’s head lifting.

“Thomas,” he supplies, tugging at your nipples distractedly.

“We- ngh- we should go up,” you whisper, thighs squeezing together when Rafayel spits, his thumbs rubbing his spit into your areolas, making them glisten.

“Pretty,” he mumbles, tilting his head, “but I suppose you’re right.”

You both manage to stumble up the stairs, although Rafayel is unable to keep his hands off of you, his mouth grazing against your neck as he pins you up against a wall, sliding to his knees.

“B- bedroom,” you gasp, back arching when he pulls apart your asscheeks, a low groan leaving Rafayel when he sees the dampness covering your puffy folds and inner thighs. “What-  what if Thomas hears?”

“He won’t if you’re quiet,” Rafayel murmurs, tongue laving over your folds, thumbing them apart to get a glimpse of your swollen clit.

You jerk when he presses his fingers against the achy bud, a squeal escaping you at the sensation, drawing a breathless laugh out of Rafayel.

“Okay,” he muses, “bedroom it is.”

Rafayel pushes you into his bedroom gently, his hands caressing your hips whilst he shuts the door with his foot. You glance around, taking in the panels of floor-length mirrors, the plush bench at the foot of his bed and silk sheets. A smile pulls at your lips. He always did like silk. 

Your head tilts when Rafayel kisses your cheek, arms wrapping around his neck once he steps closer, mouth meeting his for a kiss. His cock is hard against your stomach, pre-cum smearing over your skin, his hands drifting down your back to squeeze at your ass.

“Sit,” he murmurs, fingers dragging across your waist as he pushes you down gently. You follow his guidance, settling down on the bench, fingers running through his hair when he sinks to his knees again.

Rafayel’s fingers curl around your thighs, pulling them apart, his head lowering to kiss your inner thighs. You let one of your legs rest on his shoulder, letting him pull your panties off, a soft sigh escaping you when he kisses your clit, tongue delving through your folds.

“So sweet,” Rafayel whispers, peering up at you, his eyes shining with desire.

“You’re being nice,” you murmur, head tipping back when he slides his tongue through your folds against, briefly sucking before letting go, his fingers brushing against your clit.

“I’m always nice,” he mumbles, sinking his fingers inside of you.

You gasp, back straightening, hips rocking forward when Rafayel’s mouth closes over your clit, his tongue flicking against the swollen bud, face pressing firmly against your cunt.

“Watch yourself,” he continues, nodding his head towards the mirror. “I want you to watch yourself.”

The muscles in his back flex as he buries his face between your thighs again, his hands squeezing at your thighs, tongue working wonders. You whine, tugging at his hair, watching as he shifts between your legs, the reflection making your pussy throb.

Your thighs fall open when Rafayel laps over your cunt, hips rolling to meet the motions of his tongue, squirming on the plush bench as he curls his fingers, beginning to thrust them in and out of you.

“Needy,” Rafayel murmurs, his teeth grazing your thigh, “you look like you’re about to fall apart.”

“And- ah- and you weren’t?” you grit out, a sharp whimper leaving you when he kisses your clit repeatedly, fingers hitting exactly where you need them to.

“That was different,” he grouses, brows furrowing, “you were-”

You hardly care for his words at this point, shoving at his head, gasping when he slips his fingers out of you, replacing them with his tongue. Hips rocking, you keep his head in place, toes curling as you pant.

“R- Raf,” you whine out his name, “‘m gonna cum.”

Rafayel lets out a muffled noise, dragging his tongue from side to side, up over your cunt, teeth grazing against your clit. It sends sparks of pleasure throughout your body, thighs twitching.

“Oh fuck,” you mewl, tugging at his hair harder, somehow losing your balance as you tip back when you cum, thighs squeezing around his head when he grunts, rising up to chase after your clenching cunt, his tongue lapping and sucking; drinking down your slick eagerly.

“Need to fuck you,” Rafayel rasps, crawling up over you, capturing your lips in a sloppy kiss.

You shake your head when he tries to slip his cock in, rising shakily onto your hands and knees, grabbing a few pillows to shove your face into, ass perking up into the air for him.

“Perfect, aren’t you?” he mutters hoarsely, “always so fucking perfect, angel.”

You make a noise in agreement, mouthing opening in a silent moan when you hear the sound of his hand pumping his cock, the head of it pressing against your pussy, grazing your clit briefly before Rafayel pushes his hips forward.

“Yes,” you slur out, cunt clenching, drawing a groan from Rafayel when he continues to sink his cock into your eager pussy. “Feels- feels so good.”

“I know,” he breathes out, his eyes fluttering shut, “you’re squeezing me so tight, angel. Can feel how bad you want this.”

You whimper, arching your back a little more, head empty of thoughts when he draws his hips back and thrusts forward, feeling his cock stretch you out. 

“Who is that?” Rafayel whispers, his fingers skimming up your back, his hips thrusting lazily into your ass as he watches your debauched expression in the mirror. “Who is that, angel?”

You’re too busy drooling into Rafayel’s satin pillowcases to hear him properly, trying to press your hips back to take him more fully.

He makes a noise of irritation, his fingers sliding through your hair to tug your head back, forcing you to watch the indecent motions that unfold, portrayed perfectly through his mirror. Rafayel looks pretty, you think, purple-hair falling across his forehead messily. He reminds you of the marble outside, delicate and yet, the strength of his hands distracts you.

You wonder if you could capture his beauty as well as he does with you. 

“Tell me,” he whispers again, voice sweet and syrupy, “who is that?”

“I-” you breath hitches when Rafayel squeezes your ass, his fingers pulling apart your asscheeks. Your cheeks are hot with embarrassment, face burying into the pillows as you shake your head. 

Rafayel clicks his tongue in annoyance and you let out a muffled squeak into the soft pillows, body trembling when he spits down, his spit sliding down over your ass and around the stretch of your pussy around his cock.

“Are you going to make me ask again?” Rafayel croons, his fingers tightening their grip around your hip in warning. An embarrassingly loud moan escapes you when he tugs your head back more firmly, his hand wrapping around your hair to keep you in place. “Look at yourself,” he hisses lowly, “look at how radiant you look. Now, who is that?”

Radiant. 

The word makes you falter, eyes blinking across at your reflection. There’s a thin sheet of sweat glistening across your skin, mouth opening every now and then, your breasts swaying gently with every thrust, nipples hardened. You wouldn’t exactly call yourself radiant in this moment, but when Rafayel dips his head, mouth skimming over your back, his lips reverent against your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, you find yourself feeling more valued than you’ve ever been.

“M- me,” you slur finally, spit slipping out the side of your mouth. Rafayel catches it, his thumb pushing its way into your mouth. You suck around it sloppily, pussy clenching around his cock.

“That’s right,” he soothes, “it’s you, angel, taking my cock so well.”

You mewl, pushing your hips back. “I- ah- I can take it better, Raf.”

“Yeah?” Rafayel murmurs, smiling against your shoulder, shoving his thumb deeper into your mouth. “Better tell everyone else how well you took my cock, okay? How eager you were for my cock, my baby.”

You nod rapidly, heat flaring up inside of you at the thought of him cumming inside, unprotected nonetheless. Your cunt clenches around his cock involuntarily, hips squirming when you feel his cock throb.

“Fuck,” Rafayel whines, his hips stuttering against your ass, “felt- felt that, angel. You like it.”

You whimper back, face shoving back into the pillow when he draws his thumb out from the hot confines of your mouth, his grip on your hair faltering. Your teeth sink into the pillows, the fabric now dark and stained.

Your noises grow louder in tandem when Rafayel picks up the pace, eyes squeezing shut when he grips your ass tightly, his fingers latching on firmly enough to bruise.

“Wanna- fuck-” you moan when Rafayel delivers a particularly thrust, his cock sinking deep inside of you. “Wanna see you, Raf.”

“You can already see me in the mirror,” he whispers, his teeth grazing your shoulder, “if you would stop hiding away in my pillows.”

You pout and Rafayel smiles, tilting your head enough to make you watch yourself and him in the mirror again.

“K- kiss?” you mewl, head tipping back further.

Rafayel groans at the sight, nodding as he leans forward, draping himself over your back, kissing you messily. It’s a bit awkward; your neck hurts but when Rafayel slips his hand onto your lower back, pushing down until you arch even more, ass flush against his hips, his cock manages to sink in deeper than before.

You let out a dazed noise, hand slipping between your thighs to rub at your clit.

“‘m gonna cum,” Rafayel gasps out when you push your hips back, fucking yourself on his cock.

“Me too,” you whine, cheeks flushing when you hear the obscene noises of his cock thrusting inside of you, mouth opening in a ragged squeal when Rafayel brushes your hand away, his long fingers replacing yours against your clit. “Oh- oh my-”

“That’s it,” he manages to grit out, “you’re gonna take every last drop, okay angel? Every last drop so I can breed this pretty pussy. No spilling- shit- no spilling otherwise we’ll have to go again.”

“Uh huh,” you nod sluggishly, squeaking when Rafayel shoves his hips forward, keeping his cock inside of you, balls-deep before he withdraws, continuing to fuck you.

“Gonna have my baby,” Rafayel mumbles, shoving his face into the crook of your neck, fingers rubbing faster and harder when you whine and gasp. “‘m gonna give you my cum, sweet angel.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you begin to chant, unable to keep your hips swaying back, thighs tiring out.

If Rafayel notices, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he doubles his pace, balls slapping against your clit lewdly, the sensations combined with his fingers enough to have you seizing up; his mouth sucking against your neck heatedly.

“Take it,” Rafayel grunts, his hips smacking into your ass, cock pounding into you. “Take my cum, angel, let me breed you.”

You moan loudly as you cum, body jerking underneath him, thighs shaking. Rafayel curses, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, a deep groan leaving him as he cums, his hips stuttering. You squeak, trying to move away when he falls on top of you, but he doesn’t let you, managing to hold you in place as his hot cum floods your pussy.

“Oh,” you sigh dazedly, a lazy smile spreading across your face when you feel him fill you up, a contented coo leaving you.

Rafayel’s cock throbs and your walls clench involuntarily, drawing out a low hiss from when he pulls out carefully, cum and slick coating his pretty cock.

“Panties,” Rafayel mumbles, his head lifting from the crook of your neck, eyes looking around blearily to try and find your panties. “Where are they?”

“You’re the one who took them off,” you reply tiredly, curling up against his silk sheets, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re wasting my cum,” he complains, managing to find your panties strewn across one corner of his blankets, maneuvering your thighs carefully, pulling your panties up over your hips snuggly, his head dipping to kiss your stomach.

You smile hazily, fingers running through his hair as he rests his forehead against your stomach, laughing softly when you see his expression when his cum begins to leak out, staining your silk panties.

“It’ll have to take,” Rafayel grumbles, tugging you into his side, his body curling around yours protectively, fingers caressing the sides of your breasts before drifting upwards. 

He cups your cheek, tilting your head towards him to kiss you, slow and sweet. You hum, body relaxing into his cloud-like bed, arms wrapping around his neck as you turn into him.

“Who’s next?” he yawns, nuzzling back into the crook of your neck, clinging onto you as though you might just disappear.

“Xavier,” you murmur, thighs pressing together, trying to keep his cum inside of you.

Rafayel hums, his hand sliding between your thighs to rub at your pussy through your panties, kissing your temple when you let out a low noise.

“Maybe he’ll fall asleep as soon as he puts it in.”

You swat the side of Rafayel’s head, sending him a glare. “Don’t be so mean.”

“What?” Rafayel protests, “he’s barely awake half the time.”

“I’d rather have a sleepy baby, than a baby that whines all the time,” you retort, smiling smugly when you see the offended look on Rafayel’s face.

“How- how dare you!” he sputters, snuggling closer, burying his face in your chest this time, letting out a petulant huff. “You are an evil witch.”

You roll your eyes, watching as he mouths at your breast, his teeth tugging at your nipple gently, his eyes rapt, never straying from yours. You bite your lip to muffle a noise when he swirls his tongue around your areola, a sly smile spreading across his face.

“What?” you ask exasperatedly, raising your brows.

“Witches can grant wishes,” he whispers, his tongue running over your nipple again making your eyes slip shut. “So I want you to have my baby, okay? Can you do that for me?”

You hum in response, head lolling to the side. “I’ll try,” you murmur dryly. “Should I drink an enchanted potion to make sure?”

When Rafayel doesn’t reply, your eyes peek open, brows furrowing before they shoot up when you see he’s begun to poke at your stomach, whispering to it in a hushed voice.

“Don’t listen!” Rafayel grumbles when he sees your baffled expression, “this is between me,” he points to himself, “and them.” You watch as he points to your stomach. “I’m expecting twins,” he says matter-of-factly, gazing down at your stomach to ramble inaudibly some more.

“I don’t think you’re ready for twins,” you retort, poking his forehead in retaliation. 

Rafayel scrunches up his face, cheek squishing against your stomach as he bemoans out loud. “Your mother is so cruel to me.”

You snort, unable to stop huffing out a laugh at his behavior. 

“She laughs at my woes and pain,” he continues, sighing aggrievedly.

“Stop trying to turn my baby against me,” you chastise, scratching his scalp gently, watching as Rafayel’s eyes fall shut in bliss.

“Our baby.”

“Hm?”

“Our baby,” Rafayel murmurs, his lips brushing against your lower stomach. “It’ll be our baby.”

taglist >///<

@serenitymaria @kreishin @qyuin @wegottastayfocus @novthirty @syluslittlecrows @blorbohunter @luvleixo @crimsonmarabou @skylaryoung2002 @multisstuff @chirikoheina @supermissnkta @serenity-loves-red @shi-thats-kiera @froleineeeee @jaynawayna @schooki @minyoongi-pouts @mizienjoyer @isagistar @zaynesnowflake @athena-portgas @colonelcalebs-pipsqueak @cutelittlesugarfairy @pookiei-bookie @dooopiee @rafshottestgf @thetimetravelernightmare @slytherin-min99 @envy-of-greed @paninisstuff @h0ngh0ngh0ng @nezuswritingdesk @teeheeheartless @flwerie @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @babyx91 @thisaintviolet69 @scoupsonlycherry @blubearxy @midiplier @young-adult-summer @daisys-mushroom-garden @sunsethw4 @lads-ficrecs @buffytheangelslayer @helios-eyre @browneyedgirl22 @straows @lennysnicket @actuallynarii

[cheetabites]

☆彡 age ain’t nothing but a number ˳༄꠶

characters: park gyeong seok (player 246), kang dae ho (player 388), and hwang in ho (player 001 / the frontman)

˳༄꠶ summary: headcannons i have regarding if you - their partner - were younger than them (fem intended! reader, and all legal babes 💋)

park gyeong seok (player 246)

★ he works as a portrait painter near an amusement park, he’s been approached by many younger woman. they usually directly express their interest in him by flirting but he usually brushes it off with a smile and a timid shake of his head. regarding this, i don’t think it would’ve been a problem if he’d gotten into a relationship with a younger woman; he is a the type of older man to get really shy about it though

★ despite the hierarchy in korea where juniors are supposed to automatically respect their elders, gyeong seok doesn’t really push it too much. he treats you as an equal with a bit of extra pampering - he does believe that since he’s the older one in the relationship, he should carry most of the responsibilities, whether that be household chores, bringing money home, or just caring for you and his daughter

★ he isn’t too sensitive to other’s opinions on your relationship, but there are some times where he worries about the age gap. it’s mostly out of worry for you though; i mean he’s nearing closer to finally turning forty and he has a young daughter. he just wants you to be happy. although if you talk it out with him and ease his worries, then i think thoughts like those will eventually dissipate

★ sex with him wouldn’t be any different even if you were younger, he’d still have the same kinks. although he would treat you more gently just to make sure he doesn’t “hurt” you

★ his daughter doesn’t mind the age gap either. you’re sweet, thoughtful and you make her dad happy. the only way she’d ever question the age difference would be from an external factor like whispers from other parents that she overhears or if one her classmates says something about it. if this does happen though, you and gyeong seok would obviously clear stuff up for her

kang dae ho (player 388)

★ to be honest, when he first met you he didn’t even think that you were younger than him. it was only when you clarified your age that he realized that he was older than you. he still pursued you despite it though, because you were both legal adults and he found himself captivated with you; he does tend to get with older women though, more often than he does with younger women

★ he’s another one that gets a bit shy about the fact that he’s dating a younger woman. you and his friends love to tease him about it too, just so you can hear him stutter as he tries to figure out a comeback; if one of his friends make a bad comment about your relationship though, he’ll post tf up. but make sure to drag him away, he’s not really good in physical fights

★ he’s more shy when he subs for you. something about you being younger than him yet having all this power over him makes him red in the face (and rock hard in his slacks)

★ i feel like he’d try to coddle you, but you’d hit him with the “i had you crying and begging for me last night, i can take care of myself.” he’d pout when you’d brushed off his advances, but would eventually get over it; he just loves you sm

★ with you, he honestly acts like a himbo. don’t get me wrong, he’s not unintelligent, but it’s like he’s so starstruck with your presence that it kinda short circuits his brain; it makes him all the more lovable though!

hwang in ho / 001 / the frontman

★ this man does not give one flying fuck that you’re younger than him. in fact, it boosts his ego that he was able to bag such a beautiful young baddie like you; just know you’re gonna be as spoiled as hell

★ he’s so detached from people’s opinions that he could not give less of a rats ass about their opinion on your relationship. if it does somehow tick him off though, then he’ll just put a bullet in them

★ if you’re his significant other, there isn’t much of an opportunity to return back to society. he doesn’t want to risk you interacting with other people - especially if you were a previous player; you disappeared without a trace and then suddenly returned to society? it would cause more problems than solutions. he makes sure to make it up to you in other ways though, he doesn’t want you to be unhappy

★ he tries to hide your relationship from the guards, but since you can’t leave he eventually just lets it be. there isn’t much to do at the facility / where the games are held so the guards are constantly exposed to you trailing after him wherever he goes, curious as ever - you often ask him random questions and he regularly indulges in you to keep you satiated. i can just picture you trampling around the halls doing whatever you want in the most fabulous outfit that he gifted you - obviously breaking the rules - and the guards just give eachother a look, kinda saying “damn, if we did that boss would fire - a bullet at - us.”

★ sex with him is relatively the same. but with a younger partner, i believe things like thigh riding and a daddy kink will appear sometime after you get intimate together

the end! I hope you enjoyed <3!

© cheetabites. don’t translate, claim or repost my works on any platform. jan 4 2025.

[mangooes]

Picture Perfect

“Sylus, no.”

“Sweetie, yes.”

She crossed her arms, glaring up at her husband, who was currently lounging on their couch, looking far too smug for her liking.

“I don’t understand why we need a painting. We have cameras, we have pictures, don't we have like thousands of polaroid pictures in our album already? why, in the name of all things holy, do we need to sit still for hours just so some guy can paint our faces?”

Sylus smirked. “Because, kitten, paintings are timeless. And I want one of us hanging in the grand hall for all to see.”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You just want an excuse to show off.”

He feigned offense. “How dare you accuse me of something so—okay, yes, partially. But mostly because I want to immortalize the most beautiful thing in my life.”

She blinked, thrown off for half a second. “Wait… really?”

Sylus leaned in, crimson eyes glinting mischievously. “Of course.” He cupped her face, thumb brushing over her cheek. “It’s me.”

(Name) promptly smacked his arm, as she stands up to leave. “I knew you were full of it!”

His laugh was obnoxiously pleased, stopping her from taking a step out of his reach, he reached for her arms, gently tugging it towards his embrace.

"Come on now, kitten. For me?"

"I— you know what, I might regret this."

And that was how she found herself dragged to sit in their living room, to pose, while a professional painter fills the blank canvas the next day.

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

The artist, a refined elderly man with silver spectacles, adjusted his canvas. “Sir and Miss Qin, please sit naturally so I can capture your essence.”

(Name) took this seriously. She sat upright on the elegant couch, hands folded in her lap like a proper noblewoman. Meanwhile, Sylus…

Sylus sprawled like he owned the place.

He pulled her against him, his arm draping lazily over her waist, lips near her ear as he murmured, “Comfortable, sweetie?”

(Name)’s eye twitched. “Sit normally.”

“I am sitting normally,” he replied, tightening his grip ever so slightly. “This is how I always sit—with my wife in my arms.”

The painter cleared his throat awkwardly. “Shall we begin?”

She exhaled sharply, straightening her posture. I can do this. I will be serious.

Except Sylus did not make it easy.

At first, it was subtle—his fingers lazily tracing patterns on her side, his head dipping closer as if he were merely adjusting his position. Then, he started whispering.

“You look so serious, kitten.”

“…Because I am serious.”

“I love it when you act all proper like this. Makes me want to ruin you.”

She elbowed him in the ribs.

Sylus grunted—but the smirk remained.

Ten minutes in, she was barely holding it together.

Sylus, however, was having the time of his life.

“Did I ever tell you about the time you drooled on me in your sleep?”

She stiffened, whipping her head towards the source. “Excuse me?”

The artist paused, confused. “Miss Qin, please do not move—”

“Oh no, please continue,” Sylus said, grinning. “I was just reminiscing about last week when my dear wife—so graceful, so elegant—mumbled something about wanting to put mephisto on a bubble bath in her sleep and then drooled all over my chest.”

(Name)’s jaw dropped. “That did not happen!”

“Oh, it definitely did.” He grinned wider, eyes glinting in amusement. “Should we ask Mephisto for the footage?”

Her nostrils flared. “Sylus, I swear to—”

“Ehm,” the painter cut in, rubbing his temples, akwardly

Sylus hummed. “Oh, of course. I’ll behave.”

He did not behave.

Because now? He was tracing her thigh with his fingers.

She froze. “Sylus.”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Your hand.”

“My hand?”

“Move it.”

“…But it’s comfortable.”

Her smile twitched. “I will bite you.”

He grinned. “Oh? Are we bringing that part of our relationship into this?”

She whipped her head again for the second time that day to glare at him. “Sylus.”

The painter sighed in despair.

This is going to be a long day.

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

Somehow—somehow—they got through it.

A week later, a package arrived on the Onychinus base.

She gasped.

It was… beautiful.

The painter had captured everything—the way Sylus’s crimson eyes held a mischievous yet affectionate gleam, the way her eyes held fire and defiance.

Sylus’s arm was wrapped around her waist protectively, while her posture still held an air of independence.

It was them—love, chaos, and an unspoken battle of wills.

“…Wow,” she murmured.

Sylus looked at her. “See? Worth it.”

“…Maybe.”

“I heard that hesitation.”

She smirked. “Oh, you definitely did.”

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

The next day, Sylus had the portrait placed right in the main hallway.

She groaned. “Why there, aren't you going to hang it up in one of the hallways near our bedroom?”

“Because,” Sylus said, admiring it like it was a masterpiece, “now everyone who enters will know two things—one, that my wife is breathtaking, and two…” He turned, eyes gleaming.

“…that she belongs to me.”

She blinked. “Sylus.”

“Yes, sweetie?”

She took a deep breath.

“…You are insufferable.”

He smirked, wrapping an arm around her. “And yet, here you are, married to me.”

“…I am so getting revenge for the suffering you had brought upon me while waiting for that painting to finish.”

“I look forward to it.”

And with that, Sylus placed a kiss on her temple, entirely pleased with himself.

Portraits <3 and Sylus YEAHHHHHHHH AKSJDNJASDNKNASK I'll revise this later if i feel like i'm not satisfied. Anyways WE WON NEW SYLUS 4 STAR CARD FOR FREE I LOVE THIS

[valeriapryanikova]

ominous

(itsy-bitsy fanfic concept/idea/? under the cut)

[A page ripped out of a journal; the owner’s handwriting is messy and barely legible.] 

february, 29th

i'm surprised i'm not dead now.

yesterday, in the late evening, as i was painting, it started storming. suddenly and hard. one second the dark sky is clear from any clouds, and the next moment the droplets are pelting me with a surprising force. i rapidly abandoned my easel and canvas (not like there would be anything lost—the piece was dull and not working out the way i desired) in favor of seeking cover.

i was still near the village, on its outskirts, but just a bit too far from my house to reach it quickly before my whole being was drenched through and through. so i ducked into one of the huts, all of which stand empty, desolate… or so i thought, at least.

only once inside did i spot the dim, ominous, red glow of the overhead lamp; the sound of a muted conversation; the overwhelming sense of “wrong”, like i was not meant to be here. abruptly silence fell and two sets of bright eyes stared me down.

terror froze my body. i felt like a prey caught in between two predators, i could practically feel their jaws snapping around my neck.

the dredger slowly smirked at me, barring her sharp, sharp teeth. (since when are they sharp? i may not have crossed path with her often, but i swear i would’ve noticed if she had shark teeth before.) i did not stay to see if the fisherman would further react to my presence too. the control of my body returned, allowing me to let out a panicked apology for interruption and bolt out of the hut, running home at full speed.

it’s been hours since then. i couldn’t fall asleep. i’ve been up the whole night, haunted by fear. the scene of those two beasts in the darkness, ready to snap me like a twig for overhearing something (i don’t remember what exactly, all the horror of the situation evaporated all my thoughts), got stuck in my mind’s eyes. so i’ve been doing what i know how to do best—painting.

[Attached to the diary entry is a typewritten note.] 

That painter fellow is an impressionable and imaginative type. Needless to say, the actual interaction with the two fish merchants was likely a lot less… Dramatic.

The painter was reluctant to show me the painting mentioned in the last paragraph, but after some convincing I did manage to take a quick look on their recollection of the witnessed scene: it seems mostly useless for my research, but I noted down some details that might be of use in the future (refer to “AudioLog#143” transcript for more information).

Collecting data on “The Fisherman” continues to prove itself annoying. The subject is allusive: there’s not many sources mentioning him, and folk around here rarely witness him out and about. Currently the only lead I have is finding that one old newspaper article about the docks that, if I recall correctly, mentions him in an interview with workers. Perhaps, when I have time, I’ll try asking the collector from the other side of the river if he has a copy of that newspaper issue.

However, for now, I’m significantly more interested in “The Dredger” subject. There’s more than plenty info about her—I would actually say there’s too much info about her, all inconveniently inconsistent. In an attempt to get more reliable data I’m getting in contact with Mined since they have done scientific observation of this area and the people of interest. My request for access to their data has gone unanswered so far and, if shoving my anthropology degree in the faces of those bumbling idiots won’t work, I’m sure that that city nearby has enough hackers willing to do some dirty work for a pretty diamond.

I will get the data I want, one way or another.

[multific]

A Still Life in Love

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: What better way to capture someone's likeness than a painting?

Geta, one of the twin rulers of the Roman Empire.

He sat in complete silence, his gaze focused on every petition brought before him.

To his senators and generals, he was a ruthless man.

He and his brother roughly enjoyed games, blood and wine.

Whispers of their coldness echoed through the palace halls, and yet none dared question their authority.

But you knew another side of Geta, a side he showed only to you and on occasion to his brother.

When the court adjourned for the day, he rushed back to his chambers, ready for some time alone with you, his wife.

You entered his chambers with a soft knock not long after him.

“Amor,” As his eyes met yours, he smiled. “I’ve been waiting to see you finally.”

You stepped into the room, Geta stood and closed the distance between you, his hand reaching for yours. “How was your day?” you asked.

He sighed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Tired as ever. I am tired of the fools who believe they can outsmart me. But you brighten even my darkest hours.”

Moments like these were rare treasures.

The love he had for you was there in every smile, every touch, and every word spoken.

It was this love that inspired him to commission a portrait of you.

It was something that left you speechless. Just how serious he was when it came to you.

The painter was summoned weeks later, an acclaimed artist from Gaul.

His skill was unmatched, but he quickly learned that the challenge wouldn’t be capturing your beauty.

It would be dealing with the Emperor himself.

“You will make her radiant. No brushstroke will do her justice, but you will try. If you do not do as you are told...”

The artist nodded quickly, his hands trembling as he set down his materials.

You hid a smile, watching as Geta stood over him like a hawk.

The moment the painter raised his brush, Geta’s voice cut through the silence. Almost making the artist jump out of his skin.

“Do not forget the light in her eyes. It’s the first thing I noticed about her.”

“Geta,” you said gently, “Let him work, please.”

He exhaled sharply and took a step back.

But instead of leaving, he found a seat near the window, his gaze on you. “I will stay. This is important.”

And so began the sittings, each more revealing than the last.

The painter didn't dare complain about Geta’s interruptions, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be annoyed.

You actually found it quite adorable.

The Emperor of Rome, a man feared by millions, sat still, his focus on you.

One afternoon, as the painter adjusted his palette, you noticed Geta watching you with something in his eyes. It made you feel a bit shy.  

“Why are you looking at me that way?” you asked, half-teasing.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Because you’re mine. And because I want the world to see you as I do. Perfect, irreplaceable, and breathtaking.”

“Perfect, am I? Even when I argue with you?”

A low chuckle escaped him. “Especially then. Your fire reminds me that I’ve married a woman, not a shadow.”

The painter cleared his throat awkwardly, and you turned back to your pose, pushing down a laugh. Geta remained seated, his attention solely on you the artist continued.

Days turned into weeks, and the portrait was almost completed.

Geta’s pride in the work was noticeable. “Will you look?”

“Not until it’s finished,” you replied. You were actually interested in how he saw you.

And this portrait would be a perfect representation of his love for you.

He frowned slightly, but you kissed his cheek, hoping to ease his disappointment. “Patience, My Love.”

When the day finally came to unveil the portrait, Geta was practically jumping up and down with excitement.

You stood beside him as the velvet cloth was removed, revealing the masterpiece.

The artist had captured not just your likeness but the warmth and intelligence in your eyes.

In the painting, the traits Geta cherished most were the most permanent.

Your breath hitched. “It’s beautiful.”

“No, you’re beautiful. This is but a shadow of the truth.”

The artist, sensing his dismissal, quickly gathered his belongings and ran. Too afraid to become the next feast for Geta's beloved tigers.

As the door closed, Geta turned to you fully. “Do you see now why I insisted on this? I wanted the world to know the woman who owns my heart.”

“Geta, I’m just me.”

“You are everything,” he pulled you into his arms.

His lips brushed your forehead, then your cheek, before capturing your lips in a kiss that spoke louder than any word.

The portrait was placed in the grand hall.

Geta insisted that everyone who was walking the hall must see it.

But in Geta’s eyes, no painting could ever compare to the reality of having you by his side.

For the Emperor who ruled with his brother, you were his only beauty, his greatest treasure.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[entitled-fangirl]

One happy marriage.

Benedict Bridgerton x wife!reader

Summary: the reader lies about something important and finally breaks down to tell her husband about it.

Masterlist

..........................................................

"I have started our marriage with the most audacious lie, Benedict!"

He looked up from his sketchbook with a curious look, "Whatever are you talking about, my dear?"

Y/N covered her mouth with a quiet sob. The lie was eating at her every day and she knew sooner or later the truth would reveal itself. Too bad she revealed it on her own.

Benedict frowned and stood quickly. He raced towards her and sat down cautiously on the sofa next to her. One arm gently pulled her to him, "Darling? I'm sure whatever it is can be forgiven."

She shook her head quickly and spoke through hiccups, "No…. It's unspeakable. Pl… please don't leave me."

This started to worry the poor man.

His hands gently ran up and down her arms, "I promise you, my dear. Whatever has happened, we will be as we are now."

She pulls away from him and wipes her eyes. "I am so sorry, Benedict."

He felt his heart break at the sight of her tears and pleads. "You must tell me what has troubled you this badly."

She shakes her head again, "I don't know if I can."

Benedict sighs.

He was a Bridgerton. And Bridgertons are nothing if not stubborn.

He gently takes her face in his hands. "How then, darling, am I to help fix this issue if I do not know of it?"

She stared up at him. How could she deny him? He was her heart. "I… I have lied to you so dreadfully."

He nods in thought, "Alright?"

She takes a deep breath, "I am an artist."

Benedict's head tilts. "Oh."

She looks up at him to gauge his reaction. "When we were courting, you asked if I was an artist. I said no. I… I lied to you."

He nods again with his lips in a tight line, "Yes. So you did."

She felt awful.

Silence fell over the two before Benedict broke it, "And your work?"

Her head perked up. "My work?"

He gave a slight smirk, "Yes, my dear, your work."

She nodded, "The… the paintings in the parlor… I lied. I do not collect them… I ma... I made all of those."

Benedict smiled widely. A small chuckle escaped his lips as he leaned forward and kissed the crown of her head, "I know."

She stiffened. "What?"

He leaned back and his smile only grew, "I knew, darling. I've always known. I was waiting for you to tell me."

Now it was her turn to feel a bit speechless.

Benedict continued, "I understand why you lied. Those pieces are gorgeous, and the last thing you wanted was your courter... well... your husband... to feel… lowly of his own work-"

"-but your work is lovely, Ben." She quickly interrupted.

"Ah, yes, but not like yours, my dear."

"But how did you know?"

He shrugged, "John Marques is not a real painter." He leaned close to her ear, "And yet, his name is on every plaque in the house."

She let out a laugh so happy, Benedict swore he had never heard one that matched.

She jumped into his lap and held him close.

And he was beyond happy to hold her so near.

He pulled away just to kiss her.

They could feel each other's smiles as their lips pressed together.

She broke away, just close enough to feel his breath on her lips, "And you truly aren't upset at me?"

He laughed, "How could I be? My very own wife, a most talented painter? How on earth could I ever be upset? I'm the happiest husband in the ton!"

Two artists make one happy marriage.

...................................................................

[agreeewrites]

HI ALLIE CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR 1000 FOLLOWERS I THINK ABSOLUTELY DESERVED BECAUSE YOUR WORK IS INCREDIBLE YOU ATE THAT UP SLAYYYYYYYYYYYYY

I............ I have never submitted a request, unless I was explicitly asked by the writer because ksjdjdjjjsjsj ME ASKING FOR SOMETHING?????? SNSJSJSJ ANYWAY I was like it should be fine because it's for your celebration SOOO hear me out. Remus Lupin ? IM GOING THRU A REMUS THING ? 1000 scars/1000 glances???? WHICHEVER IS FINE YOURE GONNA EAT WITH THAT

WEE OK BYE I LOVE YOU BYE

xxx

ilysm and I hope this only deepens your Remus fixation 🫶🏻 thank you so much for all of your love and support, I genuinely get excited when I see you pop up in my feed or notifs. my favorite hanni 🤍

1000 inked scars | R.L.

feat. Remus Lupin x tattooartist!reader

cw: mdni 18+, possessive!Remus, marking kink, oral (fem receiving), tattoo needles and tattooing, mentions of injury and scars, probably inaccurate representation of tattooing in the 70's, no war

masterlist

“Quit squirming or I’m going to turn this constellation into a penis,” you griped, lifting your machine from Sirius’ leg.

“Maybe if you didn’t handle that gun like a cudgel—”

You slapped his fresh tattoo and he yelped. “Pull yourself together, Black. You’re almost done.”

He groaned, slumping back onto the table with his arms slung over his head. “Sadist,” he hissed.

You resumed your tattooing, packing black ink to the map of stars. “Said the masochist that paid me to stab him a million times.”

He glanced down at you. “Are you flirting with me?”

You glared up at him.

Just then, the bell on the front door of you shop chimed. A tall man with sandy hair, dressed in jeans and thick sweater stood in the foyer, looking around at the art and plants strewn about. Given your profession, you immediately noticed his lack of tattoos, and the scars marring his hands and neck, one even stretching from his sharp jaw towards his nose.

“Moony!” Sirius called, jerking his leg and nearly inking himself.

“Sirius,” you bit, but he was already out of the chair.

“What’s—uh, what’s up, Pads?” the stranger, Moony?, said, glancing down at Sirius’ rolled up pant leg and the nearly finished tattoo on his calf. Then, his eyes flicked to you, a deep brown and sallow with exhaustion, but his beauty struck you like a blow, the lines of his face coalescing in a way that would make the great painters weep.

Based on the countless stories Sirius had told you in the hours spent on your table, you surmised that this was Remus Lupin, his level-headed, long-suffering schoolmate.

“I wanted you to meet my friend!” Sirius grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him towards your station.

You sighed and set your machine aside. Clearly, you were taking a break.

“Remus, this is y/n, the architect of my beauty,” Sirius said, gesturing grandly in your direction.

You slid off one of your gloves and extended a hand to Remus. “Pleasure. I’ve heard loads about you.”

“Oh?” Remus asked, shaking your hand with a light touch, his skin warm and a bit rough. “Terrible things, I wager?”

“The worst,” you chuckled, and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a half-smile.

“Well, then there’s no where to go but up,” he said with a cheeky wink, and your heart damn near leaped out of your mouth.

“I asked Moony to come hang out for the last bit of the tattoo so he could pick your brain,” Sirius said, hopping back up onto the table.

“Sirius—”

“Pick my brain about what?” You asked, pulling up a chair for Remus and sitting back onto your stool, putting on a fresh pair of gloves.

“I, uh—”

“Moony wants to know if you can tattoo over scars,” Sirius said, earning a glare from Remus.

“Absolutely!” you chirped, hoping to dispel Remus’ clear discomfort. “Just takes a few extra passes, but it shouldn’t be an issue.”

Remus gave you a small, grateful smile. “Really?”

“Really. I’ve tattooed over dozens of scars, cover-ups, or decorations. I’d love to work with you.” Merlin, did you just say that out loud? You needed to get it together; you were a professional.

“See, Moons? I told you!” Sirius propped his leg back up, and you fired up the machine. “And it doesn’t even hurt.”

You lowered the machine back to his leg, taking a few quick warm up strokes.

“AHH YOU WITCH!” Sirius wailed. You and Remus both jumped at his shouting, but he quickly dissolved into laughter. “Bloody hell, I knew you two would get along. You’ve got twin scowls,” Sirius chuckled, leaning back against the table with his hands behind his head.

You glanced at Remus, and he looked back at you. A flicker of connection flared between you, and heat rose in your cheeks. Quickly, you looked away, turning your attention back to Sirius’ tattoo.

“So, what are you thinking you want to get, Rem?” Sirius asked after a few moments of quiet, the buzzing of the machine filling the air.

Remus shrugged. “Hadn’t really thought about it. Just wanted to do…something.”

“Well, if you want, we can try and cover any up. But I find that people really get more out of going the decorative route,” you supplied, looking at Remus while you picked up more ink. “I can hand draw a few designs that flow with the scar, turn it into an art piece itself.”

Remus was quiet for a moment, contemplative, and Sirius gave you a knowing smile. “I think I might like that, yeah,” Remus said, his voice soft, almost awestruck. Like he’d never ever considered the possibility before.

As a tattoo artist, you were intimately aware of how much a person’s skin could impact their wellbeing, scars in particular weighed heavily on many people’s spirit. Remus, it seemed, was no exception.

Sirius guided the conversation in another direction, giving Remus a chance to process the implications of what you offered, and you finished the tattoo half-an-hour later. While you were wiping it down, Remus hovered over you, looking down at the piece.

“You’re really good,” he murmured, close enough that you could smell the wool of his sweater, the lingering notes of cinnamon and tea from his cologne. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks, Rem,” you said, smiling up at him, and he smiled back, a flush creeping up his neck before he hurriedly stepped away.

You patched up Sirius and sent the boys on their way, an appointment for Remus on the books for the following week. All he’d given you to work with was placement, his forearm, and that he wanted something natural, like a plant.

Having no more appointments for the evening, you folded yourself into your studio couch with your sketchbook. You sketched a few things, lavender and roses and chamomile, but your fingers itched to draw something else. Remus’ profile floated into your minds eye, sorrowful and striking, and your pen started to move of it’s own accord. His expression came to life under your hand, with long lashes and a crooked nose and that jagged scar.

You clapped your sketchbook shut, sitting back with a sigh.

Next week couldn’t come quickly enough.

You paced around your shop, pouring over your sketch for Remus. You wanted it to be perfect for him, lest you scare him off a tattooing forever.

The door chimes, startling you out of your concentration, and Remus strode in, carrying a tray of drinks and a paper bag

“Morning!” You called, hugging your sketchbook to your chest.

“Morning,” he said, passing you one of the cups. “I asked Sirius what you liked, so if it's awful, blame him.”

Butterflies fluttered to life in your stomach. It wasn't unusual for clients to bring you coffee and food, but with Remus it felt…different.

“Oh! You didn't have to do that. Thank you, Remus,” you said, taking a sip. It was your favorite drink, and it's familiar warmth settled some of your nerves.

He gave you a small smile, but you could tell he was nervous. He set the bag on your desk. “I also brought some pastries. Sirius mentioned you like chocolate?”

“I love chocolate.” You beamed. “Come on in, we can sit over here and go over the design.”

Remus nodded, shirking his coat and following you over to the couch. He was like an anxious thundercloud, tense and unsteady, and it made your chest tight with empathy.

“How are you feeling?” You asked, patting the spot beside you.

He sat down, coiled in on himself despite his long limbs. Like he was afraid to take up too much space. “Ah, fine,” he replied, taking a sip of his drink. Earl gray, from the smell of it.

You arched a brow. “It's okay to be nervous, Rem,” you said. “But it's just us, and nothing is set in ink. If you change your mind, it's totally fine.”

“It's just—” he sighed, lifting his arm. He started to roll up his shirt sleeve, dexterous fingers folding the fabric neatly over itself, revealing inch after inch of his forearm. Lightly tanned and taut with lean muscle, veins tangling with the map of scars littering his skin.

He watched your face, gauging your reaction. You tried to stay neutral, but you were practically salivating. He was so beautiful.

“Are they too bad?” He asked, his voice rough with tension.

You met his brown eyes. “Not at all.” You pulled out your sketchbook, flipping to the page you had ear marked. “And it's perfect for what I sketched up.”

He managed a half-smile, some of the clouds disappearing from his aura, and accepted the sketchbook when you handed it to him. His eyes widened.

“Goldenrod,” you said, shifting closer to look at the sketch over his shoulder. “Used to treat pain.”

Remus traced his finger over the tangle of stems, the delicate florals. “I take it almost every day,” he murmured, looking over at you, his eyes warm and full of something you couldn't quite place.

“So, what do you think?” You asked, your gazes lingering on one another.

“I think it's perfect,” he said, and you smiled, genuinely thrilled that he liked it.

“Okay, ready for me to start sketching?” You asked, and he nodded. You led him over to your station, already set up and waiting for him, and he hopped up onto the chair, his long limbs dangling near to the floor. To break the quiet, you put on a muggle record, and Remus seemed to relax a bit, sipping on his tea and watching you putter around through dark lashes.

When you settled onto your stool, ink pen in hand, anxiety bloomed in your stomach. Remus was about to watch you draw on him. You’d drawn on hundreds of clients, but like everything else, with Remus it felt…different.

“It might tickle,” you warned, resting his arm where you wanted it, your fingertips tingling from the contact. “And try to stay very still.”

“Whatever you say, love,” he murmured, getting comfortable. Entirely oblivious to the way the petname made your thoughts turn to static.

You placed your sketchbook just beside his arm and made the first line, a quick stem arching alongside a scar stretching from wrist to elbow. Slowly, line after line, the sketch started to come together, flowing with the natural shape of his forearm and it’s scars. You got lost in the act, sinking into the labor of creating.

It wasn’t until Remus made a soft, approving hum in his throat that you peaked up him, breaking your focus. His eyes were almost sleepy, heavy-lidded and soft and the corners, a smile tugging at his lips.

“No wonder Sirius like this so much,” he said, tracing your face with his eyes. “Watching you work is fascinating.”

Heat roared to your cheeks. “Oh, I don’t—he seems more interested in teasing me than letting me work.”

“That does sound like Sirius,” he chuckled. “I like your focused face much more than that scowl.”

Merlin, what was happening to you? You felt like you could melt into your chair like a pile of pudding. Was he flirting with you? Or does he always talk like a romance book hero?

“How long have you guys known each other?” You asked, changing the subject and ducking back down to your work to hide your expression.

“Decade at least,” Remus said. “We met our first year at Hogwarts. Never thought I’d befriend the Sirius Black, but y’know, stranger things have happened.”

“Why’d you think that?”

Remus shrugged, the muttered a soft apology for moving. “Sirius is…Sirius, and I’m…”

“Charming? Sweet? Clever?” You asked, glancing up at him. “Sirius talks about you like you hung the moon.”

A flush creeped up his neck. “He’s dramatic.”

“And brutally honest,” you said, holding his gaze.

“Can I ask you something?” Now it was his turn to change the subject.

“Of course,” you said, capping your pen and setting it aside.

“Why haven’t you, ah, asked?” He glanced down at his scars, and you knew what he was implying.

You shrugged. “I figured you’d tell me if you felt comfortable. I’m not here to pry, just help.”

His eyes flitted over your face, swallowing hard, and it seemed he was at a loss for words.

“Ready for ink?” You asked, giving him as reassuring of a smile as you could muster.

He exhaled, turning his wrist to inspect the design. “Ready.”

The rest of the appointment flew by, with Remus sitting like a stone while you tattooed him for close to four hours. You didn’t speak much, letting the music fill the empty air, but it was a comfortable silence, broken by the occasional question or annecdote. Remus seemed to appreciate being able to relax, and you were happy to give him a safe place for little while. Holding space for what this moment meant to him.

When you were finished, Remus stared at the tattoo in the mirror for a long time, and when he turned back for you to wrap it up, you could see tears collecting on his lower lashes.

"Thank you for this," he said, clearing his throat. "You were--this was amazing."

You knew he meant the art, but still, the praise made your heart glow all the same. "Of course, Remus. I'm glad I got to be the one to do this for you."

Before leaving, he placed another appointment on your books for the following week, this time asking for a tree along the back of his calf, the roots spreading across the scaring he had there.

After Remus’ second and third appointment, you noticed a change in him. He seemed more confident, a little more outspoken. He was coming to life before your eyes, and you were starting to see the fuller picture of the boy Sirius loved so much.

Already, you felt so close to him. Connected. And you were starting to miss him those days in between, his appointment becoming the highlight of your week. Your sketchbook was filling with sketches of him, like you mind needed a place to spill your overflowing thoughts of him. With Remus, it was like every sound was heightened, every movement sharper, the very colors in the room more vibrant. Overwhelming in the best way.

But then he cancelled your fourth appointment, citing illness, and you didn’t see him for two weeks. It wasn’t until he sent an owl requesting an appointment for this coming Friday that you finally felt like you could breathe.

Sorry again for cancelling. Are you free this Friday? Thinking a moon and stars on my chest, with those gorgeous clouds I saw in your sketchbook. Can’t wait, RL.

When Remus walked into your studio, you had to stop yourself from hugging him, you were so excited to see him. He looked tired, a little dimmer than the last time you saw each other, but he greeted you with a warm smile and a bag of pastries, and that was all you needed.

You had him sit up on the table, busying yourself with the station in avoidance of the inevitable. He was going to have to take his shirt off. Your heart was palpitating just thinking about it.

“Alright, Rem. Strip for me,” you said, ripping the metaphorical bandaid off.

He huffed a laugh, seeming a bit shy himself. “Yes ma’am.” In a fluid motion, he hooked his fingers under his sweater and tugged it overhead. His chest was tanned and lined with lean muscle, the kind built outdoors, not in the gym. The scaring was worse, deeper gauges in softer flesh, but you barely registered it, too busy staring at the half-healed red slash across his ribs.

You gasped. “Rem, what happened?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was in a fight club?” He rubbed the back of his head, averting his eyes from yours.

“No, but you don’t have to tell me anything. Just that you’re alright,” you said, unable to mask the warble of concern in your voice. You were already starting to gather that Remus was…different. And you'd only met one other person with scars that matched his, and they also always cancelled around the full moon.

His eyes softened. “I’m alright, dove. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m the only one that gets to gauge you with weapons,” you huffed, grabbing up your sketching marker.

He barked a laugh, head tipping back on his shoulders. “Fair enough. Only you get to wound me permanently from now on.”

“Glad we reached an understanding.” You propped the sketchbook on the table and leaned in to start sketching. Remus sat up as straight as he could, resulting in your head hovering around his clavicle. But, with his long legs, you couldn’t get close enough.

Remus seemed to pick up on your dilemma and slowly spread his knees, allowing you to step between them. The heat of his body was intense, drawing you closer, but you swallowed your impulse, trying to focus instead on the moon and constellations you were mapping out.

As you drew, you started to shift closer, drawn in by the work and his proximity, the clean smell of his skin, until you were practically leaning against him.

“You smell nice,” he hummed, close enough that you felt his breath tickle the hair around your ear.

You nearly dropped the marker, but managed to keep your grip steady. “So do you,” you said, unable to come up with something clever.

“Y’know, I probably shouldn’t say this, but I—I missed you the last two weeks.” Remus’ voice was low, just above a whisper, resonant like a drum in his chest. You wanted to wrap it around you like a blanket.

You looked up at him, lips slightly parted in shock, so close you could brush your nose against his if you moved a hair closer. “You did?” You asked, certain that if pupils could turn into lovehearts, yours would be beaming out of your head like a cartoon.

His hand came up to caress you jaw, tentative and gentle. “Being with you is the best I’ve felt in ages,” he said, tilting your face a little closer to his. “I don’t—”

The bell to your studio rang loudly, and you jumped back from Remus’ hold, nearly tripping over your stool.

“Hey Moony! There’s my favorite artist!” James came plowing through, wrapping you up in a bearhug that squeezed the air from your lungs. “How are you, sweetness?”

“I’m good, Jamie,” you wheezed, and he set you back on your feet.

The boys clasped hands, a quick, almost automatic handshake.

“What are you doing here, Prongs?” Remus asked, trying and failing at not looking irritated.

“Sirius said you were getting some ink today so I figured I’d swing by and have you take a peak at how mine’s healing.”

“James, it’s been like six months. Your antlers healed fine,” you reminded him.

“You did his antlers?” Remus asked, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes.

You nodded. “Yeah, you didn’t know?”

He shook his head, glancing sidelong at his friend.

“I suppose it might be time for a touch up. Let me see,” you sighed, crossing your arms over your chest.

James lifted his shirt, revealing a peak of his washboard abs, framed by a pair of sprawling antlers across his hip bones. You leaned a bit closer, checking for any faded spots or ink spreading.

“Looks perfect, Jamie. All good,” you said, sitting back on your stool, mildly impressed with yourself.

“Brilliant. I love them, and they’re very effective.” He waggled his eyebrows, and you and Remus rolled your eyes.

James hung out for another hour, chatting with Remus while you finished the sketch of the tattoo. Your bodies were just as close as before, but with James, you were forced to keep it strictly professional. But the proximity without being allowed to touch was melting your mind, making heat pool in your lower belly. You could feel every breath Remus took, feel the rumble of his voice in your chest, the warmth of his body mingling with yours.

It was maddening, and you could tell Remus was growing more impatient by the second, the muscles around his neck taught with tension, his fingers twitching against his thighs.

At one point, you laughed at one of James’ jokes and swatted at his chest, earning a smile from him. When you glanced back at Remus, his jaw was clenched tight, eyes glaring a hole into the drink in his hands.

Was he…jealous?

He had no right to be, but still, the thought of him being possessive made your heart rate quicken.

Finally, James left, leaving you and Remus alone in the simmering tension you'd built. He watched you closely as you returned to your station, prepping the tattoo machine.

“Would you ever get a tattoo like that?” You asked, glancing up at him through your lashes.

He leaned back on the seat, bracing his hands behind him. Showing off the lean expanse of his torso, the rugged look of him that stood in sharp juxtaposition to his style and personality. “Not sure I could pull it off.”

You scoffed, allowing him to see you peruse his body. “I strongly disagree.”

He chewed on his lower lip, a nervous habit. A flush started to spread across his chest, reaching towards his cheeks. “What would you suggest?” he asked, a sultry edge of his voice.

Unhurried, you stepped back between his legs, letting your fingertips graze along the valleys of his lower abdomen. “Perhaps a snake.” You traced the shape along his skin, his muscles tensing to stop himself from shivering. “Or ferns. Maybe a wolfs jaw—”

“A wolfs jaw?” He asked, quirking an eyebrow at you.

You met his eyes. “You should give me a little more credit, Moony.”

He blinked at you, clearly taken aback that you knew his secret. “You knew.”

“I do now. I've only seen scars like yours once before, on another werewolf. And with the nickname, your tattoo choices, being MIA on the full moon…it adds up.”

His eyes searched your face. “And you don't care?”

“Of course not. I care about you, not your affliction.” Your hands still lingered on his hips, like your skin was magnetized together, you couldn't seem to pull them apart.

Remus straightened, his hand coming up to cup your face again. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about you,” he breathed. “You’ve gotten under my skin, dove.”

“It's risky, y’know, to flirt with your tattoo artist,” you murmured, grazing your fingers over the mostly healed goldenrod tattoo. “You've got a permanent reminder of me.”

He smirked, his hand sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. “Well, the thing about werewolves…” he was so close, warm breath fanning across your lips. “We're a possessive sort, territorial. So having your mark on my skin…” he sighed, eyes dark with desire. “I'm finding it hard to hold myself back.”

“Then don't,” you replied, heart in your throat.

Remus surged forward, lips colliding in a heady, toe-curling kiss. You immediately gave into him, his tongue caressing the seam of your mouth, dipping past your lips to taste you, claim you.

Your arms found their way around his neck, fingers digging into his feathery hair and tugging at the roots, drawing a low groan from his chest. He nipped at your lower lip in warning before soothing it with his tongue.

“Be gentle with me,” he grated, kissing along your cheek, down towards your throat. He craned your head back, grazing his teeth along your pulse, and you shivered. “I’m trying to savor this, not devour you.”

“Do you always keep yourself on such a tight leash?” You asked, breathless as he lapped at your skin, your thighs trembling with desire.

“Patience, dove,” he chastised affectionately, lifting his head. “Just be good for me, yeah? You’ll get what you want.”

Your brain emptied. Seeing this dominant side of Remus had you folding like origami. You nodded, letting him drag you in for another languid, bone-melting kiss.

Remus slid off the table without breaking the kiss, leaning down to scoop you up by the thighs in a fluid motion.

“Rem!” You gasped in surprise when he turned and dropped you onto the table he just vacated.

He leaned over you, one hand reaching down to recline the seat so you were laying back, legs on either side of his hips. His lips found your neck again, kissing and licking his way down while his hands pushed up the hem of your shirt, fingertips cool against your fevered skin.

“Tell me if you want me stop,” he said, shifting to kiss around your navel.

“Don't stop. Please don't stop,” you pleaded, and he smiled against your hip before sucking the skin between his teeth, biting at your flesh just hard enough you make you keen.

“I won't, love. I'm not going anywhere.” His fingers hooked into the waistband of your jeans, easing them down over your hips until they fell to the ground in a pile.

Your knees tried to pull together on instinct, the vulnerability making you flush, but his hands gripped your inner thighs, spreading you apart for him. You could tell he was in his element, something having loosened from his usually reserved demeanor. It felt like you were seeing him completely for the first time. No holds barred.

“Don't hide from me, pretty girl,” he cooed, lowering to his knees. “You're gorgeous.” He trailed kisses up your thigh, charting a tingling path until his nose grazed sodden panties, making your pussy flutter and clench. “Fuck, you smell divine,” he muttered before dragging his tongue over the thin fabric.

“Oh, god—Remus,” you moaned when he sucked on the fabric over your clit, pleasure blooming from your center. Your eyes rolled back, fingers tangling in his hair as he flicked your swelling bud with his tongue.

“So responsive,” he praised, pulling your panties aside with his middle finger. “You this sweet for all of your clients?”

You shook your head. ”I've never--with a client—fuck, baby.” Your words splintered into a cry as he eased his middle finger inside of you, your dripping entrance accepting him eagerly. He nudged your clit with his nose, making you cry out again.

“Just me?” His voice almost sounded like a purr, deeply pleased by your admission.

You nodded, urging him closer by the roots of his hair, and he practically growled.

He nipped at your thigh, overpowering your meager attempt easily. “Patience, remember?”

You whined. “Remus, please. Just wanna feel you.”

He withdrew his finger, then added a second, pumping you slowly. “I know, baby. I'm right here, I've got you.” His mouth found your clit again, his tongue circling around and around, and you arched off the table, moans spilling from your lips like a song.

Steadily, the fire built, with Remus' devoted attention pouring over you like gasoline. He moaned against you, eyes screwed shut when your pussy clenched around his fingers, teetering on the edge.

The table shifted, rocking back a bit, and you looked past Remus' hair tangled in your fingers to his body. He was rocking his hips against the edge of the table, so turned on by the act of eating you out that he needed some relief.

“Rem, baby,” you whined, the sight dragging you that much closer to release. He glanced up at you, his eyes glazed and pussydrunk, and he whimpered against you.

His deliberate motions got sloppier, greedier, as he rutted against the table. Losing control of himself, like his entire being was desperate to be inside of you.

With a final curl of his fingers, you toppled over the edge, coming with a cry loud enough to rattle the windows as relief crashed over you, cool water dousing the flames beneath your skin.

“Good fucking girl,” he growled, withdrawing his fingers to lap directly from you, savoring every drop of his efforts. “That's it, love. Relax f’me.” He brought you back to earth with his tongue, long, languid licks and kisses around your trembling center, across your inner thigh slung over his shoulder.

“Fuck, Remus,” you panted, slumping back against the table. “That was—”

He made his way up your body, catching your words in a messy, top-lip kiss. “Got your mark all over me now, dove,” he purred, pecking your cheek with a cheeky grin.

“What about…” you trailed off, fingers toying with his belt, unsure of what you were asking for him to fuck you, or mark you. Or both. All you knew was that you wanted him, badly, even more so with that post-orgasm clarity.

“Patience,” he replied, chuckling at the annoyed look you shot him. “Ready to finish up this tattoo?”

“But you didn't get to—”

“I’m, ah, a bit embarrassed to say that I did.” He straightened with a sheepish smile, revealing the dark spot leaking through his jeans.

Holy shit. You'd made him cum in his pants.

You surged up, throwing your arms around his neck and tugging him down in to a ravenous kiss. “Merlin, you're so fucking hot,” you mumbled against his mouth.

He grinned, breaking the kiss to nuzzle into your neck, hiding the flush you could see staining his ears. “Says the girl that made me cum without touching me,” he muttered, almost indignant.

“I’m not sorry,” you chuckled, sighing when he pressed his plush, kiss-swollen lips to your racing pulse.

“It's alright, I'll get even,” he teased, his teeth nipping at your skin.

“Is that a promise?”

“Most normal people would interpret it as a threat.” He picked his head up, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Well, I'm not normal people,” you replied.

“And thank Godric for that.” He kissed you again, all smiles and airy pecks.

Normal was never your style anyway.

© agreeewrites 2025. do not copy, translate or claim my writing as your own.

[kngrose]

hiii can u pls make yandere jinx reacting to somebody trying 2 ask out the reader

(feel free 2 ignore!!💗💗)

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐗

when someone asks out her partner

WARNINGS: implied mental illness, violence, implied murder, coercion, manipulation. be safe, heed warnings!

from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : i tried to make this as realistic and in character as i possibly could. i rlly wish people would study characters more often </3

It’s not like you were going to say yes, Jinx just never lets you get the chance to handle these situations on your own. She’s so impulsive; a loose canon just ready to shoot at the smallest spark.

Bless the poor thing, pretty little painter you usually catch making murals on buildings and alleys— you could tell they’d spent a lot of time working up the courage to ask. There’s a telling flush on their cheeks that spreads to their ears, their shuffling nervously on their feet— they can’t seem to keep their lip from under their teeth. They’re actually cute.

But you weren’t going to say yes.

Jinx had been leaning lazily against a crumbling wall when it all took place, her bright pink eyes tracking you and the stranger near a rusty vending machine. She twirled her zap-gun idly, the manic energy simmering just beneath the surface of her carefree façade.

Her ears pricked at the stranger’s words.

“So, uh, I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink sometime? Just you and me.”

Her heart skipped. Then it dropped. The world tilted, her vision blurring for a moment before splitting into two: one part cold fury, one part trembling vulnerability. A clawing void of rejection surged in her chest.

They want to take her from you.

Her hands stopped their idle twirl, gripping her weapon tightly. She was all jagged edges now, sauntering toward the scene with a growing, unhinged smile plastered across her face.

“Well, well, well! What do we have here? Little paint shop loser thinks they can steal my baby, huh?” she cooed dryly. The stranger held their hands up defensively, stammering, “N-no, I didn’t know she was—”

“LIAR!” Jinx’s voice cracked, her finger twitching on the trigger of the zapper. She wavered between hysterical rage and a crushing sense of inadequacy, her bipolar emotions splitting her perception into black and white. You are hers—all hers—and this person was a threat. The idea of losing you gripped her like a vice, her mind screaming.

She’ll leave you. She’ll leave because you’re not enough.

“You thought you could just waltz right up, and take her— right? She cackled dryly, “WRONG!” You could see the whirlwind of thought manifesting on her face— snarls turning into grins turning into scowls. You stepped forward, raising a hand to try and calm her. “Jinx, it’s not—”

“Quiet, cupcake,” she snapped, her voice suddenly sharp. But the moment she looked at you, her tone softened into something sickeningly sweet. “I’ll take care of this, okay? You just stand there looking all cute and perfect for me.”

The poor thing tried to back away, mumbling apologies, but Jinx was already there, her speed unnervingly quick. She was inches from their face now, her gun’s barrel resting lightly against their chest. “You know,” she whispered, her voice dangerously low and leveled, “I don’t like sharing. In fact, I hate it.” She trailed the gun upwards, letting it rise under their chin. “Of all the canvases you chose mine…” She meets their gaze with a stone cold glare, “Wanna paint the walls with your insides? Hmm?”

“Jinx!” You blurt frantically— she’s taking this way too far. “it’s fine! You don’t have to do this— I wasn’t even going to say yes—”

"No, it's NOT fine!" Jinx snapped, her voice cracking as she turned toward her you, her expression twisting in anguish. Her manic energy flipped into desperation in an instant. "Why would you even talk to someone like them?! Am I not enough? You're not— you're not gonna leave me, right? RIGHT?!" Her breathing grew ragged, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. The admirer took a nervous step back, clearly reconsidering every life decision that had led to this moment.

“No— you’re enough. I’m not going anywhere,” you assured her softly, taking small measured steps towards her. Jinx’s wild gaze flickered to you, the raw emotion on her face breaking through the chaos. Tears welled in her eyes, but the anger didn’t leave, not fully. Her breathing was ragged as her your steady voice seemingly pulled her back from the brink.

Abruptly, she embraced you, making you flinch. She buried her face into you shoulder, her voice muffled, “I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered, raw and vulnerable. You took the opportunity to motion to the painter still standing still in fear. ‘Leave’, you mouthed frantically, still trying to pacify Jinx by rubbing her back softly.

“You won’t, Jinx. I love you.”

Jinx's head whipped rapidly up toward you, leveling your eyes. Her expression was… darkening. She was splitting again, now so suddenly, her emotions cycling too fast for anyone to keep up. “You mean that?” She asked, raising a sharp brow. She traced your face meticulously.

“What? Of course I mean that.” You stare at her bewilderingly, eyebrows furrowing. You could only watch as she processed something internally, but you could never guess what goes on in her sick mind. “Good.” She smiled, a sweet smile. She grabbed your hand gently, placing her gun into your palm, “Shoot them.”

“W-what—! Jinx— you can’t be serious?” Your mind swirled, you were so taken aback by her statement you physically reeled your head, the gun slipping in your palm. Her hand moved to your shoulder, fingers digging into your skin with possessive force, her grip tightening as she leaned in, her lips brushing your neck. "Didn't you hear them? They want you, not me. I'm the one who's supposed to be with you," she hissed, a manic fury flickering in her wide, unblinking eyes.

The sound of your heart hammering in your chest was deafening. You wanted to argue, to protest, to deny this madness, but the words caught in your throat. The way she looked at you— possessive, desperate, almost like a starving animal ready to pounce-made it clear there was no room for dissent.

"You have to choose," Jinx cooed, a twisted smile playing at the edges of her lips. She gestured toward the figure standing helplessly in the distance, "Either you choose me... or you choose them." Her voice dropped lower, darker, her breath coming in ragged bursts. "But if you choose them... you know what will happen. Don't you?"

You tried to pull away, but her grip on you was ironclad. Her fingers tightened, forcing your arm to aim at the person who'd dared to look at you with affection. Jinx's hand hovered over yours, guiding the gun slowly, insistently, until the barrel was trained on their chest.

"You're going to make them sorry, right? You're going to show them who you really belong to." The gun felt like a lead weight, too heavy for your trembling hands. But Jinx's eyes were on you, her gaze cold and calculating, burning with obsession. She moved closer, her body almost pressed against yours now, her voice dropping into a low, seductive whisper. "Don't make me do it for you. I want to see you do it. I want you to prove your loyalty. You don't want to disappoint me, do you?"

"They're waiting for you. Waiting for you to make your choice. Show them how much you care about me, darling. Show them who's the real threat here."

You could feel her breath against your ear as she leaned in, her voice almost sweet now, laced with madness. "It's simple, really. One pull of the trigger— POW! And it's all over. You and me. Forever. No one else. Ever." She snarled noticing your hesitation, ever the big heart you had.

"You know I won't let them have you," she whispered, her voice laced with a mix of fear and obsession. “Jinx—” You murmur painfully, biting back scared tears, but she hushes you instantly. "You're mine, and I won't share you."

Her smile returned, but there was no joy in it. Only the chilling certainty of someone who had already made up their mind. "Do it. Or I will," she dared, her eyes narrowing as her grip on you tightened. The world narrowed down to that single moment— the gun in your hand, the silent figure before you, and Jinx, her eyes gleaming with a terrifying expectation. There was no escape, no way out.

Only the grim reality of her twisted love, a love that demanded everything-and if you didn't comply, it would take everything away. Her voice was the last thing you heard before you were forced to make the decision.

"Choose. Me or them."

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[murdock-slvt]

❝ PAINTER! rafe using MODEL! reader as a muse for his piece then much more just than a muse afterwards~ ❞ ▄▀▄▀▄

when you were told rafe cameron turned into a painter post-outer banks… you were shocked.

you didn’t expect the angry, impatient, violent drug dealer rafe cameron to turn into such man with a soft and patient occupation, however rafe being rafe, he made it seem believable.

he got away from his father, gotten away from the toxic environment that had become outerbanks and slowly began to work on himself. getting clean, apologizing and showing change to those his previous actions affected and going to regular therapy.

he was still a little messed up with a few screws loosened up in his mind, but it was no where like beforehand.

and when you got approached by rafe to be a muse for his piece? how could you say no?

you were a model, being in a couple of magazines and advertisements, making a name for yourself in the modeling industry. you had modeled for lingerie companies, a few clothing brands, and perfume companies.

going into the cameron’s son apartment, it was clean but it was messy, a chaotic messiness that was more clean than his room back home in the outerbanks. he had a separate room for all his canvases and paints and unfinished projects and submissions for museums. looking around in the living room with large windows peering out at the city from a higher up floor, you could see where he’d want you to lay.

he had gotten his pencils ready, his paints were slathered on the artist palette and a large canvas sat on the easel. it was a nude portrait.

you were the body inspiration but not the face inspiration.

you looked at him with no shirt and no pants, simply panties and a bra. putting your thumbs in your panties, you slid them off in front of him, his eyes busy on getting his paints organized (and not needing a boner to distract him)

you throw your panties to the arm of the couch, he wanted them in the photo as well as your fingers reach behind your back, unclipping the bra and letting your breasts spill out, your pert nipples hardening due to the air in the apartment. you put the bra directly over the panties.

you looked like a goddess in the flesh to rafe… but that was for later to discuss.

you ran a hand through your hair as you had look at the couch then back at him. “you’re the artist, cameron, you’re in control here.” you say with a smile, tilting your head. “where do you want me to lay?”

rafe nods, pointing to the couch. "over on the— the bed… on the couch." he says, trying to not stumble over his words. “lay on the couch.”

rafe cameron was stumbling over his words. oh how five years could change.

you move to the couch, laying on the couch as your head hits the pillows that he had set up. you put your left arm over your head, your fingers going near your head as some of your longer strands of hair push itself into the space between your fingers. your right arm sat on the couch, bent slightly at the elbow with a smile on your face.

rafe smiles, grabbing a pencil and beginning to sketch out the overall shape. “keep your eyes on me.” he orders, his voice low and commanding. “keep still.”

his confidence is slowly improving as he stares at you, his mind telling himself (and his thick cock) to calm itself and wait until after this was all over.

the painting took over two hours, with your body keeping its position over the two hours with minimal adjustments and movements. you talked to rafe, who only answered in short sentences, not wanting to get distracted.

your voice was too sexy for your own good. the man had a lot of low compliments that you caught onto.

he had finished the last part of shading, carefully filling in the darker edges of your hair with a tilted look with a thin end brush and brown paint. rafe was looking at the beauty of the portrait and looks at your body to a scary perfection. he signs the paper with his signature, naming the portrait and putting the brush down onto the palette.

“i’m done.” he says simply, his tone unamused as he leans back from the easel, looking at the portrait as he takes off the gloves he was wearing.

you smile, stretching a little as you’re able to finally move again. standing up and groaning under your breath (which rafe heard and bit his lip at) you walked over to rafe, standing behind him to look at the portrait sitting on the easel.

your eyes look at the portrait… and it’s fucking perfect. it’s so perfect. “oh if I be damned, rafe…” you begin, your fingers pressing into his shoulder. “it’s fucking beautiful.” you say, keeping your eyes on the portrait. it’s scary but honestly adorable how perfect and how realistic it is to your real body.

rafe smiles to himself, feeling an odd sense of peace and joy knowing you love the painting, knowing he’s able to draw nude. he acted like he knew everything, but was always scared of doing it the first time.

but why not fake it till he made it? and he certainly made it with this one.

“you did fucking incredible.” you say with a sense of admiration. every curve was accurate to your actual curves, every hair strand, every knuckle and every finger and toe was perfect. his hands were able to capture everything about you, and it was scarily romantic. “I’m not exaggerating, rafey, it’s perfect.”

rafey. that’s new. it’s adorable in his mind.

he nods at your approval, rubbing his knees as he looks at the painting then back up at you. “well I’m glad you like it princess.”

a comfortable silence fell in between the two of you; a soft, intimate silence between the two of you as your eyes and mind soaks in the beauty of rafe’s ink, of how accurate the drawing truly was. rafe meanwhile, was trying to keep his dick from showing how hard he was. he’s never had this issue with other models before; and he needed a fucking way of getting this shit out of him before you left.

"how do you want me to repay you? I have the cash." you begin, looking at him.

rafe looks at you, crossing his arms. “I told you before baby, you don’t need to pay me.”

“no.” you shake your head, almost as if he said something horrific. “you deserve it. you did a fucking amazing job, you deserve some sort of payment from me.”

rafe smiles, as if you read his mind… or just looked at his thick hard on in his sweatpants. “I mean… there’s certainly a way you could repay me…”

repaying him you were certainly doing.

repaying rafe cameron meant letting him choose whatever he wanted… and he needed a way to get his dick to finally calm itself. so here you were, on your knees with your back arches, face in the pillows as you let him plow your asshole.

did you like anal? not too much. did rafe make it good? hell yeah!

rafe groaned above you, both of his paint covered hands gripping your asscheeks as his dick thrusted in and out of your hole, your ass jiggling against his hips as he brought you and him closer and closer to the edge, knocking on the door of your orgasm.

“p-please! rafe! gonna finish! o-oh fuckkkk.” you moan into the pillow, your hands reaching up and gripping the headboard for support.

suddenly, a chunk of your hair was in rafe’s palm and your head was yanked up. your eyes looked at his, sweat beating down his face as your eyes look into his. “you ain’t finishing ‘till I tell you to, slut.” he says, his eyebrows furrowed.

you nod, not wanting to disobey him. “o-okay… y-yes, sir…!” you mutter out, feeling a sense of the old rafe coming back, only during sex. it felt so fucking good.

he smiled at your obedience. “you’re one obedient girl, ain’t you?” he asks, lifting a hand and slapping your ass, watching his hand imprint on your skin.

you nod, moaning as you arch your back, it feels so good and you need to finish. “y-yes. your good girl… your obedient girl.”

he continues his ministrations, gripping your hips and getting increasingly faster with his face, your walls far stretched out and the burning sensation that once was is gone in favor of something more delicious.

rafe lowers down, chest pressing against your back as he continues, his balls growing heavier as he gets closer. “you’re close, ain’t you?” he asks, forcing you to look at him with a firm hand on the chin.

you nod. “yes— yes oh god yes, rafe, ‘m so close… so fuckin’ close.” you moan out, your eyes half lidded.

“no need to be so explicit, doll, ‘m gonna make you cum, no need to worry that pretty little head.” he says, snaking his left hand down as his right holds your head, basically keeping you caged in as his cock hits deeper. with a hand on your clit, he rubs fast and tight circles on your clit, licking the inside of your ear.

you moan louder, back arching as you cry out his name. you’re unable to move out of his grasp… but you’re not sure if you want to move or not. “rafe, rafe, rafeeee!”

“cum for me.” he says in your ear, his tone low. “cum for me and I’ll cum for you.”

in an instant, your orgasm comes rushing through you like a god damn wave. your vision whites out as the only thing matters is rafe. your nails dig into the wood carved headboard, back arching as your legs shake, he makes you cum so hard with his cock deep inside your asshole and his hand rubbing your pussy.

as you cum, he does too, and you can feel it. in another instant, you feel inner walls being heated up as he cums deep inside you. his hot cum painting your walls white as he kisses the inner of your ear.

“good girl… good girl…”

in his eyes, you weren’t just a perfect girl for him to fuck, you were a perfect girl in general, a perfect model to use for his paintings; his desired muse, a girl his former self could never take care of the same way the new version of himself could, a girl he wants to cherish and never break or fracture…

the way leonardo davinci had his mona lisa, rafe had you.

✦ comments and reblogs are always appreciated! ✦

@murdock-slvt 2025!

[yo-ri-su-ki]

vergil x reader kisses or something i don’t know how to request

Where the storm begins

Vergil Sparda x reader

An: Hey bro, I gyatt you!!

The day began, as many did, in silence.

Vergil Sparda stood near the window of his study, Yamato leaned against the wall nearby. Morning light poured through the tall glass panes, tracing golden lines along his jaw and the silver strands of his hair. He was reading. Or rather, trying to.

Until he felt it—again.

A press of lips against the back of his shoulder, fleeting and gentle.

You.

“Good morning,” you murmured against the fabric of his coat.

He closed his eyes briefly. “You’ve already said that.”

You laughed lightly. “And I’ll say it again.” You kissed him once more, right at the base of his neck this time, just barely brushing past the high collar. “Good morning.”

Vergil let out a slow breath, neither indulgent nor annoyed—just resigned, as if he was used to the ritual by now. “Do you intend to do this every hour today?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “And maybe more than that.”

“…Why?”

“Because I love you. And because you let me.”

He didn’t respond to that—at least not with words. But he tilted his head slightly, just enough to make space for one more kiss, which you promptly placed behind his ear.

It was only 8:13 a.m.

---

9:02 a.m.

You found him in the hallway this time, seemingly inspecting one of the swords from his collection. He noticed your approach but said nothing.

You crept up behind him and hugged him from behind, cheek pressed to his back.

“Again?” he asked, without turning.

“Mmhmm,” you said, and your lips brushed the center of his spine, soft through the layer of his coat. “You’re warm.”

“I’m a half-demon. That’s hardly surprising.”

“And still, you’re my favorite source of heat.”

A sigh. “You are relentless.”

You grinned against his back. “You like it.”

“…No comment.”

---

10:28 a.m.

He was meditating now, knees folded on the floor, Yamato resting across his lap. His expression was a masterpiece of stoicism, eyes closed, breathing steady.

You crept in as quietly as possible, tiptoeing like a cartoon character.

“Kissing a man in meditation is not advised,” Vergil said, voice low but aware.

“I’ll be quick,” you whispered, crouching beside him. You pressed your lips to his temple and then kissed him again near his jawline. “There. Swift and silent.”

He opened one eye. “That wasn’t silent.”

You smiled sweetly and booped his nose with your finger.

He caught your wrist—not tightly, just enough to halt your mischief. “You will distract me from my practice.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

A longer pause. “You are unbearable.”

You kissed his hand. “And you’re beautiful.”

---

12:00 p.m. – Lunchtime

You both sat across from one another at the long table, though your foot had somehow made its way to rest against his under the tablecloth. Vergil was calmly slicing through his food with precision. You were staring at him openly, like a painter taking in a landscape.

“You’re not eating,” he said without looking up.

“I’m full.”

“You’ve barely touched your food.”

“I’m full of affection. I’ve been snacking on kisses all morning.”

Vergil looked up, arching one silver brow.

You rose from your chair, walked over, and kissed the top of his head. “And I’m having another now.”

He sighed into his plate. “This is absurd.”

You kissed his forehead this time. “No, this is love.”

He let you do it.

---

1:46 p.m.

You found him outside beneath the shade of a tree, book in hand, the wind tousling his hair slightly. You approached silently and knelt beside him.

This time, you didn’t say anything.

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. Gently. Slowly.

He froze, book hovering mid-air.

“…You’re persistent,” he murmured, eyes unreadable.

“I just want to remind you,” you said softly, “of all the softness the world still has to offer you.”

Vergil was silent for a long moment.

Then, carefully, he turned his face toward you. “You think I need reminding?”

“I think everyone does. Even sons of Sparda.”

A twitch at the corner of his lips. The closest thing to a smile he allowed himself during daylight.

You kissed that twitch.

---

4:12 p.m.

He was training now, shirtless, glistening with sweat. Each swing of Yamato cut the air cleanly, power in every motion. You watched from the doorway, heart pounding. Not just because he was beautiful—but because every time he moved, he looked like he was fighting off ghosts.

You approached, slowly, waiting until he paused to catch his breath.

You offered a towel. He took it without a word.

Then you reached up, brushing your lips against the hollow of his throat.

He froze.

“I know,” you said quietly. “This isn’t easy for you. But you let me in. And I’m staying.”

Vergil’s hand tightened around Yamato’s hilt.

Then he let it go, slowly, setting the blade down.

He looked at you—really looked this time, eyes stormy but quiet. “You’re… a nuisance.”

“But your nuisance,” you whispered, arms slipping around his waist.

His arms wrapped around you in return—reluctant, stiff at first… then gentler.

---

6:00 p.m. – Sunset

You sat together on the roof, side by side, the sky burning orange and gold. He didn’t speak, and neither did you. But your hand found his, and when he didn’t pull away, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He tilted his head slightly, allowing it.

“I used to be afraid you’d grow tired of me,” you said.

“I used to be afraid I’d push you away,” he replied, surprising you.

You turned your head to look at him.

“I still might,” he added, looking out at the horizon. “But you don’t seem… to care.”

“I don’t,” you said, pressing your lips to the side of his mouth again. “Because you’re worth the risk.”

---

9:22 p.m. – Bedtime

He lay beside you, staring at the ceiling, shirtless and tense. You rested your head against his chest, one arm draped across him.

“Vergil,” you murmured.

“…Yes?”

“Still love you.”

He let out a slow breath, hand resting lightly against your arm.

You tilted up and kissed his chin. Then his jaw. Then his lips.

This time, he kissed you back—slow, unsure, but real.

When it ended, he didn’t pull away. “I’m not used to this.”

“I know.”

“I may never be.”

“That’s okay.”

Silence.

“You’ll kiss me again tomorrow?”

You smiled, eyes drifting closed. “Every hour.”

Vergil let his arm tighten around you.

“…Then I suppose I can endure.”

Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!

[cherryforchuu]

Art made out of love

Painting on Anaxa's body

Anaxa x painter!reader, fem!reader, erotic body painting, making out, blow job, I wrote it before 3.2 so he might be a bit ooc,

You entered the room fully decorated with your paintings and other pieces of art made by you. In the middle of the room, an empty canvas, sitting on the floor was waiting for you to be decorated and filled by your creativity.

Anaxagoras

You smiled at yourself at the sight of him fully naked hugging his legs, waiting patiently for you, just like he was introduced. He smiled back but you ignored him, reaching for your art supplies instead.

You picked up the wooden color palette full of dried colors, favorite paintbrushes and just the primary colors as long with white paint

You placed the supplies on the floor next to his left hip. "That skirt looks really pretty on you. Is it new?" He asked while looking at the supplies placed near him. "Thank you, yes it's actually new." You answered him after giving him a peck on the corner of his lips. All you were wearing was a micro white skirt on top of baby pink-colored panties and matching bralette.

You get up to open the curtains of the room. The sunlights were hitting the window filling the room with brightness and right on Anaxa's pale body, brightening his handsome face.

"I'm opening the curtains so there's better lighting here. Please don't be shy about it ok?" "You're the artist here, you know better than me" he answered carelessly. "I'm gonna start painting now." You announced while mixing yellow and blue to create a dark green color.

You dragged the paintbrush towards the edge of Anaxa's star-shaped void that adorned his chest. "You chose such a vulnerable spot to start your art piece."he observed. " I don't think it's possible to paint on your prostate" you responded and laughed at your own joke. " You are not as funny as you think you are." He wasn't able to hide his eye roll and his sigh.

You gave him an apologetic kiss on the lips, that actually made him feel better and ignored the distasteful joke.

You continued painting the erratic green lines that were transformed into flower pedicels.

While painting the details of the little leaves and sepals, Anaxagoras' hand reached the back of your head and slowly brushed the hair with his bony long fingers. He was lightly touching the back of your neck as you tried hard not to close your eyes at the pleasurable feeling and focused on Anaxa's body.

By the time you wanted to move on the petals, Anaxagoras' fingertips were slowly massaging your neck. This time a couple moans managed to escape from your mouth.Then his lips found your neck, kissing it from up and down and his hands were resting on your hips.

Both of you were lost in the passionate feeling for a few moments, till you remembered you have barely started your painting.

Raising your head, you fixed the messed up lines that were destroyed during the quick moment of passion. Now, picking up another brush which you drown out with red, you paint the petals in various sizes and stages of blooming.

All this time Anaxa was admiring the progress of giving the lines on his chest life, with a faint smile on his lips and a lustful expression on his eye.

Your attention fell on his shoulder. It was petite and gorgeous and all you wanted was to cherish that part of his body. So, you hide your face on his shoulder giving him quick pecks on his shoulder and some on his neck.

Anaxagoras was heavily breathing, having much more self control this time. He gave you some kisses on your cheek and then you stopped to continue your painting.

" I'll paint on your shoulder now." You told him and wiped the stray saliva on it. "Proceed." He answered laconically and relaxed his shoulders.Following the same pattern, from his shoulder to his upper arm he was adored with red and pink roses.

"They're really beautiful, you truly are talented." He complained to you. "Thank you." You said and your gaze met his. "I'm almost finished, there's only one part left that I wanna paint." You said and your fingertips were gently rubbing at his lower belly.

But the more attention you gave on it, the more your attention fell on his semi-hard penis, having the urge to lick it. "I want to suck your dick." " Then suck my dick." He encouraged you.

You dropped the paintbrush and picked up Anaxa's dick, giving his head kitten licks that made his mouth betray him, as he left soft whines. You put the tip on your mouth, licking it with circular moves while your hand moving up and down on his shaft.

Anaxagoras was now unable to keep his moans on himself. His nails were scrubbing on your scalp, as you were quickly bobbing your head on his cock, feeling yourself getting wetter, as so not so discreetly rubbed your clothed clit on his thigh.

As much as you loved it, there was a body paint that needed to be done, so you two can finally move to the aftershow. You moved your head away from his cock, making Anaxagoras whine from the lack of stimulation.

"Why?" He softly complained. " I have enough white paint. Now let me finish." He just sighed, annoyed at your answer and the fact he couldn't finish any time soon.

This time when the brush was coming in touch with the softness of his belly he was subconsciously sucking in. "Can you lay down for me?" "Yes" Anaxa laid on his back.

You picked up a small sponge from your drawer and sat again on his legs near his still erect crotch. You had decided to add a light a blue background color. You continued by adding green lines and the beautiful small flower buds.

All this time, Anaxagoras was muffling laughing at the touch of the brush. Was he feeling ticklish?. But it did not stop you from completing the body paint. After adding some finishing touches, you bent over to kiss your art on his lips. "I'm done" you told him and gave your hand to help him sit up.

You dragged him to the room's mirror to look at his reflection. "They look amazing," he said while he was lightly touching the artwork.

"I'm so happy you liked them." " I love them, I love you." He said and passionately kissed your lips.

He put his hands on your waist and you massaged his buttocks,as you two were slowly moving towards the bedroom.

[villainsoftheweek]

the best thing.

rating: explicit. 18+ only. length: 5,608 content: Gale Dekarios x f!tav [f!reader], porn with plot, established relationship (engaged), post-Baldur's Gate III canon, fluff, domestic bliss, smut [fingering - receiving, oral - receiving, unprotected p in v, creampie], kink(s) [overstimulation, orgasm control, hands, hair pulling, body worship]

after everything the two of you have been through, you're eager to give Gale one perfect, blissful day.

It was almost unbelievable seeing you bathed in the golden hues of the morning standing in his kitchen, back to him as you fussed over whatever it was you currently had sizzling on the stove. It was so rare that he was able to sneak upon you these days - you were so attuned to one another that simply entering the same room was enough of a greeting.

But now you were focused, far too much so to notice your lover's entrance, or even to notice him for several more moments as he leaned against the doorframe, peacefully enjoying the serenity that being near to you caused. Even this was enough to fill his heart with love.

"If there should ever come a day when your presence does not fill this tower again it will surely be a day without sunrise."

You turned to him and offered a smile that rivaled the sun itself in beauty and warmth, every bit as life sustaining to him. You were wearing an apron he often donned in the kitchen, the fabric graffitied with streaks of color and puffs of powder. He was struck as he so often was with you, offering nothing more than a smile in return that reached his eyes as he remained transfixed by you - the very center of his universe and far beyond anything his goddess had ever shown him in beauty.

"There are painters who envy me of this privilege. To wake to such beauty in my own home every day…I truly am a fortunate man."

You would never tire of the way Gale's words spread through you like warmest fire, making you feel worthy of a love such as this every moment no matter how your mind was trying to force you to feel that day. To say in the time that had passed since your adventures in bliss would be an understatement - both of you had found what could only be described as heaven in life with one another.

Everything about one another had become home, the deep love the two of you shared the kind that people prayed to the gods for.

"You wake up everyday and set out to make me love you more than the last.""

"I could say the very same to you, my love," his voice was particularly cheerful this morning and you were glad you'd decided today for your plan. It was already off to a great start, and it could truly only get better from here with what you had up your sleeve. "What has you in the kitchen at this hour? We didn't exactly get to sleep early, by any standard."

When you've gone through the things you've been through, sometimes it can feel wrong when someone looks at you with the amount of love and adoration Gale was now…the way he did so often these days. Whether you were resting in his bed, reading at his side, curled with Tara on the couch, or doing any other thing to fill the time, he looked at you now like it was what he hoped to do last in the world.

And he always would.

"I made you breakfast. Or at least…I did my best at…making you breakfast."

The smile that spread across his face was more stunning than any of the scenery in all of your adventures, not a single star or moon matching its beauty. As you were lost in your profound love for him he took the lull in conversation to close the distance to you, wrapping his arms around you and reuniting you into his warm embrace - it hadn't been long, but it was always an eternity.

He pressed several kisses to your forehead as he gazed over your shoulder, analyzing the plates you'd made for the two of you to enjoy. His brows pulled together in an expression you recognized as being deep in thought - you pressed a kiss to the lines as he spoke again.

"I know this meal…"

Your lips lifted into a smile against his skin and he reached upward to encourage you to meet his gaze again, awaiting your response and hoping it was a confirmation of what he suspected. "It was the first breakfast you made for the party. I remember how proud you were and how delicious it was…no one had ever cooked for me like that."

"Your memory is just as astounding as the rest of you," he was positively grinning at you, eyes expressive and proudly displaying every bit of love he felt for you. His head tilted to the side briefly - something you were quite fond of - as his brow furrowed again, the arm that remained around your waist pulling you closer. "It's not my birthday, is it?"

Forget loving him more by the day - you loved Gale Dekarios more by the second.

"No, dearest," you replied, reaching one of your hands upward to rest against his chest. You held his gaze as you spoke knowing he preferred when you didn't look away. "I just realized…in all the time since I've met you there have been many meals that you've made me, and I've never made you a single one."

His expression softened even more, something you didn't know was possible, pressing a gentle and loving kiss to her lips. The first kiss of the new day was always a shared favorite between the two of you - no matter how many days passed the first always created goosebumps and pulled quiet sighs of pleasure from your chests.

"You are truly are a gentle soul," he muttered against your lips, the hand that still cradled the back of your head sliding to cup your cheek instead, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone tenderly. "I'm still not always entirely sure I deserve it."

"But you do," you promised, eager to hush the self doubt that still lingered in your fiancé day-to-day. It was something you were happy to live with - it never annoyed you or grew tiresome, you were more than willing to remind him how loved he was despite any mistakes he'd made in the past, that any he'd make in the future were already forgiven. "You deserve it, Gale. We've been through so much together and I was thinking…I want you to have a perfect day. I want to do anything and everything you want to do for an entire day."

"Starting with breakfast?"

You sheepishly smiled and nodded before confirming, "I know it won't be as good as when you made it, but…"

"It will be perfect," he silenced your own worries gracefully and gently before they could even begin to fester. "As most things made in love are. Would you join me on the balcony for our meal?"

It was incredible how something as mundane as sharing a meal together could become an act of utmost intimacy. With Gale even the smallest moments felt like a life's worth of promise and love - if every day was like this you would leave this life with nothing but happiness in your heart. The day passed with him like a dream, like you'd truly found the person you were meant to spend this much time with. The person you were meant to face the passing years together - who you were excited to watch more grey bloom in his hair.

After breakfast both of you had fallen asleep on the balcony in a gentle embrace, his arms holding you against his chest as you slept. When you woke, Tara was asleep on your back and so you'd continue to lay together until the tressym removed herself to carry on with her day. All the while Gale had gazed at you lovingly, stroking your hair and face when you had continued to sleep a few moments longer. He'd never tire of the serenity that filled your face in truly peaceful slumber.

For lunch Gale opted to eat by a nearby lake, the beautiful afternoon the perfect landscape for him to take a moment to indulge in a bit of poetry…about you, of course. It made you bashful when he did so - it always had and likely always would, a demure laugh passing through your lips as you tried to hide behind your hands as he poetically described the many things he loved about you.

Of course, the heat in your cheeks only increased when his poetry turned to that of describing the ways he wanted to demonstrate his love - but you were certain you were burning when he'd followed it with a kiss not entirely decent for a relatively public setting. Nevertheless, he certainly didn't seem to mind.

It continued with a trip to the bookstore, the apothecary, and to another local merchant where he bought some supplies for home and a necklace for you that yes he insisted you have, even though you now had a collection forming in the tower. Before you could finish your day in town he asked to pop down to the local inn for a quick drink.

You were well aware that this was truly just time for Gale to show off his future wife to the other patrons - something that always made you feel fantastic about yourself. The fact that the famed Wizard of Waterdeep felt pride in having you at his side was no small compliment - it was a fact you flourished in.

Back home, the two of you cooked dinner together, Gale eager to give you tips on how you could improve in the future. When it was time to eat you shared a bottle of wine that you'd selected together earlier and ate in silence, reading your new books with zero complaints even capable of being formed in your mind.

Your eyes only left the words on the pages to glance across the table to him lovingly - something you were joyous to find he mirrored frequently. It was after dinner had been cleaned up and the two of you had tidied up from the day that you found yourself in his embrace, yet again on the balcony where so much of your shared time was spent.

For a while he simply remained with his head resting atop yours, holding you gently as you shared another sunset. It was only once the sun had completely gone for the night over the horizon that he turned you in his arms slowly, eyes finding yours like it was their nature to do so, wasting no time in leaning down to kiss you again tenderly.

"Have you enjoyed your day, my heart?"

He smiled the kind of smile that pulled lines beside his eyes, eyes that were twinkling and rivaling the stars that had started to decorate the sky for the night. You could feel how content and relaxed he was in the delicate hold he maintained on you, the love pouring from him and seeming to wrap you in a tighter embrace. It was these moments where the weave truly connected the two of you, holding you together and proving that you were meant to be together in this world - and the next, if that happened to be what came.

"I have enjoyed every day by your side, even the difficult ones," his voice was so earnest there was simply no possibility of disbelief from you - you could hear the honesty soaking his words, every sentence another promise and declaration of his love for you. "But today has been perfection. I could thank you for a lifetime and it wouldn't be enough."

The kiss he gave you then was the kind that is written about in books - in fairytales, the kind that inspires poetry and signifies the truest of love. He continued to hold you against him gently as your lips entered a dance you both yearned for constantly - at this point you were no strangers to what each of you liked and it was reflected with every swipe of your tongues and movement of your lips.

And it was always until you were both breathless - never a second before. The two of you had experienced so many things together that had made so many of your early tenderness rushed - neither of you were ever in any particular rush anymore. This kiss was exactly like so many these days - savored. And yet this was only the beginning of what the two of you would savor in the night to come.

"Would you like to retire to our bedroom for the night?"

You words were light as you whispered against his lips, biting at the bottom one lightly when you finished your question. A truly pleased grin spread across his face as you pulled away, his arms still anchoring you to him - if you wanted him to he'd release you, of course, but it was never a moment too soon.

"Darling, you need only ask."

Thankfully, the bedroom was mere steps away and it was easy to tug him inside with hands gently pulling at the collar of his shirt, your lips not leaving one another for long. Though it was obvious where Gale's mind was heading - a it was difficult to deny it for much longer as it had been growing since the kiss at the lake earlier - you still had one more thing planned for him.

One of his hands slid lower to cup your ass and bring you closer, tongue seeking entry into your mouth again as he waved a hand to ensure there was some light by way of many candles. You shook your head to which he huffed, pulling away just far enough to pass you an inquisitive look.

"Not quite yet, my love," you cooed, pressing a consolation kiss to his lips briefly before pulling away fully, wrestling yourself free from his grasp with a giggle. "Remove your shirt and lie down on your stomach."

Though he muttered under his breath about it he followed your instructions, brown eyes searching your face for a response as you only sat on the bet waiting for him, always one to enjoy the sight of him undressing. When he was finally in the position you asked him to be you straddled his lower back, hands slowly rubbing the expanse of his shoulders with the perfect pressure to pull a groan from him.

And that was the end of his silent questioning - every swipe of your hand, knead from your fingers and caress was met with a moan, groan, or whine from him - as time continued on he was mumbling into his pillow about how much he loved you…repeatedly. When you reached a particular point you could practically feel tension melt away from him and you leaned downward to press a kiss to the back of his neck before encouraging him to roll with a squeeze of your legs.

And oh, was he happy to oblige - to be reunited with your face, now with the moon's glow coming through the curtains to illuminate you alongside the flickering candles. A considerable amount of time had passed since you began massaging him and still you showed no signs of stopping, continuing to straddle his waist as your efforts now focused on his chest.

"Your hands are divine," he was barely coherent through the pleasure he already felt, his words far less calculated than they're normally be. "I could lay here for a ten day and happily starve."

"I suppose you're feeling well about your day then, my love?"

It was an unnecessary question - you both knew it. But he was also just as aware that you loved to hear about the feelings your efforts had earned, and it had been a long time since he'd denied you of anything you wanted that he could provide. With his most charming smile he nodded, leaning forward to rub the tip of his nose against yours gently in an innocent show of affection.

You reached upward to run your fingers through his hair delicately, pulling a blissful sigh from his lips again. If it were possible to create a symphony from what filled your bedroom you would gladly hear its melody forever…a sentiment he'd expressed toward you once that you held at the core of your memory and found your mind circling back to often.

So much of his mind was an exact reflection of your that sometimes it seemed they were still connected sometimes.

"Absolutely blessed," when Gale spoke it was as though you were the one who could answer his prayers, something you found irresistibly sweet about him. "If you're not careful you will spoil me beyond reason."

You leaned down to capture his lips in a gentle kiss again, his hands grasping your hips again, sliding to rub over the soft expanse of your thighs. Too selfish to release his lips again you whispered into the kiss, your own hands resting on his chest still, his heartbeat steady and soothing.

"I fail to see why that would be so bad."

He could only smile into it as he continued to kiss you slowly, one of his hands sliding up to hold the back of your head delicately. He began to raise until he was sitting upright, keeping you anchored where you straddled him with his resolute hold on your hip still, ensuring your lips never parted from his for longer than a breath.

Before his arms engulfed your waist his hands made quick work of removing the robe that covered your frame, discarding it to the floor with little care. His hands caressed over your torso like he truly cherished every inch of you and sought to ensure not a single patch of you went unattended to.

(He truly loved every inch of you - a fact you believed deep into your core. You'd only asked him once what his favorite part of your body was - he'd almost been offended that you'd think he could narrow a list of such considerable length.)

"Still, it may be good for me to exercise some selflessness tonight," he offered, a handsome and playful expression illuminating his features. His hands were now gently resting on either side of your neck, thumbs lightly rubbing back and forth - unable to stay fully idle for long. "You gave me the perfect day. Will you let me treat you to a perfect night in our bed?"

"Have you known me to say no to you often?"

"Only when I've needed to hear it."

No further talk was needed and the two of you continued to kiss tenderly, his hands returning to lavish your breasts again. Your own hands maintained a hold on the back of his head, fingers grasping his hair delicately - completely unwilling to have him pull away. Happy to oblige and always eager to swallow the quiet sounds of pleasure he could pull from you, especially now in the privacy of a bedroom where it had not always been a luxury you'd been provided, one of his hands continued to trail lower.

Until it reached as low as he could on your leg in this position, fingers brushing over the soft skin of your inner thigh - it was obvious he was influencing the weave to crackle at his fingertips gently, the result a pleasant tingle dancing across your skin. Your legs squeezed tighter around him in anticipation and he chastised you with a light swat to your thigh, not to cause pain but to capture your focus again.

You responded with a light nip to his bottom lip which earned a cheeky smile from him, eyes staying on yours as his hand finally reached your core - where you were desperate for him most. Over your panties it was still obvious how wet you were in anticipation of him - your time with Gale had proven that things like that only spurred him onward more, the confirmation that you wanted him just as desperately clouding his mind of all logic.

"Have you been wet all day, my love?"

The tone of his voice melted you like wax, you could only nod and whimper as he pushed the fabric to the side, slowly running two of his skilled digits between your soaked folds. His lips were only centimeters from yours so every movement brought them together slightly, your moan cut off as he kissed you again, index finger circling your clit slowly. He opted to speak against your lips, unwilling to be too far from your sweet lips for long.

"I'd have indulged you long before now had I known this is what waited for me."

His fingers swiped back down to your entrance and the middle slipped into you slowly, a smile playing on his lips as he kissed you again. Though one finger meant every exit and reentry meant pinpointed strokes the stretch wasn't enough to satiate the pressure that was seated in your core, more of a stretch needed than what one finger provided. It only took a slight squirm of your hips for him to take the cue, slipping a second finger into you which you thanked him for with a moan.

He left your lips to kiss to your neck, reclaiming spots that had often been decorated with his mark in your time since returning home with him. His fingers set a leisurely pace pumping into you, stroking your velvet walls perfectly as his tongue lavished a spot on your neck that you knew would only add to the slick coating his hand.

His free hand came to one of your breasts to massage gently, fingers rolling your sensitive nipple and pinching to add to the melody sounding from your mouth. From where you were seated in his lap you could feel his cock hard and throbbing beneath you, adding to your desperation - as skilled as Gale's hands, fingers and mouth were it would never compare to joining together with him.

You rocked down against his waist which pulled a groan from him, fingers picking up pace as he nipped at your neck. "Patient, darling…"

His hand left your chest to grasp your hip instead, steadying the movements you both knew would drive him over an edge he was intent to tiptoe around still for a while yet. When you continued to try to squirm in his hold he removed from you completely, brow furrowed as he used a hand to push you onto your back. He kissed down your torso slowly, eyes staying fixated on yours as he went - communicating his instruction to stay still without a word.

"Gale please, I need you…"

You tried to tempt him into giving into your way for once by reaching upward and slipping your fingers into his hair, giving the messy locks a tug to try to encourage him upward. It was briefly annoying that you felt his lips curve against your hip - amused by your attempt, no doubt -

*(Later when your mind is clearer you'll reflect on this moment - as you so often reflected after intimacy with Gale - and you'd once again be thankful for his insistence on ensuring he went above and beyond for you in all senses.

It was impossible to forget that you'd become the most important thing to him.)

"You know I won't give you what you want until you've cum at least once for me, darling," he reminded, his voice feather light against your inner thigh now where he sucked a fresh mark into your thigh to match what the fading ones had once appeared as. Your fingers ran through his hair and tugged again, he only groaned deeply in response and lightly bit at the spot he'd just marked.

"Gale -"

He did love when you whined for him - it almost always nearly enough to make him break on the spot, the temptation to give into you near overwhelming.

"Ah ah ah," he whispered, the vibrations in his voice tickling your skin as his lips brushed a familiar trail up your thigh to your core. "No arguing, my love. I'm not asking anything unreasonable."

All that was left to do was melt as his tongue ran through your folds, an appreciative moan rumbling in his chest as he tasted you - as though it was the first time all over again. The argument was completely lost as he continued to cover every inch of your cunt with his tongue. He was exactly what he'd told you to be - patient - as his tongue ran back and forth between your oversensitive and swollen clit and your hole that was eager to clench around anything.

This was certainly one of his favorite ways to spend his time now - sometimes to busy his mind with anything other than tortured thoughts of the past he'd lose himself in devouring you. The fact that you always gushed on his tongue was a bonus, one he was more than happy to work for, sometimes refusing to remove his head until you'd finished multiple times.

Even he wasn't patient enough for that tonight, but he was enough to continue lavishing you with his skilled tongue, hands gripping your hips and angling you upward so he was able to fuck his tongue into you and lean back occasionally to gaze lovingly at your pretty, creamy cunt. With the amount of love and devotion he was putting into every movement, it wasn't long until your thighs were squeezing closer around his head, the subtle shake at his fingertips giving your impending release away before you managed to moan out the warning.

"I'm…I…"

"There you go," he leaned away to look up into your face, his lips and chin covered in your slick and his spit. One of his hands abandoned its hold on your hip to join his mouth, two fingers entering you again in a swift movement, the sound that accompanied the movement enough to build heat in your cheeks. "That's a good girl."

With his fingers now pumping into your hole again it left his mouth to focus on your clit, his tongue relentlessly swirling on the bundle of nerves as he pushed you toward release. Your vision was already whitening and your fingers gripped his hair tighter, a cry ripping from your chest as his other hand pressed down on your stomach.

That sensation snapped like a rubber band through you - while you were lost in ecstasy you hardly registered that your release was gushing from you, though Gale wasted no time in covering as much of your cunt with his mouth so he could drink your euphoric nectar.

As you were coming down he crawled back up you, pressing kisses along your torso as he whispered a word or sentence of praise with each one. You were pinned beneath him, one of his forearms resting next to your head as a leg moved to slide one of yours higher - though you were in a post-orgasm haze you registered you needed to wrap your leg around his waist.

His hand came to smooth your hair back, leaning down to press a delicate kiss to your nose - a tender action that didn't match the lewd way he rolled his hips into yours, his cock throbbing and leaking from what you could feel against your pussy. His other hand maintained a tight grip on your hip and he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips now, whispering quietly against them.

"Are you ready for me, my love?"

The truth was, he could never enter you fast enough - or at least he wouldn't, his playful nature shining through one last time before he lost himself completely in intimacy. It showed now in the subtle shake to his voice, the slightly higher pitch that gave away how much he needed you.

"Please."

"I do so enjoy when you ask nicely."

He started sliding his cock into you slowly groaning the entire way, opting not to continue to kiss you so he could gaze into your face with complete adoration, finding just as much bliss in seeing your eyes roll back and flutter closed as a light smile played on your lips as he did in feeling your velvet walls around him again.

And this - this was as perfect as anything else that had ever truthfully been described as such. This is where both of you found some reason, some meaning - where both of you created your own galaxies. It started slow, Gale preferring to savor the first strokes inch by inch every time. His lips never left you, kissing you gently in any place he could reach on your face and neck and shoulders as he muttered quiet words of love and appreciation.

Poetry that would only be shared between the two of you.

When he was satisfied with the amount he'd cherished every inch of your walls welcoming him in again he re-angled your bodies so both of your legs were around his waist now, the new angle allowing him to fuck into you deeper. Now he was hitting a spot he knew would make you see stars, hoping that you'd thank him for remembering exactly how to reach it -

"Gale…feels s'good…"

He sounded his appreciation with a loud moan of his own, his pace increasing as the tension built in his core now. You felt impossibly tighter each time he re-entered, a fact that was driving him closer to release. Unable to voice it he pressed a sloppy, desperate kiss to your lips before leaning his sweaty forehead against yours, breaths falling out heavy against your lips.

No matter how close his release threatened to snap, he would never do so without hearing you tell him to do so. You allowed him a moment to dangle over the edge for a moment as you bit into your bottom lip, catching his attention and focus - focus on your swollen lips, and the sweaty sheen covering your face and slicking your hair…on the way your eyes threatened to spill tears at how blissfully good you felt.

"Come for me, Gale," the instruction already had him grasping you tighter, but when you continued with an offer that hadn't previously been on the table it was impossible for him to hold back much longer. "Fill me…"

He kissed you again - a little too hard for how swollen your lips already were from the amount of kissing already done but with a passion that was returned nonetheless. His thrusts became just as messy as his kisses had and he pumped his throbbing length into you hard and fast, hips pistoning into yours repeatedly.

Both of your sounds filled the room as his movements pushed you toward a second release of your own, walls clenching around him so tight he now couldn't bring himself to remove from you completely. Recognizing both of you needed a breath as his own head began to spin he buried into you to the hilt roughly one last time as his orgasm started, toppling you over into your own at the feeling of his thick seed coating your insides.

You were thankful he wasn't a particularly massive man when he practically collapsed against you, breaths coming out heavy against your neck as his mind found a new addiction in filling your womb. Normally he'd withdraw to get a soft and warm cloth to clean you but tonight it hardly seemed necessary - even if you fell asleep now it wouldn't be long before he was sheathing himself in you again.

He would care for you in other ways tonight, pulling away from you slowly and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead as he positioned you both into something much more comfortable, facing one another on your sides so you could continue to enjoy the serenity illuminating one another's faces.

Between your bodies one of his hands met yours, your fingers lightly tracing lines on the back of his hand. He continued to enjoy the true peace of the moment before speaking again.

"Today was beyond words," he whispered lightly when he found his voice again. You could hear the love that each word was spoken with - what's more you could see it reflected in his eyes. "You give me everything I could have ever dreamed of and more."

You moved closer to curl up to him, burying your face in his neck as he waved a hand to ignite the fireplace, keeping one arm around you to hold you close as one of your legs slipped up over his waist. After he pulled the blanket over your bodies he turned his head to press a kiss to your forehead, finding your eyes were already closed and yet you still had a small smile on your lips. As he gazed at you for just a moment longer Tara jumped onto the foot of the bed, giving a long stretch before settling in for the night, her purrs mixing with the crackle of the fire.

Just when he thought you'd already fallen asleep you surprised him with another question.

"Let's do it again tomorrow?"

He kissed your forehead with a light smile on his lips as his arms tightened around you, happy to give this and more to you for as many days as you'd allow.

"And the day after that."

masterlist. baldur's gate III masterlist.

[kakitetan]

Sebastian Solace x GN! Reader | Daily Life AU | Sleeping

Ever since you were released, you were forced to take Sebastian in, you have no idea if Urbanshade even knew, since it was upon Sebastian's request. Or more like demand…

You were watching TV in the living room, you lived alone with Sebastian now. The house wasn't normally this quiet, the silence occasionally interrupted by Sebastian banging into something with his large body. You paused the show you were watching and got up. The silence was eating at you, and he was nowhere to be found.

You walk over to his room, knocking.

"Sebastian? It's me, I'm coming in." You spoke, walking into the room.

His TV was on, with Painters' face flickering on the screen.

"Oh, hey Painter. Have you seen Sebastian?" You asked, your next question was going to be why Painter was even here. Advanced AI is scary…

"Does it look like I've seen him Y/N? He's your responsibility!" He remarked, before turning the TV off in a huff.

You blinked and looked around the room. You made your way to the window, looking around for Sebastian. It was odd, a grown-ass man was your responsibility. Besides, he knew better than to go outside without your permission. You leaned against the window, at times… The mission still bothered you. It's how you and Sebastian met, and even now while living together, he tries his hardest to avoid talking about his past and being human. But you can tell it bothered him too.

From the way he'd look at you when you asked about his document, to the way he tried to hide his voice crack when he ate soup for the first time in god who knows how long.

You knew it still bothered him, no matter how much he yelled at you for simple things, or when he made snarky remarks to hide behind that bitchy exterior.

Yet oddly enough, you were grateful. Without that experience, you wouldn't have met him, so it's not for nothing. You blinked, snapping out of your thoughts. You scanned the outside, Sebastian wasn't anywhere to be seen. You turned away from his window, walking out the door. You walked down the hallway, the bathroom door was open. He wasn't in there either. The last room was your room…

You were hesitant, you drew near the door. The potent smell of fish hit your senses.

"Sebastian, it smells in… Here.." Your voice trailed off, seeing the man curled up on your bed.

Thoughts flooded your mind, on one hand, it was charming. On the other hand, your room was going to smell…

You silently took out your phone, snapping a picture of the cute sight in silence. You were in the middle of putting your phone back into your pocket when you heard the bed creak. You snapped your head to the source of the noise when your bed snapped and collapsed onto the floor. His weight was too much!

He woke up immediately, snapping up. He looked at you and glared. "What are YOU looking at?!"

You knew he knew that Sebastian had broken the bed. His cheeks were flushed in a dark blue hue. You blinked, before smiling.

"Nothing, go back to sleep. Sorry for interrupting you." You spoke, before leaving the room.

Authors Notes! Hi! This is my first fanfic I've ever written, I intended on it being longer, since I just enjoy long fanfics as a reader, but it was sortaaa hard to make this one long. My writing may come off as odd, I don't intend for that to be a bad thing. I allow criticism too, since I want to improve. I hope this is still a good read! This was just an idea I had in my head for a while, I plan on making it a series, if anyone even wants that. Anyways, enjoy this mess, ahahaha!

[zaynessbeloved]

Hung like a Masterpiece

Synopsis: You're an award-winning artist. He’s an arrogant painter with a god complex. Forced to share a gallery, your rivalry turns into something messy, physical, and addictive. But beneath the sharp words and slow-burning stares, something unexpected begins to take shape—something neither of you can frame, contain, or walk away from.

Content warnings: Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, rivals in love and art, slow burn, gallery AU, he falls first, she denies it longer, mutual pining (but in denial), smug flirting as a love language, rough sex with feelings, porn with feelings, teasing, wall sex, “say please” energy, power dynamics, foreplay, biting, sexual tension, power play, praise kink, degradation kink, oral sex, semi-public sex, orgasm control.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 11.4k

A/n: part 2 because ofc they can't stay away from each other, they are like matches and gasoline haha.

Part 2

It had been a month since that night.

A month of arguments that flared too quickly and lingered too long. Of mocking jabs, of rolled eyes and sarcastic claps, of fingers brushing too close to each other’s on shared canvases. Of silence so sharp it felt like a scream.

It never happened again.

But it was always there.

Under every spat. Beneath every cocky remark. The echo of skin on skin, breathless gasps, that moment you’d had him begging. And now—

Now the gallery was ready.

And so were you.

You stood near the centerpiece of the collection—one of his larger, more chaotic pieces bleeding into the calmer, structured section you’d curated. The contrast was intentional. So was the tension.

Much like the two of you.

Your heels clicked softly as you turned, a champagne glass balanced effortlessly between your fingers. The dress you wore was sleek, black, cut high at the thigh and low at the back—impeccable, striking, intentional.

You were talking to two patrons—art critics, maybe, or donors. You weren’t really listening. You were nodding, smiling, sipping, your mind only half there. Because the other half—

Was across the room.

You could feel him.

Rafayel.

Leaning against one of the gallery’s tall window frames, a glass of something dark in his hand, hair tied back with loose strands falling around his face. Dressed in all black, of course—open collar, tailored to perfection, the sleeves of his blazer pushed halfway up his forearms like even tonight he refused to follow rules.

And he was watching you.

Of course he was.

He hadn’t looked away once since you walked in.

You tried not to smile. Tried not to let the heat crawl up your spine the way it always did when his gaze settled on you like a weight.

He raised his glass in a slow, lazy toast when your eyes finally met his.

Smug bastard.

You turned back to your patrons, catching only the tail end of a compliment about the “raw energy and unexpected cohesion” of the exhibit.

Unexpected.

Yeah.

You smiled. “It was a collaborative effort,” you said smoothly, not bothering to mention how many times you nearly strangled said collaborator with your bare hands—or the things you'd nearly done instead.

Across the room, Rafayel pushed off the wall, still watching you. And beneath all the silk and polish and wine glasses and polite applause—

The fire was still there.

Waiting.

You're mid-sentence, smiling that perfectly poised, half-fake smile you’ve perfected for evenings like this. One of the patrons leans in with interest, asking something about the emotional intention behind one of the transitional pieces.

You open your mouth to answer—

“Ah, I see you’re telling stories again.”

That voice.

Silky. Arrogant. Dripping with smug amusement.

You don't even have to look to know who it is. But you do—slowly, deliberately, lips pressed into a thin line as you turn your head.

Rafayel stands behind you, a glass of red wine in one hand, the other casually tucked in his pocket, that infuriating half-smile curved on his lips like he’s already won something.

“Pardon me,” he says to the patrons, not meaning it in the slightest. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the mythology hour.”

You inhale slowly through your nose. “Oh, don’t worry. He does this.”

“I’m like an impromptu performance piece,” Rafayel adds, stepping closer—too close—his shoulder nearly brushing yours. “Unexpected. Unwelcome. But deeply memorable.”

The older of the two patrons chuckles awkwardly, clearly unsure if this is a planned act or actual tension. The woman beside him sips her champagne and murmurs something about the “raw energy” in your curation.

You don’t take your eyes off him. “Some of us like to let the work speak for itself.”

Rafayel grins wider. “And some of us know when to narrate.”

His voice is low, meant just for you now—those last words sliding against your skin like a touch you’re trying not to feel.

You shoot him a sharp glance, and he meets it head-on, violet eyes gleaming. And god help you—

You love it.

You love this.

That he’s always like this. Always pushing. Always throwing gasoline on the tiniest spark just to see if you’ll light.

And you always do.

“Excuse me,” you say smoothly to the patrons, voice sweet but cool. “My… partner and I need to confer.”

“Oh, are we calling it that now?” Rafayel murmurs as you grab him by the wrist and drag him away from the crowd.

He lets you. Of course he does. Because this is his favorite part.

The moment before the explosion.

You don’t stop walking.

Not when he mutters behind you, not when his laughter brushes the back of your neck, not even when you hear the click of your heels echo louder in the quiet hallway leading toward the back storage.

You find the first private corner—dark, tucked between a half-curtained display and a supply door—and you pull him in hard by the lapel of that ridiculous, perfectly tailored blazer.

He laughs, low and amused. “Getting handsy already, cutie?”

You don’t answer.

You bite.

Your teeth sink into the exposed line of his neck just below his jaw, and he lets out a rough, surprised groan, one hand shooting out to brace himself against the wall behind you, the other grabbing your waist, fingers twitching through the fabric of your dress.

“Fuck—” he gasps, but he’s smiling through it, grinning, his breath hot against your hair. “You’re insatiable.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your lips barely brushing his skin, your voice breathless and sharp.

“You shouldn’t have interrupted.”

His gaze drops—slowly, shamelessly—to the deep line of your dress, the curve of your chest rising with each breath, and he smirks.

“Oh, I absolutely should’ve.”

His hand moves to the small of your back, dragging you closer, and he dips his head—this time he bites, low on your shoulder where the strap has slipped, his teeth pressing through the delicate fabric.

You gasp softly, hand fisting in his shirt. “We’re at our own damn gallery event.”

“And yet here we are,” he murmurs, voice dripping with heat and mockery. “Alone. Again. With your lips on my throat and your thighs pressed to mine like you’re starving.”

You scoff, tugging him closer, your voice a dangerous whisper. “Please. You’ve been eye-fucking me since I walked in.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

“I was appreciating the art,” he says smugly. “You looked… devastating.”

You smile, slow and wicked, tilting your head.

“You’re still not getting any.”

His grin widens, his mouth grazing your jaw. “Who said I needed to?”

But god—he wants to.

And you know it.

You don’t kiss him again.

Not yet.

Instead, you let your hand wander—slow, deliberate—dragging down the open line of his shirt, tracing the curve of his chest, the faint trail below his navel. He’s watching you now, dead still, pupils dark, jaw tight.

Waiting.

And then your fingers slide lower. Just a little. Just enough to make his breath hitch.

You stop just before you touch him, the heat of your hand so close it’s cruel.

He shifts, just slightly—his body twitching toward yours, like gravity can’t help itself.

And that’s when you pull away.

You take a step back, smoothing your dress with a flick of your fingers, your eyes locked on his as your lips curl into a devastating smirk.

His chest rises and falls once. Hard. You lean in close, brushing past his cheek, your voice a whisper of silk and sin. “Try not to embarrass yourself out there.”

He turns his head to catch your eyes, the ghost of a very dangerous smile on his lips. “You’re evil.”

You’re already walking away.

“Irresistible,” you correct over your shoulder, not even looking back.

And you don’t look back—not even as you hear his low, wrecked laugh echoing behind you.

You step out from behind the curtain like nothing happened. Champagne in hand. Composure immaculate. Smile sharpened like a blade.

You glide back into the crowd like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just have Rafayel’s pulse in the palm of your hand.

You feel him before you see him. A shadow at your back. A spark crawling up your spine.

“Didn’t take you long to rejoin the masses,” his voice murmurs behind you, soft enough that the nearby guests don’t hear it—but low enough to brush against your ear.

You take a slow sip of champagne and glance over your shoulder.

“Didn’t take you long to recover. I’m impressed.”

He steps to your side, his glass in hand, lips curved in that ever-present, too-smug smile. “You left me in the dark. Cruel, really.”

You don’t look at him. You smile at someone walking by.

“And yet here you are, still breathing. I must be slipping.”

He chuckles, sipping his wine.

“I heard Miss Elaris raving about the piece you arranged on the east wall,” he says aloud, his tone smooth and admiring. Then, lower—only for you—“I didn’t have the heart to tell her how much you whined about that placement.”

You tilt your head, still not looking at him, your voice equally polite. “And I didn’t have the heart to tell the critic that your favorite sculpture was off-balance and structurally flawed. I figured you’d do that yourself.”

“Ouch.”

“Truth hurts, pretty boy.”

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Keep talking like that and I’ll drag you right back behind the curtain.”

You flash him a look then—quick, dangerous, amused. “You had your chance.”

“You are my chance.”

You take another sip, just to mask the twitch of heat that runs through you.

The patrons see a power couple—flawless, brilliant, perfectly in sync.

They don’t hear the war raging just beneath every sentence. They don’t see the way his eyes track the curve of your waist or how your fingers twitch when he leans in too close.

They don’t know that every smile between you is barbed.

You lean in slightly, close enough to smell the faintest trace of his cologne, your lips barely moving.

“Control looks good on me. Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”

His eyes flick to yours—burning.

“You have no idea.”

You barely have time to set your glass down before someone calls your name from across the room.

“Excuse me—could I get a photo of the two of you together? The visionaries behind the exhibit?”

You blink, caught mid-step, lips already parting for a polite excuse. But then Rafayel’s hand brushes your lower back.

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “We’d be delighted.”

You shoot him a glare that could strip paint from the walls. He grins wider, and leans in just slightly. “Smile for the people, cutie.”

You square your shoulders as the photographer gestures, adjusting the lens, motioning you to stand closer together.

Too close.

Rafayel doesn’t hesitate.

He steps into you like he owns the space around you, one hand resting low at your waist, his body warm and maddeningly close.

You freeze for half a second before plastering on the same smile you’ve been using all night.

Click.

The camera flashes. His voice murmurs against your ear. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

You smile without turning your head. “Liar.”

Another flash.

The photographer thanks you both, clearly pleased with whatever he caught. Rafayel’s hand lingers half a second longer than it should, and then slips away as he steps back, as if nothing had happened.

But your skin still tingles where he touched you. You’re almost safe when a voice from the stage calls out—

“Let’s have a few words from the minds behind tonight’s exhibit!”

You turn just in time to see Rafayel already making his way to the platform. Smug. Calm. Deadly.

“Bastard,” you mutter.

He glances back—just once. And winks.

The room hushes as he takes the mic. His shirt’s still slightly rumpled. His sleeves pushed up just enough to show his inked forearms. His hair, loose now, curls around his jaw.

He looks like a storm pretending to be art.

“Thank you all for being here tonight,” he begins, voice smooth and deceptively composed. “When we started working on this exhibit, we had no idea how… collaborative it would become.”

A few polite laughs ripple through the crowd. His eyes flick to you. “Working with someone so brilliant, so relentless, so maddeningly precise—it forced me to challenge the chaos I usually live in.”

You fold your arms.

“And while I disagreed with her on almost everything—placement, palette, volume, lighting, oxygen—I can say this without doubt: none of this would have happened without her.”

Your throat tightens, just a little.

He’s still smiling. “And though we fought like hell—because of course we did—it only made the art better. More alive. Just like she makes everything.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

And in that moment—just for a heartbeat—it’s not cocky. It’s reverent.

“I’ll let her speak now,” he says, stepping back from the mic. “Before she sets me on fire with her eyes.”

The room chuckles again. And suddenly, all eyes are on you.

Waiting.

Your heels echo softly as you make your way up to the small stage, the spotlight catching the shimmer of your dress, the controlled grace in your every movement. You take the mic without looking at him, though you feel his gaze still locked on you, burning through the satin of your spine.

You let the room settle before you speak—head high, smile sharp.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” you begin, voice smooth, clear. “This exhibit is the result of far too many late nights, conflicting visions, and at least three near-murders.”

The crowd laughs. Lightly.

Your eyes flick sideways—just a glance—and you see Rafayel smiling, arms crossed, eyes gleaming like he knows exactly what you’re doing.

You don’t smile back.

“At the beginning, I had a plan,” you continue. “I had a vision for how this space would feel. How it would breathe. I was sure of it.”

You pause.

“And then I met him.”

Another murmur of laughter ripples through the crowd.

You let it settle before adding, “And suddenly, everything I was sure of... became negotiable.”

Your eyes flick back to him now, full force, a challenge wrapped in velvet.

“He’s chaotic. Unfiltered. Difficult. Dramatic. He doesn’t listen. He makes a habit of interrupting people who are doing just fine without him.”

More laughter. He chuckles under his breath, gaze fixed on you like you’re the only person in the room.

You breathe in once. Slow.

“But he’s also one of the most maddeningly talented people I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with. He doesn’t just make art—he bleeds it. And somewhere between the noise and the fire and the very long list of things we still don’t agree on... we built this.”

You gesture to the gallery.

“To everyone else, it might look like contradiction and tension. But to us? It’s a conversation.”

You pause—just long enough for him to feel it. “A messy, passionate, loud, beautiful conversation.”

The room is silent now. Watching you. Listening. You smile then—not the sharp one. Not the fake one.

The real one.

And it’s aimed directly at him.

“Thank you for letting us show you what that looks like.”

Applause.

You step down, composed, chin high—but the fire’s still in your chest, your pulse racing not from nerves, but from the way he is watching you now.

Not smug. Not cocky. But something slower. Deeper.

Hunger laced with reverence.

After the speeches, the room fills with polite applause and renewed conversation.

And just like that—he’s gone again.

You’re swept into a new circle of art patrons, curators, donors. Their smiles are rehearsed, their compliments effusive, and their questions just rehearsed enough to make you tired. You answer with grace, your glass of champagne always half-full, your laughter perfectly timed.

Across the room, you catch a glimpse of him—Rafayel—trapped in his own cluster of attention. A woman with too much perfume touches his arm when she laughs, and a collector is gesturing animatedly toward one of his pieces. He’s nodding, smiling, charming them like it costs him nothing.

But you know him better than they do.

You see the slight twitch in his jaw. The way his fingers tighten around his wine glass when someone leans in too close.

He doesn’t look at you. Not once.

And still, you feel it. The heat. That quiet pressure that sits heavy behind your ribs, humming like a secret only you two know.

The hours pass. More smiles. More champagne.More perfectly lit photos with patrons who will forget your name in a week.

You spot him only in flashes—his shoulder rounding a corner, the sound of his laugh echoing briefly, the back of his head disappearing into a conversation.

Neither of you approaches. Neither of you has the time.

Or maybe you’re both avoiding what comes next. But now—

The lights have dimmed to a softer glow.

The music has shifted, slower now, meant for winding down. Less clinking glasses. More coats being gathered, doors opening and closing, murmured goodbyes.

You stand near one of the final displays, the one where your work and his bleed together most visibly—a chaotic burst of color against structured lines, conflict fused into beauty. The piece that took the longest. That started a fight that lasted four days.

And now it’s the centerpiece.

You sip your champagne slowly, letting the last chill melt on your tongue. Behind you, you feel it again. That presence.

That heat.

You don’t look back. Not when the music softens to a whisper. Not when the final guests begin offering farewells, their perfume lingering in the air like a second skin.

And especially not when you feel him—close behind you again, standing somewhere just beyond your left shoulder. Not speaking. Not reaching.

But watching.

You finish the last sip of your champagne, set the empty glass down on the table beside the final display, and smooth your hands down your dress. Slow. Deliberate.

Then you turn and walk away.

Not toward the coat check. Not toward the glowing exit where guests are laughing in tired clusters.

But toward the private corridor behind the gallery floor—the same one you dragged him into a month ago.

You don’t look back. But you know.

You know.

His footsteps start only a beat after yours, quiet but certain. Measured. Controlled. Like he wants to pretend this isn’t what it is.

But it is.

This is no accident.

You disappear past the curtain without a word, heels silent now against the smooth floor of the back corridor, your body humming with the weight of the whole night.

You stop near the same wall he once pinned you to—facing it now. Breathing in. Breathing out. And when the footsteps pause behind you… you wait.

One second.

Two.

Three.

And then: His voice, low. Rough. Familiar. “I knew you wanted me to follow.”

You smile, slow and devastating, your back still turned to him. “Did you think I didn’t know you’d try?”

He steps closer. You hear it. You feel it.

The last lingering noise of the gallery fades behind you. And in this quiet space—just the two of you—there’s no more crowd. No more speeches. No more pretending.

Only fire. And what it’s always been leading to.

You stand still, back to him, eyes on the blank wall, your body glowing from the inside out with the heat you’ve been holding back all night.

“So predictable,” you say softly.

Your tone is light, almost bored, laced with cruel amusement—the kind only he ever earns. “I barely made it halfway down the hall before your self-control crumbled.”

A slow breath from behind you. Then: “You’re not that hard to follow, cutie.”

You smile—just a little, just enough. “I didn’t think I had to be. You always come when I call.”

“Who said you were calling?” he counters, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You tilt your head, your tone mock-thoughtful. “You’re right. Maybe I was just tired of hearing you talk all night without being able to do anything about it.”

His laugh is low, dark, fraying at the edges. “Then say the word. Do something about it.”

You hum softly. “Tempting. But you’ve been far too smug lately. I think you need to work a little harder for it.”

A step. Then another.

You still don’t turn.

“Work for it?” he echoes, voice closer now, warmer. “You mean like I did last time, when you dropped to your knees and begged me without a word?”

You let out a sharp little laugh. “Begged? Oh, pretty boy. I had you so breathless you could barely remember your own name.”

“I remember yours,” he murmurs behind you, and the heat in his voice sends a shiver through your spine.

You press your lips together, keep your eyes forward, unbothered. “Cute.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

Another step. You feel him now—right behind you. Not touching, but close enough to steal your breath if you let him.

And you won’t. Not yet.

“You look too good tonight to be this cruel,” he says softly.

You smile slowly, wickedly. “And you look too cocky for someone I’m still deciding whether or not to touch.”

That earns a rough, low chuckle. Then—

“I’m right here,” he says, voice dipped in fire and challenge. “Say the word.”

You still don’t turn. Because you love the sound of him fighting to hold himself together. And because you haven’t decided how badly to ruin him yet.

He’s so close you can feel the warmth of him at your back, the hum of restrained want vibrating through the space between your spine and his chest.

But you don’t move. You tilt your chin, ever so slightly, keeping your gaze forward, your tone light—mocking.

“You’re breathing too loud.”

His chuckle fans across your neck. “You always talk this much when you’re nervous?”

You smirk. “Who says I’m nervous?”

“You haven’t turned around.”

“And you haven’t shut up.”

He exhales a rough breath through his nose, and you hear the tension in it—the coiled restraint, the way his fingers are probably twitching at his sides. You know him well enough to imagine it without looking.

“You’re waiting for something,” he says.

“I’m bored,” you reply.

“Liar.”

You finally move—not turning, not yet—but one step forward, away from the heat of him. Not to escape, but to remind him: you control the space between you. He doesn’t get to claim it.

His breath catches like he feels the pull, the ache of that inch of distance, and his voice tightens.

“You do that on purpose.”

You glance to the side, your profile half-lit by the gallery’s muted hallway lights. “Do what?”

His laugh is breathless. “Keep me right on the edge.”

You hum in approval. “It’s where you look best.”

That earns a groan from deep in his throat, and you know his patience is fraying—because that’s the kind of line he would usually throw at you.

And still, you don’t turn. You walk slowly, fingers brushing the cold frame of the wall as you step further down the corridor. Every inch you move, you know he follows.

Like he always does.

And you?

You let him. Because this isn’t surrender. This is the hunt.

Your heels echo softly against the polished floor as you continue down the hallway, slow and languid, like a predator who knows the kill is already hers.

You still don’t look at him. But you speak.

“Maybe I should leave you like this,” you murmur, voice syrupy and dangerous. “Worked up. Frustrated. Alone.”

You hear his steps behind you—controlled, deliberate—but there’s a tension in them now. A pressure. Like he’s gritting his teeth with every one.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, his tone matching yours, laced with heat and mockery. “I’m getting used to you walking away with your pride intact and my shirt half-ruined.”

You smile to yourself. “You’re welcome for the aesthetic upgrade.”

“You know what your problem is?” he calls, just a breath louder, still following.

“Only one?”

“You think every time you leave me wanting, you win.”

“I don’t think,” you reply calmly. “I know.”

That one lands. You hear it in his breath—ragged now, pulled through clenched teeth.

You keep walking. Fingers brushing the edge of the wall. Dress swaying with every step. Still not looking back. Still feeding the flame.

“And the best part?” you add, letting your voice drop just enough. “You like it.”

Silence. Then: “You’re cruel,” he growls.

“And you’re obsessed with it.”

He laughs, but it’s broken now—shaken. “One of these days, cutie, you’re going to push me too far.”

You stop.

Right there, in the center of the private corridor, still facing away from him, chin tilted, arms relaxed at your sides like you haven’t just disarmed him entirely with your words alone.

You speak soft and smug. “I already did.”

The air snaps. In one sharp movement, he’s on you.

His hand grabs your wrist, spins you around with force—but not violence. Intensity. His other hand cups the back of your neck, dragging you into him as his lips crash onto yours in a kiss that is nothing like restraint.

It’s a claim.

Your body slams into his with a gasp, and you don’t hesitate—not for a second. You kiss him back with teeth, with growls, with the kind of fury that’s built up from weeks of pretending this didn’t matter.

He breaks the kiss just enough to whisper, breath hot and wild, “You knew I’d snap.”

You drag your fingers through his hair, fist it tight, and yank his mouth back to yours.

“And you wanted me to.”

You break the kiss first—barely—just far enough to breathe against his lips.

He’s panting, pupils blown wide, hands firm on your waist like he doesn’t trust you not to slip through his fingers again.

And you smile. God, that smile.

Sharp. Devastating. Infuriating.

“Careful,” you whisper, your lips brushing his with every word. “We’re still inside the gallery.”

He doesn’t move. “I know.”

“There might be people still around.”

“I don’t care.”

You drag your nails up the nape of his neck, into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath stutter. “Someone might see you,” you murmur. “Desperate.”

His breath catches hard. And you feel it. The shift.

The heat behind his eyes goes feral.

And then he laughs—low and dangerous—and you don’t get to feel triumphant for long before he bites your jaw, then your neck, his hands grabbing your hips hard enough to make you gasp.

“Is that what you think this is?” he snarls against your skin. “Desperation?”

You moan, breath caught somewhere between a taunt and a challenge. “I don’t see you walking away.”

“I told you,” he growls, thrusting you back against the wall with his body, one hand pinning your wrists above your head now, the other already dragging up your thigh, under the slit of your dress. “You pushed me too far.”

“And you love it.”

His mouth crashes into yours again—bruising, open-mouthed, breathless. He kisses like he wants to own every sound you’ve ever made, like he’s trying to erase the smug out of your smile with nothing but tongue and teeth.

You kiss him back harder. Because this isn’t surrender.

This is war.

And both of you are done pretending otherwise.

His hand is tight around your wrists above your head, holding them against the cool wall, his breath hot and erratic against your neck. The other hand has already found its way beneath your dress, dragging slowly—dangerously—up your thigh, teasing, possessive.

You’re panting.

So is he.

But your voice? Still cocky. Still cruel. Still perfectly composed.

“So this is your thing now?” you murmur, lips brushing his ear, breathless and biting. “Cornering me in gallery hallways? With people maybe still around the corner?”

His jaw clenches. His fingers twitch on your thigh.

You don’t stop.

“Do you like it, Rafayel?” you whisper, sweet and poison-laced. “Knowing anyone could walk out and see you desperate—needy—just to get your hands on me again?”

He growls—physically growls—pressing his body harder into yours, but still holding that control, that tension between barely and completely losing it.

“And here I thought,” you go on, tone lighter, crueler, “someone as creative as you would’ve come up with a better setting by now. A bed, maybe. Or your pretty little studio. Somewhere other than this same wall.”

You look at him now—finally—your eyes gleaming with wicked delight.

“But maybe this is the only place you can get me, hmm?”

You hear his breath stutter—feel his hand tighten around your wrists, the one on your thigh digging in just enough to warn.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he growls, mouth hovering over yours. “And you want me to lose it.”

You smile like a sin, like you planned this since the moment you walked away earlier tonight. “I live for it.”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment he snaps again.

His mouth crashes into yours, brutal and claiming, hips pressing you harder to the wall as his hand slides higher under your dress with no more patience—no more teasing. Your wrists are still pinned, body helpless against his, but your laugh—low and breathless—slips into the kiss anyway.

Because you’ve won. Again.

And he fucking loves it.

You can’t stop. You won’t. Even as his hand slips higher beneath your dress, even as your wrists stay pinned hard above your head, your mouth keeps going.

Your voice is ragged now, breathless between the kisses that feel more like bites, but your tone? Still that same dangerous, wicked lilt.

“You’ve been dying for this all night,” you whisper, mouth brushing his, panting against the heat of him. “Watching me walk around that gallery, pretending you didn’t want to drag me right back here.”

He groans, teeth grazing your lower lip before he bites it. “You were parading around that place. Like you knew.”

“I did know,” you breathe, your thighs parting instinctively as his hand grips harder, higher. “I always know.”

His mouth crashes back onto yours, and his hand—finally, finally—finds its place between your legs.

And god, he feels it.

How ready you are. How soaked. How undone you are beneath that controlled, cruel smirk.

He groans against your mouth, voice cracking just enough to make you smile.

“You talk too much,” he growls.

“Then shut me up,” you whisper, rolling your hips against his fingers, grinding into his palm with maddening precision.

He curses, rough and low, and pushes your dress up higher, dragging his fingers through the slick heat of you, two of them pressing against your entrance, teasing just enough to make you squirm.

Your back arches. Your breath stutters. But your mouth?

Still sharp.

“Thought you wanted to work for it, Rafayel,” you pant. “This feels more like begging.”

He pulls his mouth from yours just enough to look you in the eye. Smug. Starving. Ruined.

“I’ve been working for it,” he breathes, thrusting his fingers into you—deep, slow, deliberate.

You gasp—loud, guttural. His grin returns. “You just didn’t notice how hard.”

You bite his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, your head falling forward as his fingers curl just right, pushing in again, and again, until your knees tremble and you’re grinding down onto his hand like you need him to ruin you.

“I noticed,” you gasp. “I just wanted to see how long you’d last.”

He growls again, pushing deeper, faster now, his mouth back on yours, every stroke of his fingers matched with a kiss, a bite, a groan.

And finally—finally—he’s right where he’s wanted to be since the moment this whole thing began.

Between your legs. Inside your fire.

And god, you let him.

Because this? This is the real war. And neither of you plans to lose.

You’re trembling.

Shaking under the weight of his body, of his hand still pinning your wrists above your head, of his fingers sliding in and out of you with maddening rhythm—just right. Just deep enough. Slow enough to make your thighs quiver, fast enough to make your breath catch.

But you still have your mouth.

And you use it like a blade.

You press it to his neck, lips brushing the pulse hammering beneath his skin, and you bite. Hard.

He groans, and your voice follows, hot and wrecked.

“This really your thing now?” you breathe, your hips rolling into his hand. “Every time you want me, you shove me against this same goddamn wall?”

His breath catches, and his fingers curl just right. You gasp, shuddering against him.

“You running out of ideas?” you pant, biting just below his jaw now, your voice slurring with heat and spite. “Or is this the only place you can actually get me?”

He growls—deep, low, wrecked.

His hand tightens around your wrists.

The thrust of his fingers gets harder, rougher, more deliberate—his control unraveling beneath the sound of your voice still dripping with mockery even as your body melts under him.

“You can’t even get me to a bed, Rafayel,” you gasp, laughing against his skin. “And you call yourself creative.”

His mouth crashes into yours—biting, devouring, swallowing the sound of your next laugh as he presses harder, deeper.

“You think I need a bed to fuck you the way you need?” he snarls against your lips. “You’re the one who can’t stop shaking.”

You moan—high, broken—as your body clenches around his fingers, every nerve wound tight and trembling.

But still—still—you fight.

“You’re just pissed,” you whisper, “because this is the only place I let you have me.”

He breathes your name like a curse, a plea, a warning.

And his pace quickens.

Your legs threaten to give out, your hips pinned between the wall and his hand, your wrists still restrained above your head, helpless to do anything except take it—take him—and speak fire through your teeth.

And you do. Because this?

This is where you both burn.

His grip never loosens.

Your wrists are still pinned above your head, fingers twitching helplessly in the trap of his hand. His body cages you in, his chest pressed to yours, his breath hot against your neck. And between your legs—his fingers move with maddening intent.

Not rushed. Not careless. But measured.

He knows your body now—knows every flicker of tension in your thighs, every sharp breath that signals just how close you are. And he plays it like he plays his medium—skilled, confident, completely consumed by it.

“You always talk,” he growls, voice ragged, lips brushing your jaw as your hips jerk with every thrust of his hand. “Even now. Even like this.”

You moan—a sound you can’t swallow this time.

His pace quickens, pressure intensifying.

“Let’s see what you say when you come on my fingers.”

You gasp—high, sharp, trembling. He keeps pushing, keeps curling, keeps driving you into the edge with ruthless precision.

“You wanted it like this,” he pants. “Up against the wall, trembling for me—you asked for it.”

And god, you did.

Because even as your mouth opens to throw something else—some last breath of mockery—your voice breaks. Your head falls back against the wall, eyes fluttering, lips parted in something between a gasp and a cry.

Your whole body tightens—

And then it snaps.

Your climax hits like fire through your veins—fast, blinding, overwhelming. You shatter in his hand, your thighs trembling around his wrist, your breath ragged, your body writhing as he holds you there, working you through every wave of it.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until your head falls forward, lips brushing his collarbone, your voice a whisper of defeat and satisfaction.

“Fuck…”

And then you laugh. Soft, wrecked, smug.

He releases your wrists—slowly, gently—and your arms fall around his shoulders, your body still pressed to his, spent and heavy and buzzing with the kind of heat only he can draw out of you.

He kisses your jaw. Then your temple. Then—finally—your lips.

And it’s softer this time. Slower. But still dangerous.

“You gonna run your mouth now?” he murmurs against your lips.

You grin, breathless. “Give me five minutes.”

He laughs—low and ruined and wildly in love with this.

Your breath still comes fast. Your dress is rumpled. Your wrists are tingling. Your legs feel like glass about to shatter.

And he’s still so close.

His hand lingers at your waist, fingers brushing your skin like he’s not ready to let you go. His other hand—the one that just ruined you—rises slowly to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone like he might kiss you again.

But you stop him.

Not with force. Just a look.

A smirk curling back onto your lips, slow and deliberate.

And your voice—soft, wrecked, but still dripping with that maddening arrogance—slips into the space between you like silk over a blade.

“I don’t want you here anymore.”

His brows twitch, his grip falters for a heartbeat—but you don’t give him time to react before you lean in, mouth near his ear, your words a whisper of heat and cruelty.

“Not in this hallway.”

You pull back just enough to see the flicker in his eyes.

The moment the meaning catches up. The moment he realizes you’re not rejecting him.

You’re challenging him. You’re asking.

You’re saying what neither of you would say out loud—not like this.

You want more.

Not just this wall.

His lips part slightly, and god, the way he looks at you now—it’s not smug. It’s not cocky. It’s hungry.

And something else. Something quieter. Like hope.

You let your hand fall to his belt, adjust it lazily, casually, smoothing down his shirt with maddening nonchalance.

“Take me somewhere else, Rafayel,” you murmur, gaze flicking up under your lashes. “Or do you only know how to fuck me in corners?”

And there it is.

The fire relit.

He doesn’t speak. Not right away.

He just looks at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time, even though he’s always looked. Like he’s cataloging every inch of you all over again—your flushed skin, your swollen lips, the wild mess of you that he caused.

Then his hand finds yours.

No more teasing. No more bruising. Just fingers lacing through fingers.

And without a word, he pulls you down the corridor.

Through the side door. Past the crowd that never saw what burned behind that wall. Out into the night air that hits your skin like a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

His car is waiting.

Of course it is.

Black. Sleek. The kind of thing that glides down dark city streets like a secret.

You slide into the passenger seat, heart still thrumming, body aching, the scent of him still on your neck.

He doesn’t say a word.

But his hand never lets go of yours.

The ride is quiet. Tense. Not uncomfortable—charged.

Your dress rides high on your thigh. His jaw is tight.

He doesn’t look at you. But his thumb keeps brushing yours.

And you feel it—that same rhythm from earlier. The one that started the moment you walked into the gallery.

The one that hasn’t let up since.

When the car finally slows, you realize where he’s taken you. Not a hotel. Not his studio. But his home.

Of course he lives in a loft.

Dark wood, black metal, tall windows with half-open curtains, city lights spilling across canvases and statues and forgotten wine glasses.

It smells like paint and cedar and him. He lets you in first. Still silent. Not because he doesn’t have anything to say.

Because he’s choosing this moment.

Letting you walk ahead. Letting you look. Letting you feel.

When you finally turn to face him—standing in the low golden glow of a lamp that barely reaches the ceiling—he closes the distance.

You don’t look around, don’t ask for a tour, don’t pause to marvel at the aesthetic of Rafayel’s loft—though you feel the space in your bones. The open layout, the tall shadows, the way the city glows against the windows like it’s watching. It’s beautiful. Dangerous.

Just like him.

Just like you.

He steps toward you, slow, purposeful—but you move first.

You push him.

Hard.

Right into the nearest wall, the mirror of what he did to you back in that gallery hallway, and he lets you—lets his body hit the plaster with a breathy grunt, his hands falling to your hips more out of instinct than control.

You press into him, palms flat against his chest, your dress still hiked up, your mouth brushing his jaw.

“Your place now,” you murmur. “So tell me—how do you want it this time?”

You drag your hands down his chest, over the hem of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like you might tear it off again.

“On your couch?” you taunt, tilting your head. “On your floor? You gonna finally get me into that bed you’ve been dreaming about since the gallery?”

He laughs—wrecked, breathless, obsessed. “You can’t help yourself.”

You lean in, kiss his throat, bite it. “No,” you breathe, “but neither can you.”

Your hands trail lower, already undoing his belt with sharp, precise movements, your knee pressing between his thighs, forcing them apart just enough to own the space between them.

“You want control?” you whisper. “Then take it.”

You shove his shirt open, nails raking down his abdomen, and his breath stutters—just like you wanted.

“But if you don’t—” your hand slides lower, just enough to make him twitch “—I will.”

He groans, catching your wrist, but not stopping you. Not really. He looks at you now—eyes dark, lips parted, pupils blown wide.

“You’re fucking insane,” he breathes.

You smirk, fingers still hovering just above the place he wants you most.

“And you love it.”

Your fingers make quick work of his zipper—smooth, practiced, unbothered. He’s breathing harder already, chest rising and falling like he’s trying not to lose it.

And you?

You look up at him with a smirk like sin, your fingers hovering, barely brushing against him.

“So what’s it gonna be?” you ask, voice like smoke and velvet. “My hand?”

You wrap your fingers around him—slow, deliberate, just enough pressure to make his eyes slam shut.

“My mouth?”

You lean in, lips brushing his jaw, breath hot and cruel against his skin.

He growls—actually growls—and grips the edge of the wall behind him like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Fuck—”

You stroke him, long and slow, watching his body shudder beneath your touch, his muscles twitching under your hand.

“You like options, right?” you purr. “Visual. Sensory. Full experience.”

His head drops back, and you kiss down his throat—biting once, hard, as your hand moves faster.

“You gonna ask nice?” you murmur, eyes glinting. “Gonna tell me what you want?”

He doesn’t answer. So you stop.

Completely.

He gasps—wrecked, eyes snapping open in disbelief. You smile. “No? Still too proud?”

“You’re evil,” he rasps.

“And you’re hard and dripping in my hand,” you say sweetly. “Try again.”

His mouth opens. Closes. His jaw twitches. And finally—finally—he meets your eyes, that wild, violet fire blazing.

“I want your mouth,” he growls. “I want you on your knees, wrecking me, owning me—just like you fucking planned.”

You grin—slow, wicked, triumphant.

And you sink to your knees.

Your hands never leave him, stroking him steady, teasing just enough to keep him on the edge. You look up once more, lips just above the heat of him.

“Good boy.”

And then—

You take him into your mouth.

Slow. Deep. Controlled.

His hands fly to your hair, and he chokes on a moan, head falling forward as you work him with devastating purpose. No mercy. No hesitation. Just the fire he gave you—and you giving it back.

Your tongue traces every inch, your pace building, and his thighs tremble beneath your grip. He gasps your name—hoarse, desperate, undone.  You look up at him again, mouth full, eyes blazing.

And he breaks.

Right there.

Because you didn’t just take control. You claimed him.

And he never stood a chance.

His hips jerk forward instinctively, breath hitching in his throat as your mouth closes around him again. But you stop. Just for a second.

You pull back enough to speak, your voice low, breathless, commanding. “Don’t move.”

He groans, his fingers tightening in your hair, but you grab his wrist—firm, sharp, eyes blazing as you look up at him.

“I said,” you repeat, voice like fire, “don’t get rough. Just take it.”

His mouth opens like he wants to argue—wants to say something cocky, something smug—but nothing comes out except a broken sound in his throat.

“Keep your hands right there,” you murmur, lips brushing his skin. “Don’t move. Don’t even think about taking control.”

And then you take him back in—fully this time.

No pause. No mercy.

Your mouth moves with ruthless, devastating rhythm—steady, deep, precise. Every flick of your tongue is calculated. Every bob of your head is designed to make his knees buckle, to keep him panting, gasping, clinging to his own restraint.

And he’s failing.

His breath is ragged. His body is trembling.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re—cutie, I’m—”

You hum around him, not slowing, and that sound—that vibration—rips a curse from his chest.

His hand claws at the edge of the wall, white-knuckled now, like he's holding on for dear life. You feel him twitch in your mouth, feel the stagger in his rhythm, the crack in his breath.

And still—you don’t let up.

Because you decide when he breaks. You move faster. Sloppier now. Wetter. More desperate. But it’s not your desperation—it’s his.

You moan around him—purposefully, cruelly—and that’s the final blow. His whole body jerks—

And then he shatters.

He spills into your mouth with a loud, helpless gasp, hips twitching, head thrown back, voice breaking on your name. You swallow—every drop—and you don’t look away, even as he crumbles.

Even as he leans back against the wall, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded, sweat-slick and ruined.

You finally let go of his wrist. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. And smile.

“Now you can move.”

He’s still leaning against the wall, chest rising in short, sharp breaths, violet eyes darkened to the color of need. But before he can even reach for you—

You stand.

Slow. Fluid. Effortless.

And you walk backward into the apartment, not taking your eyes off him for a second.

Your fingers hook into the edge of your dress, tugging it higher again—not enough to reveal, just enough to hint. Your eyes glint with that wicked, unbearable smugness he’s come to crave.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

His jaw tenses. “You’re walking like sin.”

You trail your fingers along the back of his couch, nails tracing the leather.

“Here?” you ask, tilting your head, feigning innocence. “Do you want me bent over this?”

You take another step back, running your hand along the top of a side table. Knock over a book just to watch him twitch.

“Or here?” you ask, tapping the glass surface. “Maybe this is where you want me next.”

Another step. You brush your hand along the marble edge of his kitchen counter.

“Here’s a thought,” you continue, voice low and silken, “you could take me right here, legs spread wide, with all your paintings watching.”

He makes a sound—low, broken, somewhere between a groan and a curse—and finally pushes off the wall.

But you keep moving. Still just out of reach.

You reach the bedroom doorway—his actual bedroom—and rest one hand on the frame, the other brushing over the soft fabric clinging to your hip.

You tug the zipper down just an inch.

Then another.

“Or...” you whisper, stepping back into the shadows of the room, “are you finally going to fuck me in a bed like I deserve?”

And then you disappear. And he follows—

Like a storm ready to break.

The room is dim, lit only by the low golden spill of city lights through tall windows and the faint ambient glow from the hallway behind him.

You stand near the bed. He doesn’t speak. He just watches.

Still in the doorway, chest rising and falling, lips parted, eyes locked on you like he’s already forgotten how to breathe.

You drag your fingers over the curve of your shoulder.

Just lightly.

Then down to the zipper. You look at him—not a word spoken—and begin to slide it lower.

Inches. Soft. Intentional.

He doesn’t move.

But you feel the tension in him. The way he’s gripping the doorframe now. The way his throat works around a swallow he can’t quite force down.

The dress loosens around you. Slipping from one shoulder. Then the other.

You don’t rush.

You let it fall with the gravity of a whisper. It puddles around your heels like a silk surrender.

But you haven’t surrendered.

Not even close.

You stand in the middle of his room now—bare, bare-hearted, bare-skinned—completely unbothered. Like this is your space. Like this bed already belongs to you.

Your voice is low, dangerous.

“Still staring?”

He steps forward, slow. Controlled. You tilt your head, your arms still at your sides.

“Do you want to touch me?”

Another step. He’s close now—but not close enough. You smirk.

“Then ask.”

And god—he wants to.

You see it. The war on his face. But you’ve won this battle. He breathes your name. And reaches for you. He crosses the space between you in a single, breathless step—hands on your waist, then your hips, then sliding around to your back as if he needs contact or he’ll lose his mind.

“Fucking hell,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, lips brushing your jaw. “You just had to take your time, didn’t you?”

You giggle, breathless and wicked, fingers already sliding into his hair.

“Where’s all that self-control, Rafayel?” you whisper, brushing your lips against his ear. “Did I break it?”

He groans. And pushes you. Not harshly—but purposefully.

You tumble backward onto the bed, laughing, your hair fanning across the dark sheets like a crown. You prop yourself up on your elbows, legs bent, completely unbothered by the hunger in his eyes as he watches you from the foot of the bed.

“Careful,” you say with a grin. “You shove me too hard, I might think you’re trying to dominate me.”

He huffs out a laugh—but it’s short. Rough. Tense. Because he’s already undoing his shirt. Fast. Impatient. You can see the shake in his fingers. The way his breath hitches when he glances at you sprawled out across his bed like you own it.

You raise an eyebrow as he struggles with one of the buttons.

“Aw,” you coo, voice warm and taunting, “are you flustered?”

He glares at you. “Shut up.”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh, eyes dancing. “So confident in the gallery. You seemed so composed.”

He yanks the shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

“I swear to god—”

You laugh, fully now—head tilted back, chest rising with breathless joy and triumph.

“Swear harder,” you purr. “You look like you’re about to beg.”

He kicks off his pants next, half-fumbling, and your smile turns into something hungrier.

But it’s still taunting. Always taunting. You drag your finger slowly up the inside of your thigh, watching him watch you, your voice a purr.

“You gonna climb on this bed, Rafayel?” you whisper. “Or are you just gonna keep undressing like you’re in a rush to impress me?”

He’s on you before you can blink.

Hands on your thighs, dragging you down the bed in one sharp pull, his mouth hovering just above yours. And for once—

He doesn’t say anything. He just growls.

And kisses you like he’s starving.

You gasp against the sheets, breath stolen by the way his hands grip your thighs, pulling you beneath him again, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across your chest.

But even through the pleasure, your voice slips out—taunting, breathless.

“God,” you pant, laughing between shallow moans, “finally. A bed.”

He lifts his head for a moment—just long enough to smirk at you through his lashes, breath warm against the swell of your chest.

“Getting soft on me?”

You grin, fingers threading through his hair, tugging it back until he groans. “No,” you breathe. “Just appreciating that I’m not being shoved into another wall tonight.”

He laughs, wrecked and low, and his mouth returns—kissing, biting, sucking down the line of your breast. His hands are everywhere now—roaming your waist, your hips, your thighs. Possessive. Desperate. But still worshiping.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mumbles against your skin. “You look too good pinned to something.”

“You sound obsessed.”

“Have you looked at yourself?”

Your laugh turns into a gasp when his fingers slide back between your legs—confident now, knowing exactly what you need. You jolt beneath him, your back arching off the bed as he circles just right.

“I just recovered,” you manage to gasp.

“Not my problem.”

You glare, half-laughing, half-moan. “Rafayel—”

His fingers curl inside you, and your words die on your tongue with a cry.

“Say my name again,” he growls, voice shaking against your chest.

You do. Louder.

And god, you don’t care anymore how wrecked you sound—because he is just as ruined. Mouthing at your chest like he wants to memorize it. Fingers moving like he’s addicted to the way you come apart under him.

And all the while—you’re laughing, breathless, high on power and pleasure, tangled in his sheets, not a wall in sight.

“Finally,” you whisper between gasps. “A comfortable position.”

His head drops to your chest again, groaning.

“You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

You kiss the top of his head.

“Never.”

You writhe beneath him, your back arching against his touch, your breath torn from your lungs in gasps and half-formed words. His fingers work inside you again—confident, unrelenting, dangerous—but this time, there’s something else beneath it.

Not just heat. Not just power.

Devotion.

He’s watching you now, eyes dark and focused, lips parted, breath ragged. And you can’t help yourself. Even now, even like this—you bite.

“God,” you moan, fingers clenching in the sheets. “You really like seeing me like this, huh?”

He leans in, mouth grazing your jaw, voice hoarse.

“You have no idea.”

You grin, head tilting back into the pillow, your hips rocking into his hand shamelessly. “You’re obsessed.”

“Completely.”

His voice is reverent now, hushed and raw—like he means it in a way he doesn’t even understand yet.

You gasp again when he finds that spot, his fingers curling just right, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with perfect rhythm.

Your body starts to shake. Your smirk falters. And still—he doesn’t let up.

“Rafayel—” your voice breaks on his name, this time not as a taunt but as a plea.

He presses his forehead to yours, never stopping his hand. “I know, cutie,” he murmurs. “I know.”

And then—

You fall.

Hard.

Your body clenches around his fingers, your thighs trembling, your voice caught in your throat as you come undone beneath him for the second time today—more real this time. More open. Your hands grasp for him without thought, pulling him down to you as if you need him to hold you together while everything else breaks.

And he does.

He kisses your shoulder. Your neck. Your temple. His hand doesn’t move until your breathing slows, until your body stops shaking.

Only then does he draw his fingers from you—slow, careful, reverent.

He looks at you. And this time, it’s not smug.

It’s quiet.

And you see it in his eyes. He knows. So do you.

But neither of you says it.

Not yet.

Instead, you just grin through your haze of breathless wreckage, pushing his chest lightly with one hand.

“You’re still not getting the last word.”

He laughs—low and wrecked—and leans down to kiss you again.

You’re still catching your breath, your skin flushed, your thighs trembling—but your grin?

Still cocky. Still wicked. Still you.

You shift under him, legs parting slow and deliberate, your fingers trailing over your stomach as you arch back into the pillows.

“Now that I’m warmed up...” your voice purrs, lazy and breathless, “how do you want me this time?”

You reach up to brush your fingers through his tousled hair, tugging lightly—just enough to make his eyes darken again.

“On my stomach?” you tease. “On top? Knees? Hands? What’ll it be, little artist?”

His gaze burns down your body, jaw clenched, breath heavy. He leans closer, his palm sliding up your thigh again—slow, possessive.

Then his lips brush your ear, and his voice drops into a low, dangerous whisper.

“Why pick just one…”

He kisses your neck, biting gently.

“…when I can have you in every way I want tonight?”

You shiver.

Not from fear. From promise. Because you believe him. Because you want it just as much. His hand grips your hip, pulling you closer.

“And cutie?” he murmurs, eyes locking on yours, fire meeting fire. “I’m not done with you.”

And god—you don’t want him to be. Not even close.

You don’t say it. You don’t tell him what that line did to you—how it melted straight through your spine and settled between your legs like a pulse.

You just move. Slow and deliberate.

You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back, hips rising with silent command.

Come closer.

And he does.

He groans low in his throat, his forehead dropping to yours as he shifts between your thighs, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of your head.

You slide your fingers into his—without thinking. Without planning. And he holds on.

Like he means it. And then—

He pushes in.

Slow. Deep. Devastating. And you arch. A gasp tears from your throat before you can stop it—half-moan, half-shock at the way he fills you so perfectly, like this was meant. Like you were made to be opened this way. By him.

He groans above you, eyes clenched shut, breath ragged as he stills, fully seated inside you.

“Fuck, cutie—” he whispers, voice cracked open.

You squeeze his hands tighter. And though you won’t say it, he knows. Knows by the way you tremble beneath him.

By the way your body wraps around him like it never wants to let go. By the way your voice is almost too soft when you whisper:

“…Then don’t stop.”

And god help you both—

He won’t.

His hips move slowly at first, rolling into you with a kind of reverence that borders on sweet. And you let it. For a second. You’re breathless, shaking, fingers tangled with his, the sheets twisted beneath your back. But then—

Your eyes flick open, and your voice—low, wrecked, but still biting—slips out beneath a gasp.

“Don’t go soft on me now, Rafayel.”

His body jerks slightly, eyes snapping to yours.

You smirk, just enough.

“You know I don’t like it slow.”

His jaw clenches. And then—

He gives it to you. Hard. Deep.

The bed creaks beneath the force of him as he drives into you, his hips slamming into yours, his hand still locked with yours above your head, the other sliding to your chest—palming, squeezing, rolling your nipple between his fingers until you cry out.

“That better?” he grits through his teeth, panting against your mouth.

You moan—high and breathless—but your grin still cuts through.

“Almost.”

He growls, snapping his hips harder. You arch into him, back lifting off the mattress, your thighs trembling around his waist. And even through the haze, you can’t help it.

You bite again.

“Still not impressed, little artist,” you gasp.

He laughs, rough and wrecked, before catching your lips in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue, his thrusts pounding into you now with the kind of desperation that makes your whole body sing.

“Liar,” he groans. “You’re fucking soaked.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He drops his forehead to yours, voice nothing but breath and sin. “Mine.”

And then—

He hits just right.

You cry out, loud and unfiltered, clenching around him like your body’s finally breaking. And his smile—wild, desperate, full of pride—presses to your cheek as he growls, “There she is.”

You’re so close. So damn close.

Your legs are shaking, your breath ragged, the heat building in your core like a wave just waiting to break—and his thrusts, his hands, his mouth—they’ve all pulled you to that very edge.

You gasp his name, almost a cry, body tensing as the high crests. And then—he stops.

You freeze, trembling, mind spinning from the sudden, jarring stillness.

“What—Rafayel—?”

But before you can even finish, he growls against your shoulder, voice wrecked and hoarse but still laced with that smirk.

“Not yet.”

And then you’re moving—

He grabs your hips and flips you over effortlessly, pressing your chest down into the mattress, your ass lifted high as he kneels behind you.

You hiss at the shift in pressure, nails digging into the sheets, breath catching with frustration and something that feels dangerously close to need.

“You cocky son of a—”

He slides back into you in one smooth, brutal thrust.

You cry out—louder than before—body arching instinctively, your fists curling in the sheets as your back bows perfectly for him.

He groans behind you, gripping your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your flesh as he sets a new rhythm—harder, deeper, more possessive now.

“Say that again,” he pants, slamming into you, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing off the walls. “Come on, cutie. Tell me more lies.”

You try to speak—really, you do—but every thrust knocks the words straight out of your lungs, leaves you moaning, gasping, writhing.

He leans forward, one hand bracing next to your head, the other trailing up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck as he breathes against your ear.

“You were gonna fall apart too easy,” he growls. “I want you to feel it.”

And you do. Every inch. Every second. Every denied gasp and delayed pleasure.

And god, it’s driving you mad. But you love it. Because this?

This is exactly how you both burn.

Your face presses into the mattress, your moans muffled, your hands twisted in the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring you to this plane of reality.

You’re shaking—hips trembling under the weight of him, sweat slick on your spine, your breath hitching with every ruthless thrust. And finally—

Finally, you whisper it.

Not soft. Not sweet. But real.

“Fuck—Rafayel—just—give it to me.”

You hear his breath break behind you, his rhythm stuttering for a second like that one line shattered whatever control he had left.

His grip tightens on your hips. Fingers digging deep enough to bruise. And then he gives it to you.

All of it.

His thrusts slam into you, faster now, harder, every inch of him claiming you, wrecking you, worshiping you.

Your back arches deeper.

You cry out, louder now, not even bothering to hold it back. You can feel it—rising again, building, crashing toward you like a tidal wave with no escape.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged, desperate. “Come on, cutie—come for me.”

And you do.

Hard.

Your body collapses forward, your thighs shaking violently as your climax tears through you, long and sharp and overwhelming. You scream his name into the sheets, clenching around him so tight it pulls a broken curse from his chest.

He follows.

With a strangled groan and a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep—deeper—and lets go. You feel it—his whole body trembling above yours, his grip clinging to you like you’re the only solid thing in his world.

And for a long moment—

There’s only breath.

Only the sound of skin against skin. Only the echo of your names still hanging in the air.

He stays there, still buried inside you, chest pressed to your back, breath tickling your shoulder as he exhales something like worship.

And you?

You smile. Exhausted. Ruined. But proud.

Because he made a mess out of you. But you made a mess out of him too.

The room is quiet now. Just the low hum of the city outside the windows, and the sound of your breathing—both of you, still a little uneven, still catching up.

You’re sprawled on his bed, one leg draped over his, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin sticky, hair a mess, and your mouth curved into the smallest, most smug little grin.

His fingers trace lazy circles on your lower back, like he can’t not touch you.

And you’re fine with that.

You earned it.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, voice low and rough.

His chest rumbles beneath you. “Recovering.”

You smirk. “Need me to call you an ambulance?”

“Only if you plan to ride along.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, fingers playing along the line of his jaw. He catches your hand, laces your fingers together, then kisses your knuckles.

It’s casual. Too casual. So casual it’s suspicious.

Your gaze flicks to him, suspicious. “What was that?”

“What?”

“The hand kiss.”

He shrugs, not meeting your eyes. “I was being polite.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Polite? You had me face down screaming into your mattress twenty minutes ago.”

He grins. But doesn’t deny it.

You shift slightly, your chin propped on his chest now, looking down at him.

He watches you back—eyes still heavy-lidded, violet and soft in a way you don’t know what to do with.

“So,” you murmur, tracing your finger along his collarbone. “What now? Do we just keep dragging each other into dark corners and pretending it’s not a thing?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then—

In a low, cocky murmur that doesn’t quite hide the truth beneath it, he says: “I want more.”

You freeze.

Your breath catches.

But he’s looking at you now—really looking—and the smirk is still there, but it’s softened.

“I want all of it,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Not just the fights and the sex and the gallery wars. I want... you.”

Your heart skips once.

Twice.

Then you smile. Slow. Wicked. Vulnerable in the only way you know how.

“Well,” you murmur, brushing your mouth over his, “you’re gonna have to work for it.”

He laughs against your lips, breath warm.

“Cutie,” he says, voice low, fingers curling tighter around yours.

“I already am.”

Morning light pours in through the loft windows.

Warm. Soft. Too bright.

You groan as you turn your face into the pillow, one leg still tangled with his, your hair a complete disaster, and his comforter pulled halfway off the bed from whatever last act of desperation you two had managed in the dark.

You hear movement. The rustle of sheets. Bare feet on the floor.

Then—crash.

You jolt upright, blinking against the light.

“What the hell was that?”

Rafayel is halfway into a pair of sweats, shirtless, hair a complete mess, holding a pan in one hand and looking far too pleased with himself for someone who just clearly dropped something.

“Breakfast,” he announces, like he didn’t almost burn his own kitchen down. “You’re welcome.”

You blink at him.

“You cooked?”

He grins. “Attempted.”

You sniff. “…Is something burning?”

He freezes.

“…Yes.”

You throw the covers off and stumble into the kitchen, still in his oversized button-down from the night before. He trails after you, smirking.

“Relax, I was making eggs.”

You peer into the pan. The eggs are... not eggs anymore. “You charred them.”

“They’re rustic.”

“They’re suffering.”

He leans in behind you, arms around your waist, breath warm against your ear.

“You weren’t complaining about suffering last night.”

You smack him with the dish towel hanging from the counter.

He laughs, really laughs, and backs off, arms raised in mock surrender. “Alright, cutie, you want to cook?”

You eye him. Then the pan. Then him again.

“…We’re ordering in.”

“Smart choice.”

He leans against the counter, watching you move around his kitchen like you belong there. The sun catches your face, lighting your still-sleepy expression, the tiny glint in your eyes when you steal a piece of fruit from his counter like it’s a dare.

And something settles in him.

It’s chaotic, it’s messy, it’s way too early—but it’s you.

And that?

He could get used to.

Maybe even wants to.

You glance over, catch him staring, and lift an eyebrow. “What?”

He shrugs. Nothing cocky this time. Just a quiet smile.

“Just thinking how fucking lucky I am.”

You freeze for a beat. Blink. Then toss a grape at his head. He dodges, laughing again. And just like that—

It begins.

Something more.

Something real.

Something very on-brand chaotic.

But entirely, unmistakably... you two.

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