#I placed my key stone into my glasses!! It looks so cool * ^ *

[i-like-bug-types]

Visited good old Iki Town today and snapped this pic of me~

I edited it a bit and now it looks 3D hehe💫

[macfrog]

call me

idea came to me in a dream. enjoy also! i made a notifs blog! taglist life is NOT for me, babies. feel free to head on over, follow and turn notifs on to be updated anytime i post! 👉 @macfroglets 👈 you’re gonna wanna do it before this sunday…😉🤠

inspired by @bageldaddy who is the author of the dreamiest series on this site, my biggest crush, and also told me not to tag her but i respect my elders so.

pairing: joel miller x call girl!reader

summary: you moonlight as a call girl, receiving mediocre call after mediocre call. one night, one joel miller dials in, and grants you the most exciting ten minutes of your career

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) this fic is pro-sex work. reader is a phone sex operator, mentions of anal and oral, dirty talk, couple mentions of daddy, praise kink, mutual masturbation, alcohol consumption, cursing

word count: 3k

main masterlist

“What now, baby?” you whisper, laughing to yourself. You’re palming at your breast, your fingers pulling in around your nipple. Your core begins to throb. “You’re gonna touch yourself.” “That what you want?” “’s what I want, angel. Do it for me.”

It started out as a joke, if you’re being honest.

A wine-drunk night with Liv, sat at opposite ends of the couch, legs intertwined somewhere in the middle of the cushions. Her blouse was stained pink – your fault, apparently, for making her laugh too hard. Her glass tilted a fraction too far and before you knew it, you owed her a new shirt.

“Say it again, say it how he said it,” she snorted, patting her chest down with the damp towel you’d handed her.

“…quite frankly, disappointed with your performance,” your head tilted back and forth, mocking the nasally voice of your fifty-one-year-old, receding-hairline-equipped boss. Ex-boss. Asshole.

“Oh, fuck,” she heaved, still catching her breath. “That’s so fucking funny.”

You sighed in agreement.

“So…what are you actually gonna do now?”

You shrugged. “Sell my body.”

“Dare you.”

“I would.”

“I know you would. And you’d be good at it, too. ‘s why I’m telling you to do it.”

You kicked her ankle. “I got bills to pay, dude.”

“What about one of those call girls?”

And, well. That was that.

You’d googled it after seeing her off to her own apartment, watching her wobbly form stagger across the hall and stab her key a few times into the wood before it landed in the lock. The door closed with an accidental slam which echoed up the stone stairwell, and you crept back to your own place.

Palms either side of your laptop on the counter, face lit in a blue glow, dripdripdrip of your busted tap echoing around your dark kitchen. They asked for an email address – you used the one you’d made up before you realized email addresses were permanent – and a phone number. Said someone would call you to discuss it. You shrugged, hit Sign up and went to bed.

Within hours, you’d spoken to some sharp-accented woman who asked quick, snappy questions and uhuhed her way through your answers. Her name was Erica. She told you she’d look after you, told you to call her with any questions or concerns you had.

All she wanted from you were the basics: you liked sex, you masturbated, you knew how to dirty talk. You sorta knew your way around things like anal, and could manage a convincing pitch for things of a more…exploratory nature.

And then she asked when you wanted to start. You told her that night.

Your first caller – like, ever – was some guy with a midwestern accent who asked you to narrate fucking him. Like, spanking him with a paddle, calling him a bad, bad boy. You threw your nerves to the wind and went along with it, and honestly, had a pretty rad time. He was cool.

But one was enough for your first night. You logged out and went to bed. You told Liv the next morning, and she punched your arm a little too hard and yelled, That’s my fuckin’ girl! Was it hot? Did you…y’know?

No. You never get that lucky. Some calls you can lie idly on your couch and let your limp hand surf beneath the hem of your underwear, push lazy circles against your clit as the dude moans in your ear or gasps when you whine.

Sometimes their mics can pick up the faint sound of them jacking off, and your brain slips you an image that makes your stomach flutter. Sometimes you’ll hang up and take yourself the whole nine yards with your laptop sitting on your mattress, porn on the screen, and your vibrator between your open legs.

It’s pretty intense work. Sometimes.

But all in all: no. You never…y’know.

One week in, you were cooking dinner whilst telling Trevor – thirty-nine, Buffalo, New York – how you’d take his huge, throbbing dick in your throat and let him fuck it. He asked to hear how turned on you were, just talking about it. You lowered your phone down to the pot of macaroni and gave it a stir.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned down the line, “you’re so fuckin’ wet right now, huh?”

Huh.

Tonight, you had pizza rolls. Less sexy.

You just got off another call. Thirty minutes of describing how good you’d take him up your ass. You’re bored, turned off by this point, and tired. It’s almost 3AM.

You pace around your apartment, flicking switches off and tossing cushions back into place. Spilling small sips of wine from your glass onto your tongue as you’re plunged into darkness, one click at a time.

You don’t get much while the sun’s up. Most days, nothing at all. That works for you, though. You can run errands, grab groceries, do sweet-fucking-nothing whilst waiting for the influx of calls that will inevitably come your way by nightfall. When the streetlights come on, the rush hour traffic dies out front, the shuffling of tired feet up the concrete staircase outside your front door slows down – you just log in, and your cell will eventually start to ring.

Your cell, which now lies wedged between the couch cushions. You notice the sound of it vibrating as you’re pulling your curtains closed. Half-way shut, you desert them and wander over. Intrigued.

No Caller ID. The usual. You swipe right. The robotic voice tells you there’s a request on your account for a ten-minute call. Tells you to dial 1 to accept, or hang up.

Ten minutes? At three in the morning?

Usually, at this time of night, they’re longer. They’re drunk, or their partner finally fell asleep, or they just want your attention for a bit. See them through the uncomfortably quiet night.

But ten fucking minutes?

Ten minutes would make you somewhere around thirty-five dollars. They had the option as the timer ran out to extend the call, if they wanted. Most of them did. And that worked fine for you.

You’re unemployed. Who knows what money you’ll have in a week’s time? An extra thirty bucks – probably more – right before bed? A little nightcap?

You dial in and answer the call.

He doesn’t say anything when it connects. You hear the ruffling of clothes.

Your voice naturally dips a couple octaves, coats in something smooth and husky. Glistening, gleaming, sex-driven. “Hello?”

He clears his throat. His voice is deep, rich. More vibration than speech. He speaks with a Southern drawl, like bare skin running over silken sheets. It’s smooth, and sensual, and sexy. “Evenin’.”

You knock the last light switch off with your hip and doddle through to your bedroom. Mornin’, actually. “Hi. What’re you after, baby?”

He takes a beat to reply. More ruffling. He chuckles a little before he says it. “Baby? That what you wanna call me?”

Your glass scrapes softly across your nightstand. You bounce down on your mattress, springs moaning as you roll onto your stomach. Knees bent, your ankles link in the air. “What do you want me to call you?”

“Guess we can figure that one out together.”

“Alright. I like a challenge. You wanna start with your name?”

Another pause. He sucks in a deep breath. “Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeat, thumb picking at your nailbeds. “That’s a sexy name.”

He doesn’t respond. Just gives a non-committal grunt, and a smile pulls across your lips.

“What are you into, Joel?”

He sniffs. “Thought we could figure that out, too.”

Something in the way he says it, the curve in the words, maybe, tells you he knows damn well what he’s into. What he means is: you can figure that out by yourself.

Like you said: you like a fucking challenge.

“You like nicknames? Daddy? That kinda thing?”

A low growl passes his lips. “Not this early on, I don’t.”

You know from the hitch in his voice that he likes it. That little catch at the bottom of his throat, the way the words stumble on their way up. Know you’ve plucked a string deep inside.

“Well, you know you only got ten minutes, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“’kay,” you sing, flipping your hair over your shoulder. You exhale, drawing shapes on the pattern of your bedsheets. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinkin’ about, then? What’s on your mind, cowboy?”

Cowboy. It’s the accent. He sounds Texan, or something. His words float through the receiver all wound, coiled up and tight.

Joel doesn’t seem to care. He answers your question truthfully.

“Thinkin’ about what you’re doin’ right now.”

You smirk. Sometimes you like the attention, too. You turn your head, check the clock by your bed. Two minutes have passed.

“I’m…lying in bed, in the dark. Had a couple wines, feelin’ pretty good. But this is all about you, so.”

He chuckles softly. “’m lyin’ in bed, too. In the dark.”

“You feelin’ lonely?”

He takes another deep breath. You figure he does this before he gives most answers. He sounds the contemplative type. Always double, triple checking his sentences before he lets them go.

“Just need somethin’ to take the edge off.”

“Okay,” you breathe, “let me. What do you need?”

There’s a long break between the end of your question and the sound he makes before he answers. You pull the phone from your ear and glance at the screen to make sure it’s still connected. Time says another two minutes have passed.

Joel grumbles. It echoes around your ear like thunder in the distance. “You touchin’ yourself?” he eventually asks.

“Uhuh,” you reply, nails picking at a loose thread on your comforter.

“Yeah? How’s it feel?”

“Good,” you mewl, tugging at the seam. Your teeth grit as you yank at it. “So – fucking – good.”

There’s another growl from the other end. It vibrates through your speaker, purrs in your ear.

“You ain’t fuckin’ touchin’ yourself.”

Your hand stops. Your eyes stick on the thread. “I am.”

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how.”

You roll your eyes, turning onto your back. Your fingers play with the buttons of your shirt. Fuckin’ – tell me how. “I’m…” you sigh, “…I’m laying in bed, on my back. My hands are –”

“What you wearin’?”

“Isn’t that the sorta stuff you oughta ask when I first pick up?”

He speaks calmer. Clearer. You can hear the smile on his lips. “’m askin’ you now. What you wearin’, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. So he’s that type. Whatever. He’s kind of pissing you off.

“A shirt. And socks. And panties. No bra.”

“’n where you touchin’ yourself?”

You huff. “Between my –”

“Watch the attitude.”

You almost fucking laugh. Your breath escapes your chest in a silent burst. “Between my legs,” you tell him, flat and annoyed.

“Mhm. Above or beneath the panties?”

“Beneath, daddy.”

A tiny groan passes his lips. He doesn’t mean for it to, and a second, angry grumble follows, like he’s pissed at himself for letting it slip.

You take a lock of hair and twirl it around your finger, pulling tight until the tip whitens. “You touching yourself?” you ask, voice sickly sweet.

Joel ignores you. “Take it off. The shirt,” he clarifies, when you don’t answer.

You shuffle around a little, making sure he can hear the movement. You unbutton the shirt until it’s lying loose over your breasts, then tug it down over one shoulder.

“Alright,” you tell him with a heavy breath, laying back on the mattress, “it’s off.”

“Yeah?” he asks, and your eyes flutter closed.

“Mhm.”

Joel chuckles under his breath. “Know when you’re lyin’, angel. Take – it – off. Don’t be a brat about it.”

This is half the game for him, you realize. This is his thing. He gives commands, you disobey them, and he kicks you into line. Tells you to behave.

You figure you like it almost as much, going by the heat pooling between your legs.

Your shoulders lift and you tug the shirt over them, tossing it to the floor. You lie back, bare against the sheets, and your hand instantly cups over your breast.

“Better,” Joel breathes.

“What now, baby?” you whisper, laughing to yourself. You’re palming at your breast, your fingers pulling in around your nipple. Your core begins to throb.

“You’re gonna touch yourself.”

“That what you want?”

“’s what I want, angel. Do it for me.”

You don’t take much more convincing. Your hand slips down your front, cups over your mound. You gasp when your fingertips brush against your clit.

Joel hears. “Yeah,” he hums, “’s a good girl. Take those panties off ‘n rub that pretty little clit for me.”

Your fingertips give one last kiss to the fabric of your panties. Your mouth tips open a fraction. You suck in a quiet breath, and push your hips up off the bed. The lace slips down your thighs in one motion.

Joel’s grunting steadily now, small noises slipping past his lips and into your ear. You spread your legs and push against your bud again, massaging the sensitive skin.

“Fuck, Joel,” you whine, and he groans in response.

“I know, I know,” he’s saying, and you hear the metal tinkle of his belt buckle. The fraying sound of denim being shifted. One slow, relief-filled groan.

His hands are on his cock.

You’d put more effort into caring that he’s been fully clothed this entire time, if you could think straight. You’re applying more pressure to your clit, rubbing faster, harder, then letting your fingers drift downward, move between your gleaming folds.

“Wish I was there with you so bad,” Joel purrs, and your eyes flutter open.

“Yeah?” you choke.

“Yeah.”

“What would you – do to me?”

He shudders. “Would fuck you real good, sweetheart.”

“Fuck,” you breathe, fingers circling faster.

There’s a gentle tugging; a rhythmic breathing. The odd break in his voice when his hand tightens, or you make a sweet little sound, or he catches himself giving too much away.

“Fuckin’ – be all over you. Nice ‘n hard. You want that?”

“Mhm,” you mewl, panting. “Want it so bad.”

“Yeah, you do,” Joel says. You can hear the sticky sound of his precum, leaking from his tip and running between his fingers, being pumped down his shaft by his fist. “Feels good, angel, don’t it? When you do what you’re told?”

“Y-eah,” you whisper.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and you picture a tight fist choking a thick cock. Picture that same fist unwinding, curving around your mound, fingers pushing deep inside you.

“Joel,” you whimper, and your fingers move down again, dipping nearer your tight, wet hole.

He grunts in response. “Don’t – not yet,” he tells you.

You whine.

“You got somethin’ else to use?” he asks, then interrupts before you can answer. “Yeah, you do. Go get it, sweetheart. Tell me what you got.”

“V-vibrator,” you mumble, hoisting yourself up and lunging across the bed to your nightstand. You haul the drawer open and sift between balled-up socks until you’re clutching the long, thick shape, fingers tight around the dips and curves.

“Let me hear it, angel.”

You click the button and the toy whirrs to life, vibrating strongly in your hand.

Joel hisses. “Alright, sweetheart, lie back. Gonna put it on that pretty little pussy, alright? Gonna make yourself cum for me.”

“Uhuh,” you murmur, one hand lowering the vibrator between your legs, the other holding the phone to your ear in a vice grip.

You push the round tip down to your clit and your head falls back with a loud moan. Joel sends one straight back at the sound of yours. It fades into a whimper, a desperate cry as you massage yourself with your toy.

Your legs clench as you dip it lower, letting the head nudge against your entrance, sending flutters of pleasure across your dripping cunt.

“Don’t fuck yourself,” Joel instructs, and your hand quickly pulls back. “Save it.”

This mystery man, who you’ve known for – if your clock is right – eight minutes, now; whose name is the most information you’ve gotten out of him; and whose face you couldn’t pick in a lineup…has such a hold on you, that your body instinctively reacts to his every word. An automatic reaction to do exactly as he says, when, five minutes ago, you couldn’t wait to get him off the phone.

You fucking listen to him. Save it for what? your head asks, and you ignore it. You don’t push the toy any closer to your center.

It drives hard against your clit, fast vibrations rippling down on the hot, swollen skin. It sends floods of warmth between your legs, drawing your arousal slick and wet from between your folds.

Your chest is damp, gleaming with sweat. Your breath cuts short in your throat, guttural noises replacing it as they reverberate through your mouth, across your tongue and into your dark bedroom.

Your walls start to clamp around nothing. You angle the vibrator so that it sends deep pulses across your pussy, shutting your eyes to picture Joel’s thick cock burying deep inside you as you climax with a loud, broken cry.

“Yeah, good girl. That’s it. Sound so pretty, angel. ‘s a good girl.”

You’re whimpering his name as you come down, holding the toy to your clit and letting your high wash over you. Your chest jumps, breaths heavy and staggered, gasping for air and then letting it rush out of your lungs in desperate pants.

“You know how good you are at that?” he asks, when your breath steadies again.

You giggle softly. “’s why I do it, baby.”

“Worth every fuckin’ penny.”

You sit in the post-orgasm haze for a few seconds, waiting for the room to stop spinning and your body to feel like yours again. You pull the phone from your sweat-stuck cheek and glance at the time. You have less than thirty seconds left. Joel seems to do the same, for his voice returns to your ear in a gentle, low whisper.

“Alright. Speak soon, angel. Be good.”

The call cuts.

----------

taglist: @slvbl @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @casa-boiardi @msjarvis @acornacreacure @totallynotastanacc @alejaa-a @aphterthoughtt @pedroluver @earthtogrogu @sexygaypalpatine @cool-iguana @serenaxpedro @lizzyervs @bitchwitch1981 @brittmb115 @stormseyer @scarletthefierce @patti7dc @pattwtf @atticrissfinch @pascalpvnk @lizzyervs @jediknightjana @jessie8605 @iknowisoundcrazy @caitispunk @vickie5446 @mrsquill @uncassettodiricordi @gracieispunk @hellishjoel

(psst! after this weekend my taglist is no more! follow @macfroglets + turn on notifs if you wanna be in the know when i post!)

[wolfylady]

Accursed Urge

I could not sleep until I tried my hands at Durgetash. Their first interaction had so much tension I couldn't stop thinking about it! So here it is.

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Enver Gortash X Gender neutral Dark Urge/Durge

Word Count: 2,568 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The opulent hall, adorned with ornate gold and weathered stone, glimmered in luminous hues of gold as the stained glass filtered streams of light. Yet, the resplendent glow illuminated only one figure. His attire, adorned with bronze accents, shimmered against his sun-kissed complexion, further deepened by his dark wardrobe.

“Ah! Welcome!” His voice boomed, rattling around Durge’s mind, conjuring a feeling of familiarity that tugged at their heart.

“Gortash!” Karlach snarled. She sounded like a wild beast at the end of her chains, half-crazed by rage. It would take only Durge’s allowance for her to burn everything to the ground; even without it, she might still snap should Gortash say the right or wrong thing. “This is it! I can practically taste his blood from here!”

“Karlach!” Wyll urged, voicing his concern for his father. But Karlach looked wild, so ready to strike that Durge doubted she heard him.

Gently brushing hands with Karlach was like placing their hand within a roaring fire. But Durge swallowed the yelp, using the slight contact to grab Karlach’s attention. Meeting the flames that burned within her gaze, Durge urged softly in what they hoped was a calming tone. “I couldn’t bear to see Gortash get his hands on you again,” they squeezed Karlach’s hand. “Let’s wait for a more opportune moment.”

Karlach sank with a deep breath, her skin cooling and the flames returning to a more comfortable heat. “I hate how you can do that.” She whispered in defeat, squeezing Durge’s hand and letting go with a grimace upon seeing the burn that now resided there.

Stepping closer, Durge’s mind churned, trying to decipher the sudden swell of emotion this man’s face conjured and how their body vibrated with anticipation.

For a moment, Durge regarded Duke Ulder Ravengard, but his mind was an empty husk, a pawn to the absolute awaiting orders.

“My lord, it seems your guest has arrived.” Ulder bowed their head to Gortash, Wyll tensing.

“Exquisite timing, as always.” Cerulean blue eyes bore into Durge’s red glare, a smile more tender than it should for a stranger, pulling on his lips.

“Lord Enver Gortash at your service.” He spoke of Kethric Thorms’ downfall, and a sadistic satisfaction rose up at the memory of the man’s death. But then he looked at Karlach, and Durge felt rage not only for Karlach but also for how the word darling rolled off Gortash’s tongue. It felt almost like jealousy.

Then he spoke of the netherstones and the elder brain; as crucial as that was, Durge was fixated on his mouth. A tirade of emotions swept through Durge, their fingertips tingling, begging to touch the enigmatic lordling.

And then, before they could stop, words came tumbling out, sounding so much more confused and lost than Durge ever wanted to be known. So much of themselves was missing, and despite fighting the dark urge as best they could, Durge desperately wanted to know themselves and the life they’d lived. “Do you know me?”

“Of course, we were partners,” There was a flash of heat not only in Gortash’s blue eyes but also in Durge’s stomach. “You, I, and Kethric were in on this plan from the start.”

For some reason, Durge felt disappointed.

“I seem to have trusted you once before, and it ruined me.” Durge leered through clenched teeth. They were a Bhaalspaw with a fractured mind and no true memories of who they had been before they awoke on the Mindflayer ship and began the journey to rid themselves of the parasitic tadpole that chewed through their hole-riddled mind and uncover who had tried to kill them. Durge suspected that Gortash may be the key to knowing who they had been before they ended up on that ship. A flicker of a memory fluttered through their tattered and hole-addled mind. There was something painfully familiar about the phony lordling before them, their heart fluttering and fingertips aching to reach out, to touch or maime, Durge didn’t know. They had already felled Myrkull’s chosen, and even though Kethric had recognized Durge, Durge had not been overcome with these odd emotions; they hadn’t even felt any familiarity with the now-dead general of Myrkull’s undead army.

“Together, we can restore authority over the elder brain.” Gortash grinned. “I am changed,” Durge sneered. “I have no interest in whatever plan we concocted; I wish only to avenge myself and be rid of this accursed tadpole.”

“Then our goals are still aligned!” He grinned. “Ousting Orin and helping you reclaim your birthright would be my greatest honor,” Gortash spoke in a hush. Still, his tone was sincere before shifting into a business-like manner. “With Kethric gone, Orin proves treacherous. She wants the netherstones for herself.” He sneered. “She only cares about blood.” Gortash gestured to them. “And your blood and mine are of particular interest to her.”

Durge clenched their fists. They had suspected as much. If they were a Blaahspawn, and Orin worshiped Blaah, the god of murder, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume it was Orin who had tried to kill them.

“I cannot trust easily,” Durge spoke, the dark urge subdued but not extinguished. “But if your words hold truth, and if ousting Orin aligns with my path to vengeance, then we may have an alliance of necessity.”

“Understandable.” Gortash grinned. “Why don’t we step into my office? There are matters I would like to discuss without... extra ears.” His eyes took in Durge’s company.

It was an eclectic assortment of victims of the tadpole, each with a tragic past and circumstance to overcome. Karlach, Astarion, Shadowheart, Wyll, Gale, and Halsin: the only one without a tadpole. Though Durge had no memory of who they had been before the tadpole, they were lucky and happy to have their company. Particularly Astarion and Halsin.

“Hardly.” Astarion scoffed. The vampire’s gaze hardened upon Gortash. His suspicion seeped from his crimson gaze, sticking in the tension-filled room. “Not a chance, you scheming–”

But Durge was already following Gortash.

“Durge.” He croaked out, clutching Durge’s arm in an uncharacteristic display of desperation. It felt too much like handing Durge over to the wolves and hoping they’d return.

But then Durge met Astarion’s gaze, not wavering or holding fear within those crimson eyes. “Just a moment, Astarion.” Durge soothed, bringing their free hand to gently cradle Astarion’s cheek, thumb smoothing away the distress that danced in Astarion’s icy red gaze. Durge looked deeply into Astarion’s eyes, that gentle smile settling Astarion’s troubled heart. A reassurance. A promise. “I’ll be right back.”

Gortash turned around with his smooth words to say, “Hurry along, I won’t keep you too long,” already on the move, with Astarion growling like a starved dog. However, Astarion was halted as Durge gently brushed their lips against his hand, a sign of tenderness that sent shivers down Astarion’s spine and ignited something protective within him. Durge was far too important to risk.

“You had better be.” He warned lowly to Gortash’s retreating form, glaring at the man’s back before turning his eyes back to Durge, dropping his voice to a mere whisper for Durge alone. “Stay sharp. We’ve fought too hard to be taken out now.” Durge smiled before looking up at Halsin and offering him a reassuring squeeze of his hand as they passed.

When the pair reached Gortash’s office, a surprisingly humble room for such an extravagantly dressed man, Durge felt their chest constricting, an unnatural tightness that no measure of strength or spell could loosen. Durge could hear the beating of their own heart resonating loudly within the walls of their skull. Their head pounded, filling with disjointed fragments of memories that danced teasingly out of reach. Something deep within stirred, reacting to Gortash’s presence as he shut the heavy wooden door behind them.

“Relax,” Gortash turned and offered a tight smile, though his usual charm was not fully present in his deep voice. He approached the window, hands on the sill as he glanced out over the land stretched beyond.

Durge bites their lip, tasting the iron flavor of blood. Even without a memory of who they used to be, Durge’s instincts and gut intuition remained a formidable part of their psyche, and they didn’t trust Gortash. And yet... something lingered at the back of their mind, a fond remembrance and gentle whispers of warmth and care they couldn’t comprehend.

“You remember us, don’t you?” Gortash asked softly. It felt more a challenge than a question, and Durge clenched their hands. A flood of disjointed memories welled within Durge. Though some were more distinct than others, the feelings of warmth, confusion, and sorrow mingled together to create a cacophony of dissonance in Durge’s mind.

“Gortash,” Durge’s voice hardened as they squared their shoulders, maintaining the distance between them. The word sat heavily on their tongue, carrying a bitterness they could not place. “If this is what you wanted to speak about, then this conversation is over.”

There was a cold flash of emptiness in Gortash’s eyes that, for a split second, caused Durge’s heart to clench uncomfortably. And then it was gone, replaced by that charming mask once again. But that fleeting emotion shook Durge.

Durge paused. “Were-” they struggled to form the words. “Were we in love?” Durge’s question hung in the air between them, shrouding the room in tension.

Gortash drew in a shaky breath, folding his arms across his chest as he closed his eyes momentarily, opening them again to pin Durge with a heavy gaze. His usual charm disappeared, revealing a vulnerable man who clearly hadn’t expected such a question.

“I like to think so,” he answered softly, without the usual veneer of confidence and charisma he wore. His gaze dropped to his boots, “But when I lost you, I thought my heart would stop beating too.” He confessed, his eyes not daring to meet Durge’s. Something clenched inside Durge; it was sorrow and regret, but they weren’t their own. A long lost feeling that buried deep within, so foreign yet so familiar.

Following his confession, Durge remained rooted to the spot, struggling to process Gortash’s confession. After a while, Gortash stood and walked toward Durge, stopping in front of them with barely a hand’s breadth between them.

Gortash broke the distance and whispered in a husky voice full of desperate hope and anguish. “I’ve missed you.” His fingers hesitated near Durge’s face before gently grazing their skin.

His act was so swift and spontaneous that Durge barely registered it until it was happening. Gortash had closed the distance and pressed his lips against Durge’s, pulling them closer, crushing his body against theirs. His fingers tangled in their hair.

Lost in the throes of memories and connection, Durge surrendered and responded to the kiss as Durge’s tattered memory sought something familiar in Gortash’s taste and warmth; they could almost feel their old selves tingle in their veins. A lingering sweetness fluttered within their chest. Overwhelmed by their mutual need and yearning, they met him halfway, their guarded suspicion replaced by growing warmth.

However, as quickly as the memories welled up, Durge cut off the kiss. Stunned and overwhelmed, they stepped back, attempting to catch their breath and clear the mental fog clouding their rationality.

“Whatever we had is over, Gortash,” Durge spat, their voice catching slightly in their throat as they grappled with their feelings. Durge wiped their mouth with the back of their hand as if to rid the lingering taste of Gortash. “We’re nothing.”

Gortash regarded Durge, a shimmer of heartache crossing his handsome face before he quickly wiped it away with a sardonic smile. Eyes darkening. “That is where you are mistaken, darling,” Gortash moved towards Durge, predatory. Durge could feel his voice vibrate against their skin, each word stinging. “We were never over.” Gortash seemed to radiate certainty; an eerie air of resolve clung to him as though he intended to claim Durge back. “I have always cherished you, Durge, even if you don’t remember your body does,” Gortash’s tone was painfully sincere, which made Durge wince internally. His words seemed to open up a wound in Durge, yet their body felt the flicker of emotions stirring beneath their skin. The flame that once danced in Gortash’s eyes burned brighter as his hands softly cradled Durge’s face, “And I have every intention of reminding you, love.” His fingers slid over their cheek, pushing away a stray lock of hair before sliding around Durge’s neck. His thumb brushed over their lips, and Durge almost felt something soften in their chest.

“But-”

“I’m patient, my dear. I’ll wait.” He said softly, leaning closer to kiss their forehead softly.

“I hate you.” Durge rasped out. Their fingers tightened into fists at their side, rage coloring their voice.

“You love me,” Gortash said simply. There was a challenge in his eyes, an intensity Durge had missed.

“I…” Durge stuttered, faltering under his intense gaze.

“That’s right, you do. And you can’t deny that.” He murmured against Durge’s ear, a note of certainty weaving into his voice.

Durge swallowed hard. “Even if I did, I am no longer the person I once was. We can’t go back, Gortash.” Durge spat, tugging away from his grip. They stood, both figuratively and literally, at odds with each other.

He was silent for a moment, eyes lingering on Durge. A sigh slipped from his lips before he said, “Even if that is the case, it changes nothing. My feelings haven’t altered. We will sort this out together, just like old times.” Gortash said resolutely, turning his back towards them as if to shut out the hurt he had been unable to hide.

He was immovable, like a sturdy rock standing against a violent sea. Durge tried to speak, to push away his claim. To tell him to get over whatever phantom was stuck in his head because they were not the person he claimed to remember.

But as Durge opened their mouth to speak, Gortash suddenly closed the distance, clasping Durge’s chin firmly, drawing them to look into his cerulean blue eyes. “We’ll have all the time in the world once you get the last netherstone from Orin.”

In that moment, Durge knew the inevitable truth. Despite all that they wished for, despite all the confusion, there was an undeniable connection. It was raw and turbulent, much like the man who held their gaze, not flinching, not yielding.

Durge pulled back sharply from his grip. Their breath hitched as a strange pain gripped their chest. “We’ll see about that, Gortash.” They bit out.

There was no compromise with Gortash. He had his own peculiar way of stirring the still waters, making the familiar unfathomable, pulling out an obscure string of feelings that Durge had so stubbornly kept hidden beneath a carefully maintained façade of stoicism.

Gortash chuckled dryly, turning his back towards Durge, crossing his hands behind him as he looked out the window. He was content with his ultimatum.

And in that moment, despite their fragmented and distorted memory, Durge was acutely aware of the storm that awaited them in their shared future. For better or for worse, Durge was aware that Gortash had set them on a path, a storm that neither could escape.

With that, Durge slipped out the door, leaving Gortash behind. Their body tingled from the brief yet intimate encounter, leaving their mind spinning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

wolfYLady: I posted this on my other accounts and got some request to continue so I have another chapter up with another on the way!

Please be kind and leave a comment, I would love to know what you think of my angsty work!

Part 2 > Part 3 (Smut)>

[gravehags]

to taste your beating heart

Pairing: Cirrus x f!Reader

Rating: Explicit

18+ ONLY MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Tags: ooky spooky setting, dubcon, predator/prey, cirrus being creepy, allusion to kidnapping, pussy eating, overstimulation

Words: 2,072

Summary: Geocaching in the woods at night seems like a pretty terrible idea, but here you are nonetheless.

a/n: I just know being hunted down and chased in the woods at night by Cirrus ghoulette would cure my mental illness. I just know it. Also this is a lot of buildup for not a lot of porn I'm sorry I got caught up in the fantasy of it all, my bad. Enjoy.

divider by @ghuleh-recs

This has to be the stupidest fucking idea you’ve ever had.

That was the thought you were having while sitting in your car on the side of a darkened dirt road, head against the steering wheel. Geocaching. Nighttime geocaching - who the fuck came up with this and why did you agree to start doing it with your friends. Friends who pussied out at the last minute at that, leaving you all alone parked next to the vast stretch of trees that separate you from your goal. You agreed to it because you love the thrill you idiot, a voice in your head provides. Being afraid is part of the fun. And you grudgingly agree but your thoughts are once again soured by the thought of your wayward friends.

Fuck them, you think angrily while removing the key from the ignition and opening the door, I am not a pussy.

Using the small light provided by your phone, you rummage around the back seat for your gear – a small back pack with a collapsible shovel and your GPS device to provide you with coordinates. Procuring a blindingly bright lantern from your trunk you slam it closed and wince when your car produces a little honk upon being locked. Fuck it was quiet out here.

“Hope someone finds my body at least,” you grumble, making your way towards a path in the trees.

What seems like an eternity, but was in fact actually about fifteen minutes, passes as you continue on your journey, crunching leaves underfoot. You shiver a little – it’s not quite autumn yet but the warm summer nights have long since passed. Adjusting your oversized flannel, you quicken your pace. You are going to look so fucking cool presenting whatever you procured at this site at the next get-together, crowing about how you weren’t even a little bit scared.

A branch cracks beneath your foot and you jump, loudly swearing.

Ok maybe a little bit, but you weren’t telling them shit.

The glow of your GPS monitor lights up your face as you peer down at it – the coordinates are close. Allegedly there is some abandoned monastery out here which is what has you so determined to complete this venture. You’re nothing if not a sucker for cool architecture and secret places. Probably why you’ve gotten into this stupid hobby to begin with.

When you crest the small hill and the trees part both your jaw and bag drop. What stands before you in a clearing is a beautiful Gothic structure that seems to go on forever from where you stand – vast darkened stained-glass windows are placed in delicate arches and spires to match. As you wander closer you can see statues decorating the stone walls but you don’t recognize any of the iconography.

Weird.

Looking down at your GPS monitor you realize you are insanely close to your mark, all that needs to happen is for you to pass through the threshold that leads into what appears to be a series of cloisters. You hesitate – surely this really is your stupidest idea, you have no clue what could be in there. Wild animals, serial killers. You snorted, devil worshippers. Inhaling the chill night air, you glance up at the gleaming full moon and sigh.

You have a point to prove tonight and you did not come all this way to back down.

Gravel crunches beneath your sneakers as you approach the hall and right as you step through the stone archway, you hear what sounds like a breathy laugh coming from your right. Whipping your head around you wield your lantern in front of you like a weapon, the only sound you can now hear being your ragged breathing and the pounding of blood in your ears. You aren’t going to say “hello”. You’ve seen enough horror movies to not be that particular kind of dipshit. Rolling your shoulders, you shake your head and proceed on the stone pathway, ignoring that tiny voice in the back of your head that is urging you to get out. According to the GPS monitor you are steps away from your cache. Finally, you reach your destination and notice a loose brick in the column in front of you. Setting down your lantern, you carefully pry it out of the structure with a victorious little yes. You’re about to reach your hand inside to retrieve what you came all this way for but something makes you pause. Something that makes the hair on the back of your neck rise and your stomach churn.

It's the definitive feeling of being watched.

“Come on dude, get your shit together,” you huff while rolling onto the balls of your feet, trying to expel some of the pent-up anxiety your body is holding. Without another thought you reach your hand into the hole and your fingers feel around something thin and delicate. Pulling it out you raise your lantern back up to get a closer look and what you see perplexes you. On a thin, long gold chain is a cross – no that’s not quite right – an inverted cross with three-quarters of a circle around its bars to form what looks to you to be a stylized letter G.

What the fu—

The breathy laugh you heard earlier echoes again through the hall, much clearer, much louder, and much closer to you. You drop your lantern and it rolls away to the opposite wall, providing light further into the hallway.

What you see at the end chills you to the bone.

A figure stands there, half in shadow. Even in the dim light, you can make out the feminine curvature of its hips and the shiny black boots it wears. A tail, long and twitching, flicks behind it. Frozen in place, you drag your eyes up to its face, where gleaming sharp teeth are grinning wolfishly at you. When you meet its eyes – glowing in the dim light like that of a cat – and see what looks like horns growing out of its head you finally come to your senses and bolt. It doesn’t immediately follow, instead as you look over your shoulder you can see it striding almost lazily in your direction.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, you think as you attempt to pick up speed heading down the hill back into the woods. You had abandoned your back pack back at the abbey, the only thing on your person now is the strange necklace you had stolen with its sharp edges digging into the meat of your palm. You slow as you realize there are no footfalls in the leaves behind you – all is silent again outside of your labored breathing. A dull ache comes from your hand and when you look down you gasp at the blood dripping out of the small wounds in your palm from gripping the weird crucifix too hard.

Then you hear it.

One final time, you hear that laugh from behind your right ear, breath stirring the hair at the nape of your neck before you are thrown unceremoniously to the ground. When you scream, it – no she – grins down at you before straddling your waist and pushing your hands above your head. Long, dark hair falls forward to frame both of your faces as she leans in to inhale at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. Despite your fear – maybe even because of it, a small wicked part of your brain provides – you feel a twinge between your legs as she breathes you in.

“Now what,” she speaks for the first time, her voice low and teasing, “is a sweet thing like you doing all the way out here, all alone?”

You swear she’s able to hear your heart thudding against your ribs as you attempt to speak but before your lips can wrap themselves around any actual words she leans back, trailing clawed hands down the front of your flannel. That traitorous ache you felt earlier in your cunt returns as she slowly begins to unbutton your shirt, all while maintaining eye contact with you. When she opens the flannel to expose your chest you feel a flood of wetness gush from you at the way she eyes your breasts. You’re wearing a poor excuse for a bralette – all dark red mesh that hides nothing – and when she slides her hands up to cup at them your breath speeds up. Biting her lip, she circles your hardened nipples with her thumbs as her claws sink slightly into the soft flesh of your breasts.

“Feels good, hmm?” she says as her hips slowly began making circles over the heat of you. “Oh, sweet one, you really shouldn’t have come here tonight.”

When she slides down your body, the back of your head hits the dirt. Her claws are on the waistband of your black joggers now, inching them down your hips and thighs along with your underwear. When she finally exposes your cunt to the chill night air you hear her laugh low in her throat as she drags her nose along the seam of you.

“Soaked through. All from little me?” she blinks up at you from between your legs and you make eye contact with her again. “You like the fear,” she says, lips once again curling into a smirk. “Makes you wet, doesn’t it? I could rip you apart and devour you alive right here and you’d say thank you, wouldn’t you?”

All you can manage is a series of rapid nods as she drags a single digit through your folds.

“So maybe I will. Devour you that is.”

When she leans down and runs her tongue from the base of your slit to the top you practically choke on your gasp. She parts you with two fingers and immediately seeks out your engorged clit, which she latches onto and wetly sucks. When your hips buck, she pulls back to abandon your cunt and lays sloppy kisses on the insides of your thighs and your mound. You can hear yourself whine as she laves her tongue so close to where you want her and she hums deep in her throat.

“P-please,” you manage to hoarsely whisper and you see her cock her head while tutting at you.

“Trespassers get what they are given, sweet thing. You don’t get to bargain now.”

You slam your fist into the earth beside you as she dives back into the heat of you, skilled tongue licking and sucking at all the places except where you need her most. When the barest tip of her tongue brushes your clit, you moan obscenely and without thinking, grab at one of the horns on the top of her head. The noise she lets out makes your cunt gush embarrassingly and it must send her over the edge because now she’s assaulting your clit feverishly with her lips, her own moans mingling divinely with yours. Her claws dig into your thighs as she thrusts her tongue inside you again and again, two fingers rubbing at your bud even as she fucks you with her mouth. It’s so good – too good – and you feel your back arch off the forest floor. You come so hard it makes your body ache but she doesn’t stop even as your orgasm wanes. She growls and drags your hips closer to her as you attempt to inch away, ravenous for you. You writhe as she continues to devour you, ripping yet another orgasm out of you. Your clit aches from the overstimulation and you whimper and thrash in her grip. She shows no sign of letting up and when your third begins to crest, all of a sudden you feel yourself slipping into blackness.

---

When your body goes limp, Cirrus pulls away, face dripping with your juices.

Ah fuck. Got too excited again.

She pulls back onto her knees and sighs, observing your prone form on the forest floor. She tidies you up the best she can, slipping your underwear and pants back over your hips and she stands, stretching. The moonlight brushes your face and she cocks her head to the side.

You are just too lovely to let go.

She scoops you up with little effort and begins the walk back to the abbey, eager to show the other ghoulettes their new pet.

--

Four days pass and no one reports you or your missing car.

[witchersmistress]

Hot as Hades

Good evening my darlings!! Posting this before I go to bed, I do have an alternate version in mind so don't be surprised if this changes 🤣🤣

Trigger Warning: hot and dirty finger banging session

Word count: 4.5K

Rory’s POV

One hundred thousand dollars?!?! What in the actual fuck.. As I go to make my way towards Mr. Whiskey , I am stopped by a security guard. “Ma’am Mr. Stone would like to meet you in his office, this way”  I looked back at Mr. Whiskey, he was standing now, his tall muscular frame in a charcoal grey suit with a black tie. His face was still casted in shadows but I know he is staring at me. I caught Jill and Ed out of the corner of my eye, giving them a small wave as we moved through the crowd, down a dark hallway.

The guard moved to the far end calling for an elevator, the doors opened and we walked in. scanning a black matte key card, the elevator began to move. I twisted my long locks in my fingers. We go off and walked down the hall to an office that overlooked the bustling city of LA

“ He’ll be with you shortly” the guard said and closed the door. Pacing the luxurious space, I panicked. What the hell was I doing, what did I get myself into. Going down that rabbit hole as the door opened “I’m sorry to keep you waiting Ms. Harlowe” Mr. Whiskey spoke with a slight southern drawl. I stopped dead in the room and just waited, it couldn't be. There is no way. I heard the tell-tale clinking of ice in glasses and the sound of liquid pouring. He continued as his heavy footsteps drew closer “ We seem to have a problem now don't we…” trailing off as he drew closer, a hand with a crystal tumbler reached around my left side, taking the glass from him, i looked at his hand as he placed it on my side to direct me to the couch, there was a tattoo on his hand, what looks like a bird wing stretched crossed the tight skin on his hand… No, absolutely not. 

There is no way.. He directed me to the couch sitting on the couch across from me, his large thighs slightly open as he settled into his seat. Dragging my gaze up his body slowly, i've never seen  him, in anything but jeans and t-shirts, but here he is sitting in a charcoal grey suit with a white buttoned shirt with a few top buttons undone and his tie MIA. that tattooed hand caressed his face, starting at his nose and down to his chin, you can hear him scratch his beard, god i love that sound, this man should not have this effect on me, hell this man has had an effect on me long before now, but he does and i look into the blue eyes of none other than Logan Syverson…. “ Now don't we Rory” he took a sip of whiskey but left the glass hanging from his tattooed fingertips “What the hell were you thinking Darlin? Selling yourself at a sex club, i thought you were smarter than that, baby girl”

The shivers that run down my spine when he calls me baby girl, my panties were getting wetter by the second as he scolded me.  Setting down my glass on the glass coffee table “Well you are one to talk Sy or should i be calling you Alex Stone. You fucking own part of this damn sex club!!” I stood up, rounded the coffee table and stuck my finger in his face. “You do not get to lecture me about what I do, you are the proverbial pot calling the kettle black.” his face had no emotion, nothing in his eyes to tell me what he was feeling. A solid poker face, that rotten motherfucker. I spun on my heels to make a quick and clean getaway until an arm wrapped me around the waist, pulling me back and pinned me to the wall , his large body holding  me down rather quickly. My face pressed against the cool marble walls as he leaned in “Listen here baby girl” his southern drawl was thicker than usual “ I did you a favor, by winning that auction, you don't know what kind of men are in this club and what they would do to a girl like you.” I bucked my hips in protest in response trying to get out from underneath him. 

 That was a bad idea, the dimly lit fire that was in his eye glowed brighter, a growl slipped out before he could stop it, his pupils growing like saucers. Grinding his hips harder into me,I could feel his thick erection digging into my ass, “Do you see what you do to me? I've tried so hard for years to keep my distance, but you are just so goddamn infuriating” he grabbed me by my hair and pulled my head back forcing me to look at him “You’ve done it now, there is no way I’m letting you go”,  he captured my lips, in a fiery kiss. I tried resisting, but it was utterly pointless, I was melting under him, I was about to be putty in his hands and he knew it.

 He moved his hand from my hair down to my neck and squeezed, applying the pressures to the sides, gasping from the interaction, dragging my lips away from him in an attempt to catch my breath, he bit my bottom lip and tugged on it.  Snaking my hand around the back of his neck, I pulled myself closer, falling down the rabbit hole with each kiss I gave him. His left hand, abandoned its position on my hip, snaked down to grab mine, bringing it down to the hem of my dress and dragging both my hand and dress back up my body. I was going to explode if this man did not touch me soon.  With my dress bunched around my waist on one side, his deft fingers glided across my abdomen, occasionally raking them across my skin as he delved into the front of my lace underwear. Thank you Jill for insisting that these.

Pulling his lips away from mine as one of his fingers circled my aching clit. “This belongs to me, every touch, every flutter of that pretty pink pussy, every orgasm that has my name coming off your lips like a prayer is mine do you understand?”  my eyes rolled in the back of my head as he plunged a finger inside my cunt. He licked his bottom lip as he continued to play with me. “ I remember the first time I caught you masterbating, we were up at your family's lake house, I arrived late. Everyone else was out in the canoes, I was going to my room when I heard these same soft whimpers and whispers, you are giving me now. I followed the sound to find your bedroom door cracked, i opened it more to make sure you were ok and i found you, riding your vibrator, i should have backed away, but i couldn't, not after what i heard.” he nipped my earlobe and started pumping in and out faster, adding another finger and his thumb circling my clit, IM could feel the warm ach forming low in my belly and i was powerless to stop it as i rode his fingers.

I remember that day clearly, I remember feeling like I had eyes on me but when I turned there was no one there, I moved to my back and opened my legs and grabbed my vibrator and went back to it. In my mind I was giving Logan a show, one that he would never forget..

I felt him hum in my ear as he drew me back from the past “ You were thinking about it weren't you? I can tell you got wetter, but tell me, do you remember what you said? I want you to hear you say it” he loosened his grip, ever so slightly, allowing me air, before he cut it off again. Thinking back to that moment, i began to ride his hand harder, tightening my grip on his neck, a low whimper left my throat as i felt that warm ache building in a small fire but growing larger by the minute, “Sy” i pleaded “ I want to show you how good i could make you feel” he picked up the pace of his thumb on my clit. He nipped at the bit of exposed neck and shoulder that my dress offered him.

“Hmmm, what else baby girl” he picked up his pace even faster. “Do you want to hear all the dirty things I've wanted to do to you over the years? The countless times I've wanted to tan your hide for the outfits you wore." The burning fire low in my belly was getting higher and higher, “Logan please, let me come for you” I begged him, I couldn't hold on much longer. “Such a dirty girl for Daddy aint you darlin? I remember after hearing you call my name as you came, i had to go take a cold shower and have a release of my own, but seeing you after that, it took everything i had to not drag you to my bed and fuck you like you deserve.. You want to be my good girl now?? Come for me, i want to hear your scream echo off these office walls and feel your cunt suck my fingers in and wont let me go” 

that was all it took, and I couldn't hold it back anymore, i rode out my orgasm on his fingers as he continued to praise me, the hand that was holding my neck, fell away to my waist to keep my steady as my knees began to buckle, the intense feeling came back as another orgasm washed over me. “Logan, please i can’t take anymore i just can't” he gave a wicked smile as he withdrew his hand and licked the juices off his fingers. “You tasted better than i imagined” he fixed my dress, pulling off his suit coat and draping it over my shoulders, picking me up and depositing me on the couch with a glass of water, chugging it greedily, he picked up my feet and deposited them into his lap, he watched me before he pulled out his phone, as he tapped away on the screen, he muttered "fucking Walter" before he walked over to his private bathroom, washing his hands and face, he moved back towards me. The buzzing of an intercom scared me to death, putting a hand to my chest, I willed my heart to slow down but she was going a mile a minute.

"Mr. Stone your car is here" Sy pressed a red button on the intercom " Thank you Matthias, we'll be down in a minute" stepping away from the intercom. He came over and helped me to my feet, fixing my dress. We walked to the elevator and took it all the way down to the parking garage. We stepped off the elevator and moved to his car, his demeanor had changed, he wasnt the warm and soft Sy but the hard and cold one I knew well. I cocked a brow at him as his driver opened my door for me. He barely looked at me " Please see that Ms. Harlowe gets to her destination safely and is compt for the missing half hour of time" he turned to look at me as he extended a hand " Mrs. Harlowe it was indeed a pleasure to have you as my company this evening" I looked at him and I was mortified, of course what we just did, did not mean a damn thing to him "Mr. Stone thank you for the decent evening, I wish you well" sitting in my spot and letting the driver shut the door behind me, I refused to look at that man or give him a second thought longer, as we pulled out of the garage, the tears I was holding back came streaming down and I was powerless to stop them as I watched the glowing lights of LA speed past me.

Sy's POV

Putting her in that car and sending her away was the cruelest thing I could have done to her. But it was for her safety, knowing that I'm letting the woman I've always wanted, drive away and into the night.

[d1gnan]

here's a little deep dive on the fight club necklace / my process in general hehe

i put like way too much thought into all my jewelry and this is about to be the most in depth ive actually ever gone about my process so sorry in advance 4 how long winded i am

(and if ur new to my jewelry i get everything secondhand and i upcycle so i source from places like estate sales/thrift stores/antique malls/ebay/shop frum peoples personal collections etc )

i think the necklace and the original paper street bracelet i made speak the same visual language as the paper street house pretty well because i sourced most of it from some of my oldest and most visually ornate jewelry finds.

a lot of the beads from this one are actually from this really dope older lady i knows collection/more specifically from a costuming warehouse in nyc and the jewelry is just so ornate and crazy and out of style, i imagine they were once worn by the kind of people that wouldve gotten their soup peed in so its kind of fun to reclaim them for something like this

when i went to go look thru my stash i was specifically thinking of chipping wallpaper and pulling anything that evoked that to me-kind of corny for a second, but i love beat up old houses visually and theres something so cool about the juxtaposition of ornate/destroyed. layerS and layers of beautiful print made sad and irrelevant by its surroundings. these (the houses and the jewelry) were luxurious and cool and trendy at one point and now theyre completely obsolete and funny. i honestly think the whole thing screams tyler durdens philosophy also

( a beautiful thing destroyed, the performance of put-togetherness+ wealth, putting stake in material goods+trends only for them to be completely stripped away by time )

but anyway yeah when u put these glamorous old things together with stuff like keys and charms that don't match and mix gold/silver, you get this really lived in and sick junk drawer effect, and when you pair pale whites with pale greens it can kind of give a souring/moldy/aged look

little more specific callouts tho for references (left to right)

golf club charms r pretty obvious

the green engraved stone i grabbed immediately because it gives the old wallpaper feeling i was going for

theres this golden charm that's kinda like a kitschy grandma charm, it says "1 minute/1 hour/1day/1week/1year/1leapyear/1century" and i put that as a reference to "this is your life and its ending one minute at a time"/"i am jacks wasted life" and i also think it works on another level/kindamatches with fight clubs irony since its like supposed to be a cutie love commitment idk at least 2 me hahaha

the little step ladder charm and the key i added so that it would read as yeah a dirty old unfinished house/kinda a visual junk drawer..the key i got at an estate sale (i got a bunch and had to make key soup to clean them all)it opens something somewhere

the dog vaccination tag is there both as a reference to the guy that they threaten but then also slightly as a nod to the narrators wacked self esteem the whole like puppy dog obsession aspect IDK

theres a little P and S charm for paper street

the freshwater pearl at the end and the plastic bone shaped bead are kind of supposed to give teeth/bones like subconsciously, i tried a kind of similar thing when i made jewelry based off of pearl from X and tried to make like a rotting looking necklace

theres a little coke bottle cracker jack toy on there too, if ur trying to condense fight club into symbols, glass bottles pop up in my brain so i wanted to find something like that and i got lucky. theres also a little green telescope cracker jack toy thats kind of rusty and i picked it up for how well it matched what i was going for visually but i feel like it could also be a space monkeys thing

any way thanks for looking at this, like i said this is the deepest ive ever gone into depth about my process, but this is why im so drawn to creating jewelry it feels like taking a picture or finishing a puzzle i just do it in a really specific way and it always feels fresh and new when i start a new project, (i definitely dont always have this much to say i promise) but any way hope this was cool

[thsillystringbeanscribbler]

Bunny Slippers: Chapter Four

Summary: Julia has been deemed a gifted researcher, a beneficial trait for a hunter. However, with the knowledge of her father's feelings towards Julia in the field, will she be able to keep up with the Winchester brothers?

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader [ OC: Julia Blackburn ]

Warnings: mostly fluff with violence and angst, maybe slow burn

Word Count: 6, 802 words

Author's Note: Here are the links to the previous chapters. Apologies if these chapters come out slower now, i actually have to do my university work, and cannot continue to procrastinate. But had to at least post this one because I cannot stop fangirling over dean rn. I have also added a tag list, so let me know if you want me to add you :).

Chapter One; Chapter Two; Chapter Three

(Image from Pinterest)

As the Impala's engine hummed to a halt in the motel's parking lot, Dean's voice broke the silence, careful not to disturb the sleeping Julia. "Looks like this is our stop for the night," he whispered, glancing at Sam who was stirring in the backseat.

Sam, waking up to their new surroundings, sat up and stretched. "I'll go grab us some rooms," he said, sliding out of the car with a yawn. The cool night air seemed to invigorate him as he headed towards the motel's office.

Dean, meanwhile, stayed in the driver's seat, his gaze affectionately lingering on Julia. She was still asleep, her head resting against the car door, glasses askew. Carefully, he reached over, gently tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

Sam returned shortly, jingling a set of keys. "Got the last two rooms," he announced in a hushed tone, mindful of the quiet night. "I'll get our stuff; you wake Julia."

He busied himself with the bags while Dean quietly stepped out of the car and made his way to the passenger side. Opening the door slowly, he was ready to catch Julia in case she stirred. Leaning down, he gently touched her arm. "Jules, time to wake up, sweetheart," he said softly, his voice soothing in the quiet night air.

Julia's eyes fluttered open, looking around in confusion. Dean's presence immediately grounding her. "Mind your head," Dean murmured kindly, sliding his hands under her legs and behind her back, lifting her effortlessly out of the Impala. He carried her into one of the motel rooms, his steps careful and measured.

Once inside, Dean gently laid her down on the bed, ensuring she was comfortable. Julia, now more awake, looked up at him with gratitude.

"Thanks, Dean," she said softly, her voice tinged with sleepiness but also a hint of warmth for his thoughtful gesture. Dean gave a small, reassuring smile in response, his actions speaking louder than words in the quiet comfort of the motel room.

Sam entered the room, Julia's duffel bag in hand, and carefully placed it on the unoccupied bed. He glanced around, ensuring everything was in order before addressing Julia with a gentle, protective tone.

"Hey, we're just next door, alright? If you need anything, don't hesitate to knock," Sam said, his voice carrying a brotherly concern. He shifted his gaze to Dean, his eyes subtly conveying a reminder – to give Julia the space she might need. It was a look that spoke volumes, one that Dean understood well.

Dean caught Sam's look and nodded slightly, acknowledging the unspoken message. He turned to Julia, his demeanor shifting to one that balanced care with respect for her independence.

"Yeah, Jules, Sam's right. We're just a stone's throw away. You got your bag here," Dean gestured towards the duffel on the bed, his voice softer than usual, yet still carrying that characteristic Dean Winchester confidence. "Get some rest, okay? We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow."

His words were simple, yet they held a depth of understanding and concern for Julia's well-being, a testament to the bond they had begun to forge.

Julia gave a grateful nod as Sam set down her bag. As the brothers moved towards the door, she called out in a cheerful, albeit slightly weary tone, "Sleep tight, you guys."

Just as Sam and Dean were about to exit, Julia's voice halted them in their tracks. "Hey, guys!" They turned back to face her. She offered a small, sincere smile. "Thanks again... for everything," she said, her voice laced with genuine appreciation.

Dean paused, leaning against the door frame. A soft smile played on his lips, a rare show of his more tender side. "Hey, no need to thank us, Jules. That's what family's for," he said, his voice gentle yet firm, assuring her of their unwavering support. "Get some good rest. We'll be right next door, okay? Anything you need, just holler."

With those reassuring words, Dean gave her a final nod, a silent promise of safety and camaraderie. He then followed Sam out the door, softly closing it behind them, leaving Julia to the quiet solitude of her room.

Julia sat on her bed, enveloped in a silence that felt almost palpable, staring at the door long after the brothers had departed. For what felt like an eternity but was only half an hour, she remained motionless, her gaze fixed on the nondescript door of their motel room. The mundanity of the room—a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within her—felt oppressive. Her hands, restless and seeking comfort, brushed up and down her legs in a subconscious attempt to soothe her frayed nerves.

With a deep, resigning sigh that seemed to carry the weight of her worries, Julia finally stirred from her spot. She rose, her movements sluggish, as if the last 24 hours had left her physically burdened. The idea of a shower, of letting the warm water wash over her, seemed like the only remedy to the cold, gnawing unease that had settled in her bones.

The bathroom offered a temporary sanctuary as she stood under the shower head, the warm water cascading over her like a comforting embrace. She closed her eyes, letting the water envelop her, hoping—praying—that it could somehow erase the haunting memories of the day gone by. "Just wash it all away," she whispered to herself, a mantra to keep the encroaching despair at bay.

Eventually, the water ceased its comforting drum against the tiled floor, and Julia, with a reluctant turn of the faucet, stepped out into the steam-filled room. The fog seemed to follow her as she made her way back into the bedroom, the stark contrast between the warmth of the bathroom and the chill of the motel room mirroring the turmoil inside her.

She approached the unoccupied double bed, her movements automatic as she retrieved her pajamas from her duffel bag. The Van Halen shirt, Batman pajamas, and a pair of socks—her comfort clothes—were laid out with a care that belied her inner turmoil. Dressing quickly, Julia couldn't help but feel the weight of the last day's events finally catching up to her, her body heavy with an exhaustion that went beyond the physical.

Now dressed, her next move was mechanical, born out of habit and the need for security—the double check on the motel door to ensure it was locked. This simple act, a routine meant to offer safety, felt like a feeble defense against the world outside.

Crawling under the threadbare motel bedding, Julia's movements were slow, each one a battle against the weariness that threatened to consume her. She placed her glasses on the bedside table, a final act before surrendering to sleep. As she closed her eyes, the events of the day replayed in her mind, a relentless tide of memories and emotions. But exhaustion proved to be a merciful captor, and Julia quickly fell into a deep sleep, her breaths evening out as she escaped into the respite that only sleep could offer.

The transition from night to the hesitant dawn was imperceptible, marked only by the subtle shift in the quality of darkness outside. In the dimly lit room, the first rays of sun teased their way through the gaps in the motel blinds, painting thin lines of light across the floor. Julia stirred in her bed, the restful oblivion of sleep reluctantly receding as her hand reached out for the glasses perched on the bedside table. Squinting, she brought the world into focus and glanced at the clock, its red numbers flashing the early hour—05:53 AM.

With a long, drawn-out sigh, Julia swung her legs off the bed and planted her feet firmly on the floor, steeling herself for the day ahead. She dressed methodically, donning the outfit laid out from the night before—a simple gray tank top layered beneath a rugged black jacket, its sleeves frayed from countless brushes with the implacable outside world. Her jeans were a second skin, faded in all the right places, held snug by a leather belt that had seen better days.

Her Doc Martens were next, the laces pulled tight and tied off, a small but necessary armour against whatever lay waiting. Her long auburn hair, which could have been a wild torrent, was instead woven into a neat French braid, an act of preparation for the day's tasks in the town ahead.

The room was filled with the sound of zippers and the shuffle of fabric as Julia packed her other clothes back into her duffel bag. A glance at the clock—06:02 AM—confirmed the morning was indeed marching forward. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she made for the door, stepping out into the crisp morning that held the remnants of night's chill.

The Impala loomed in the parking lot, a silent sentinel awaiting its passengers. As Julia approached, she noted the quiet—the world seemed to be holding its breath. Placing her duffel beside the car, she turned toward the motel room that housed Sam and Dean, the door looking just like any other, yet hiding the familiar chaos of the brothers within.

A soft knock from Julia was met with a symphony of morning grumbles before the door swung open to reveal Dean. His usual sharp demeanour was softened by sleep, his hair tousled, and his bare chest on display beneath an open flannel. His eyebrows knit together in a frown that shifted into a look of sleepy concern upon seeing Julia.

Julia's eyes inadvertently traced the lines of his torso before snapping up to meet his eyes, a warmth spreading across her cheeks as she offered a playful jab, "Ha! Consider this payback for that early wake-up months ago."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, the corners of his mouth turning up despite the early hour. "Payback, huh? That how we're playing it?" He leaned against the doorframe, his posture relaxed but his eyes more alert now. "Well, you got me. I'm up. What's the emergency? Or you just enjoy the view?"

"There's no emergency," Julia replied with a small laugh, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Just thought you'd wanna get an early start on the case, you know?"

Dean's gaze softened with understanding, a nod acknowledging the unspoken weight of their hunter's life. "Alright, give me five minutes to wake up Sleeping Beauty," he gestured vaguely behind him towards Sam's likely slumbering form, "and we'll hit the road. Thanks for the wake-up call, Jules. You're alright." He flashed her a grin, the trademark glint of mischief back in his eyes, signalling the start of another day in the life of hunters.

Julia found a temporary perch on the hood of the Impala, the metal cool beneath her. The early morning still held the remnants of the night’s chill, and she drew her jacket tighter around herself, her gaze fixed on the motel door.

The door finally swung open, and Dean emerged, his presence immediately filling the quiet morning. He slipped into his leather jacket, the material worn in places that told stories of countless hunts and narrow escapes. With his typical confident stride, he approached the Impala, his eyes catching Julia's form against the car. His lips curled into a grin, one that held both the promise of adventure and the ease of long camaraderie.

"Morning, sunshine," Dean quipped, his voice carrying a playful tone. "Gotta say, you leaning on Baby is a picture I could get used to."

Julia pushed off from the car, a smile tugging at her own lips. "Yeah? Well, don't get too distracted, Casanova. Is Sam coming or is he planning to make a day of it in there?"

Dean's smile broadened into a chuckle, the sound seeming to brush away the remnants of sleep from his eyes. "Oh, he's on his way. You know Sammy, probably double-checking his geek-trap—uh, I mean, his bag. We'll be burning rubber in no time." He gave the Impala a loving pat, as if to assure her of the impending journey.

Their banter was a familiar dance, one that allowed them to skirt around the edges of the seriousness of their lives as hunters. It was a momentary respite, a breath taken before plunging into the depths again, and they both took it gratefully.

Dean's eyes caught sight of Julia's duffel bag and, without a word, he hoisted it along with his own and stowed them in the trunk of the Impala with practiced ease. The trunk closed with a satisfying thud, a sound that marked the beginning of many of their adventures.

"Thank you," Julia said, her voice warm with appreciation as she slid into the backseat of the car. She leaned forward over the front bench, her fingers deftly popping open the glove box to retrieve the treasured box of cassettes tucked away inside.

Through the back window, Dean found himself momentarily distracted by the sight of Julia's silhouette as she stretched across the seat. He quickly chastised himself with a shake of his head and rounded the car to the driver's side, sliding in with his usual grace.

"What are you digging for, sweetheart?" Dean asked, his tone carrying a playful edge as he watched her pull the box from its hiding spot.

"I get to pick the music, remember?" Julia responded, her attention on the cassettes as she began rifling through them, a subtle reminder of a prior agreement hanging between them.

Dean chuckled, throwing an arm over the back of the seat, his gaze lingering on her with a mix of amusement and mock exasperation. "I thought that 'DJ for a day' deal was a one-time gig," he teased, watching the concentration etch her features as she pondered her musical choices.

Julia glanced up at him, a smirk playing on her lips. "Well, you thought wrong," she quipped, the cassette in her hand poised to become the soundtrack of their morning. "Besides, everyone knows the passenger gets DJ privileges."

Dean's response was a good-natured grunt, conceding the point as he started the engine. The familiar rumble of the Impala came to life, a comforting backdrop to their light-hearted squabble. "Fine, but I reserve the right to veto any of your hippie music," he warned, though they both knew he rarely exercised that right.

With a smile, Julia selected a tape, the corners of her eyes crinkling with delight. "Trust me, Dean, you're gonna love this one," she said, her choice made, ready to set the mood for the road stretching out before them.

The Impala's engine roared to life under Dean's steady hand, a comforting purr that spoke of open roads and the promise of escape. Julia, nestled in the backseat, stretched forward between the seats with a grace that didn't go unnoticed by Dean. The warmth of her presence was close, almost tangible, as she slid the cassette into the radio with a click that preluded the swell of music.

Her braid, a neat cascade of auburn, brushed against his arm as she withdrew to settle back into her seat, leaving a trail of her scent that mingled with the leather and old spice of the car's interior. The opening chords of Creedence Clearwater Revival filled the space, "Bad Moon Rising" setting the tone for the dawn-lit drive ahead.

"Also, can you put this away for me, please?" Julia's voice pulled Dean from his brief reverie, her hand holding out the cassette box towards him.

Dean glanced at the box, then at Julia, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a semblance of a smile. "You know, one of these days I'm gonna install a 'Julia's DJ Booth' right there," he joked, taking the box from her hands and carefully placing it back into the glove compartment. "For now, I'll be your humble cassette caddy."

As if on cue, Sam emerged from the motel room, his tall frame moving with a purpose as he deposited his bag in the trunk with a precision that spoke of routine. He slid into the passenger seat beside Dean, a knowing roll of his eyes betraying his thoughts on their musical selection for the day's journey.

"Classic dad rock, again?" Sam quipped, though his tone held a hint of affection for their shared history with the genre.

Dean threw a smirk over at Sam, the banter between brothers as natural as breathing. "You say 'dad rock' like it's a bad thing, Sammy. This," he gestured towards the stereo, "is the soundtrack of legends."

The car pulled away from the motel, the early morning light casting long shadows on the road as they headed towards the horizon, the day's uncertainties awaiting them, underscored by the timeless rhythm of Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Julia's smile broadened at Sam's all-too-familiar eye roll, a silent acknowledgment of the countless miles and memories shared in the backseat of the Impala. She reached forward, her hand resting lightly on Sam's shoulder in a gesture that bridged the gap between them. "Hey, Sam," she started, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and anticipation, "you still have that book you mentioned? The one about our new case?"

Sam glanced back, a quick, assuring nod as his long fingers delved into the depths of his backpack. "Ah—yeah, just give me a sec," he responded, his voice muffled slightly as he rummaged through the contents. With a soft rustle of paper, he produced a well-thumbed history book, its cover worn from use. "Here it is. It's got some good background on the asylum we're heading to," he explained, passing the book to Julia with a slight lean over the center console.

Julia accepted the book, her fingers brushing against Sam's as she did so, conveying a silent thanks. She settled back into her seat, flipping the book open with reverence for the knowledge it contained. Her eyes began to scan the pages, absorbing the lore and legends that might give them an edge on the case.

From the driver's seat, Dean's attention was split between the winding road and the rearview mirror, where he caught glimpses of Julia's focused expression. The sight of her, so engrossed in her research, made him aware of the invaluable role she played in their tight-knit team. Every so often, he'd steal a glance, noting the way her brow furrowed in concentration, her lips pursing as she pieced together the puzzle they were about to dive into. There was a certain beauty in her focus, a dedication that matched their own, and it only solidified Dean's respect for her as a hunter.

The car ate up the miles, the soundtrack of Creedence providing a rhythmic backdrop to the silent symphony of preparation unfolding within. They were a team, each member essential, and as the morning sun climbed higher in the sky, it seemed to affirm the strength of their bond.

The Impala cruised on, the morning now fully unfurling its light across the sky. Pulling into a roadside gas station, Dean cut the engine with the familiar flick of his wrist. He stepped out, the sound of the door shutting behind him blending with the distant hum of highway traffic. Placing a hand on the roof of the car, he leaned into the window to address Julia, who was still lost in the pages of the history book.

Resting an arm on the Impala’s roof, Dean leaned towards the open window, catching Julia’s eye with a small, knowing smile. “Hey Jules, mind grabbing us a table at the diner?” he asked, his voice carrying that soft edge reserved for moments of camaraderie.

Julia's gaze lifted from the pages, and she couldn't suppress the blush that tinged her cheeks at the sound of her nickname. "Sure thing," she retorted, her smile cheeky, "since when did I become your personal assistant?"

With a light laugh, she stepped out of the car and headed towards the diner, leaving the Winchesters to their respective tasks. Sam went inside to handle the payment, while Dean busied himself with fueling up the Impala, his movements sure and practiced. Once the tank was full and the cap clicked shut, Dean and Sam slid back into the car, easing it into a parking spot with the ease of long practice. The silence that enveloped them as the engine quieted was almost jarring.

Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder, a silent signal that it was time to follow Julia's lead. They pushed through the diner doors, the ambient sounds of clinking silverware and sizzling griddles wrapping around them. Dean's eyes roamed the diner, searching for the familiar auburn waves of Julia's hair.

Spotting her in a booth by the window, Dean's stride faltered for a moment when he saw a stranger—a man with a too-confident smile—leaning into Julia's personal space. A familiar surge of protectiveness flared up in him, accompanied by a hot streak of annoyance.

"Who's this?" Dean asked, his tone deceptively calm as he locked eyes with Julia, a clear signal to the interloper that he was not simply a passerby.

Julia excused herself from the booth with an agility born from handling many an unwelcome advance. Stepping close to Dean, she reached up and planted a kiss on his cheek, the term 'handsome' seemingly a new private joke between them. "Hey, Handsome," she said, her voice a mix of relief and mischief.

She intertwined her fingers with Dean's, turning to address the stranger with a confidence bolstered by Dean's proximity. "Oh, Logan, this is my boyfriend Dean," she introduced, with a pointed emphasis that left no room for misunderstanding. "The one I've been telling you all about."

Dean raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a smirk as he took a step closer to Julia, a silent affirmation of her words. "Boyfriend, huh?" he played along, his voice a low rumble of feigned surprise and mock indignation. "Well, Logan, I hope she's been saying good things. Otherwise, we might have to have a little chat, you and I."

The warning was clear, wrapped in the velvet of Dean's casual delivery, and it wasn't long before 'Logan' mumbled something under his breath and retreated, leaving Julia and Dean alone at the booth. With the interloper gone, Dean's demeanour softened, his hand giving Julia’s a reassuring squeeze. "Good thing I showed up when I did, huh?" he said, half-joking, half-serious, as they slid into the booth to wait for Sam and start their day.

Julia's gaze met Dean's, a soft gratitude shimmering in her eyes. "Thanks for playing along with my little white lie," she murmured, her voice a confidential whisper that only Dean was privy to.

Dean's eyes didn't stray far from Logan, who was still throwing covert glances in their direction. Sam slid into the booth, his presence quiet but noticed, as Dean replied to Julia in a tone that carried both humor and a hint of something deeper. "Anytime, Jules. Besides, I'm not sure who was more convincing—you or me," he said with a playful wink.

As Sam slid into the booth, he couldn't miss the easy intimacy between Dean and Julia, their shared space feeling more natural than contrived. Though the moment with Logan gave a plausible reason for their closeness, Sam's perceptive eyes caught a glimpse of something more, something unspoken between the lines. He chose to keep his observations to himself, turning his attention instead to the approaching waitress.

She arrived with a sunny disposition, her pen poised over her notepad. "What can I get for you folks today?" she asked with the practiced cheer of someone who's served countless morning crowds.

"I'll take the usual—eggs, bacon, and keep the coffee coming," Sam ordered, his voice holding a hint of a smile as he closed his menu.

Dean gave the waitress a confident nod, "And for me, sweetheart, I'll have the breakfast special. And can you make those eggs extra greasy? Oh, and add a side of toast. Thanks."

Julia glanced down at the menu one last time before meeting the waitress's gaze. "Could I please get a stack of pancakes, with mixed berries on top? And a coffee would be great, thank you," she said, her smile warm and appreciative.

The waitress scribbled down their orders, her smile never faltering as she turned to place them with the kitchen. The din of the diner enveloped them once again, the three of them settled into their booth, light-hearted conversation about the morning helped pass the time, as they waited for their breakfast. 

The clatter of dishes announced the waitress's return, balancing a tray laden with their breakfast choices. She distributed the plates with the efficiency of a seasoned pro, the aroma of cooked breakfast filling the air. Julia's eyes widened as the waitress set down Dean's plate, piled high and glistening with a sheen that only a generous helping of grease could impart.

Julia's expression twisted into one of mock horror at Dean's culinary preference. "Extra greasy?" she echoed, her nose crinkling in playful disgust. "That's disgusting, Dean," she said, though her tone was light, teasing, underscored by the comfort of his arm resting behind her.

Dean's smirk was quick to surface, a glint of mirth in his eyes as he leaned in, his voice a low rumble meant only for her ears. "You know, some might say you're committing a sin against those perfectly good pancakes by loading them up with fruit," he teased, his gaze dancing with the challenge he knew his words would provoke.

Julia rolled her eyes, a laugh escaping her lips as she playfully nudged him with her shoulder. "Says the man who thinks the four major food groups consist of pie, burgers, fries, and pie," she retorted, emphasizing the last 'pie' for effect.

Dean's arm retracted from its casual drape behind Julia, and he could feel an unexpected tightness grip his chest—a brief twinge of something like loss—as he reached for his fork and knife. The warmth from her leaning against him was gone, leaving a hollow space that contrasted sharply with the sensation of her back pressed to his side. But he masked this quick flash of vulnerability with a bite of his greasy breakfast, the flavours a familiar comfort.

They ate amidst a comfortable chatter, the kind of light banter that made the heavy world of hunting seem miles away. It was a small pocket of normalcy that they all secretly cherished.

Sam, having finished his meal, wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned forward, the easy atmosphere shifting as he introduced the gravity of their next job. "So, we've got a series of disappearances. All high school kids, vanishing without a trace from the same town. No bodies, no signs of struggle—just gone."

Dean, a piece of toast in one hand and a knife in the other, chewed thoughtfully, his mind already turning over the possibilities. With his mouth still half full, he began to list off the usual suspects. "Sounds like the perfect M.O. for a bunch of supernatural baddies," he mumbled, crumbs tumbling from his lips. "Could be a Rugaru—hungry enough to grab a kid and leave no leftovers."

Julia raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of her coffee. "Wouldn't there be some sort of remains? Or at least a sign of a struggle?"

Dean nodded, swallowing his mouthful before continuing. "True, could also be a pack of vamps keeping the kids for a food supply," he suggested, his tone grim but his face animated by the thrill of the hunt.

Sam mulled over the theories, his eyes scanning the notes he had made. "No signs of blood or vampire activity in the area. We need to look at the patterns, maybe there's a curse or some sort of ritual involved."

Dean pushed his now-empty plate away and leaned back, his arm nonchalantly finding its way over the top of the booth again. It wasn't just an armrest he was seeking—it was the faint echo of Julia's warmth beside him. But she was engrossed in her note-taking, pen scribbling furiously on paper provided by the obliging waitress. Her focus was absolute, the amber glow of the morning light igniting the auburn in her hair to a fiery hue, her attention oblivious to Dean's silent yearning.

Having settled the bill with his usual efficiency, Dean watched her for a moment longer before reaching out, his hand lightly grazing the curve of her back. "Time to hit the road, Jules," he said, the words light but laden with an unspoken wish for her to notice more than the sound of his voice.

Julia's head lifted, and her smile was as bright as the sunlight bathing them, her previous focus on the case momentarily forgotten as she slid from the booth, the pen and paper clutched in her hand.

As they walked out, Dean's protective instincts kicked in, his hand finding the small of Julia's back, a silent statement of care as he held the diner door open for her. Her expression was open and thankful, unaware that Logan had already departed.

"Was Logan still hanging around inside?" Julia asked casually as they approached the parked Impala.

Dean glanced back at the diner, the ease in his posture belying the small lie he told. "Yup," he affirmed with a nod, opening the back passenger door for her. In his mind, any excuse to maintain their closeness was valid.

Sam, trailing just a step behind them, raised an eyebrow at Dean's comment as Julia settled into the car. "I thought he left ages ago," Sam remarked, his voice tinged with confusion as he opened the front passenger door.

Dean shot his brother a look across the roof of the Impala, a silent command to play along. "Yeah, well, you know how it is," Dean said with a half-hearted shrug, his voice carrying a hint of defensiveness. "Gotta keep an eye out for creeps like him."

With a shared glance between the Winchester brothers, one that carried years of unspoken communication, they got into the car. The Impala's doors shut with finality, the morning's diner scene closing behind them as they prepared to face the uncertainties of their latest case.

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The Impala's engine growled to life, its familiar rumble grounding Julia in the reality of the road ahead. The Winchester brothers' light-hearted quarreling filled the cabin, a comforting backdrop to the blur of the landscape speeding by.

"Are we going FBI suits for this one?" Sam's voice cut through the din, his tone suggesting a mix of readiness and routine.

Dean glanced at him, a nod accompanying his reply. "Seems like the best choice," he confirmed, the decision made with the ease of countless similar scenarios before.

Julia, intrigued by this new snippet of conversation, leaned forward, curiosity coloring her tone. "Excuse me, did you just say suits? FBI?" she asked, the notion sparking a mix of excitement and surprise.

Sam turned slightly to address her interest, explaining with the patience of someone who's had this conversation many times. "Yeah, we sometimes go undercover as FBI agents. It gives us access to crime scenes and information we wouldn't get otherwise. It's all part of the job."

Julia's reaction was immediate, her hand reaching over the seat to playfully smack Dean's arm. "You didn't tell me I needed a suit!" she exclaimed, feigning indignation.

Dean's response was a mix of amusement and a hint of apology. "Ah, slipped my mind," he admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "Guess you might have to sit this one out at the motel.”

The hours slipped by in a blur of landscapes and speculation until the trio arrived at a nondescript motel on the outskirts of town. It was early afternoon, the sun casting long shadows as they settled into their temporary base. Sam and Dean retreated to their shared room to don their FBI personas, while Julia took a moment in her own space to ponder the mystery at hand.

Her reflections were interrupted by a knock at the door. Upon opening it, she was greeted by the Winchester brothers, now transformed into the very picture of federal agents. Dean, ever the charmer, couldn't resist a playful jab. "How do we look? Ready to give the real FBI a run for their money, don't you think?" His words, delivered with a wink, brought an involuntary blush to Julia's cheeks.

"Call us if you need anything, alright? We're gonna go meet with some witnesses and parents," Dean said, his tone shifting to one of professionalism, though his eyes still twinkled with the hint of mischief that was uniquely Dean.

Julia nodded, assuring them of her well-being before sending them off. Once the Impala's roar faded into the distance, she sprang into action. Her hair, no longer confined, cascaded freely down her back as she changed into attire less conspicuous: a graphic t-shirt, sneakers, and jeans. Slipping into the brothers' room, she rifled through Sam's backpack, extracting only the essentials—some notepads and pens—before locking up and summoning a cab.

The taxi ride was short, dropping her off a block from the high school that seemed to be the epicenter of the disappearances. Determined not to be sidelined, Julia's resolve had solidified during the drive; she was not one to sit idly by. Her youthful appearance, accentuated by her soft features and vibrant hair, allowed her to merge seamlessly with the student body. To them, she was merely another face in the crowd, albeit a new one.

Throughout the day, Julia navigated the high school corridors with an ease born of necessity, her guise as a student unchallenged. The notes she took were not on academic subjects but on whispers of gossip that floated through the air, clues that might lead them to the heart of the darkness they sought to dispel.

She found a willing source of information in a group of girls, quick to embrace the newcomer and just as quick to spill the secrets haunting their halls. They spoke of a house, ominously perched on the town's edge—a place of dares and bravado turned sinister. Where once teenagers emerged from its depths with tales of fright and laughter, now, some entered and were swallowed by its shadows, never to return.

Julia listened, her pen flying across the pages of Sam's notepad, capturing every detail. This was no mere high school drama; it was a lead, and possibly the key to solving the string of disappearances that had brought the Winchesters—and her—to this town.

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Disappointment etched their features as the Winchester brothers made their way back to the Impala, the day's efforts yielding nothing but frustration. Dean, ever the voice of blunt realism, broke the silence as he settled behind the wheel. "Well, that was a bust," he grumbled, the ignition turning over with a roar that seemed to echo his sentiment. Their visit to the local sheriff had ended as many others had before—without leads or useful information.

The drive back to the motel was a quiet one, marked by the setting sun casting long shadows over the road. They arrived back at their temporary home, the parking lot of the motel now familiar territory. Sam, retrieving the room keys from his pocket, made his way to their room with a sense of resigned routine.

As Sam unlocked the door and pushed it open, he was met with the unexpected sight of his belongings meticulously arranged on his bed. The anomaly caught him off guard. "Uh—Dean?" he called out, his voice tinged with confusion, halting Dean's attempts to rouse Julia from her room.

Dean paused in the midst of knocking on Julia's door, his calls unanswered. "Julia, we're back!" he announced, a hint of concern creeping into his voice as silence greeted his announcement. "Jules?!" he tried again, louder this time, the absence of her response stirring a worry he hadn't anticipated. The brothers exchanged a glance, an unspoken agreement that something was amiss settling between them.

he growing panic was palpable between the brothers as Dean raised his hand to knock once more on Julia's door, his muscles tensed in preparation to force entry. But then, a laugh—a sound so distinctly Julia—drifted towards them, diffusing the tension like mist. They turned to see her, her auburn hair a beacon among a group of teenage girls, her laughter a reassurance that she was safe.

As the group dispersed, Julia approached, Sam's backpack slung casually over her shoulder, her face alight with the thrill of her impromptu investigation. "Hey, how was the FBI investigating?" she greeted with a smile, fishing for her key.

Dean and Sam could only stare, their worry morphing into disbelief. "Where were you?" Dean managed, his voice a mix of relief and lingering concern.

Julia, unlocking her door, turned to them, an explanation ready. "Well, I couldn't just stay here, and since I look young enough, I went undercover at the high school," she said, handing Sam his backpack with an apologetic glance. "Sorry for the mess, I was in a rush."

Sam, still processing her audacity, took his belongings and vanished into their room, leaving Dean to confront Julia about her solo venture.

"You should've told us where you were going. What if something had happened?" Dean's words tumbled out in a rush, the protective edge in his voice belying his deep concern for her.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to help," Julia responded, her voice soft, her intent clear in her eyes as she stood in the doorway of her room.

"I got some information if that helps," she added, hoping to offset his worry with the promise of progress.

Dean paused, the initial surge of frustration ebbing away as he took in her earnest expression. "You're off the hook this time," he finally said, a reluctant smile breaking through. "But next time, you roll with us. No more solo missions, got it?"

Julia's relief was palpable, her smile grateful. "Got it," she agreed, the promise hanging between them—a new understanding forged in the day's unexpected events.

Julia made her way into the brothers' room, a space marked by the transient nature of their lives—bags half-unpacked, weapons carelessly strewn about, a testament to their readiness to move at a moment's notice. She perched on the edge of one of the beds, the brothers attentive as she prepared to share her findings.

"So, I talked to this girl, Gemma, at the school," Julia began, her voice steady with the weight of her discovery. "She told me about this haunted house on the outskirts of town. It's like this local legend among the teens. They dare each other to go inside, and it used to be just harmless fun. But something's changed."

She paused for a moment, ensuring she had their full attention. "Recently, anyone who's gone in... hasn't come out. There haven't been any bodies found because, well, it seems like only the high schoolers know their friends are missing. They haven't told any adults because they're all bound by some sort of pact."

The room was thick with the implication of her words, the weight of the unsaid hanging between them. The case they were facing had just taken on a new, more sinister dimension, rooted in the very rituals of adolescence and silence.

Dean leaned forward, his expression morphing from intrigue to determination as Julia's story sank in. Running a hand through his hair, he let out a low whistle, the gears clearly turning in his head. "Haunted house, huh? Sounds like our kind of party," he mused, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth despite the gravity of the situation. "All right then, looks like we're crashing this ghostly get-together tonight. Time to gear up and see what's really going down at this spooky little high school legend."

Sam, ever the researcher, opened his laptop, already typing away in search of any folklore or history that might give them an edge. "This pact among the students... it adds an extra layer of complexity. But if this house is the epicentre of the disappearances, we need to investigate it thoroughly." He looked up from his screen, his face set in a mask of seriousness. "We should approach this carefully, make sure we're prepared for whatever's inside. Let's gather what we need and head out."

To be continued . . .

Tag List: @deanwinchestersgirl87

[skybrushus]

Twilight Sparkle's finished writing her signature on the document and then returned the quill pen to its place in the inkwell. Opening a drawer on her desk she retrieved a small ornately carved teak box and set it on the desktop. From a pocket on her deep red satin vest she withdrew a small ring of keys. She selected a particularly fancy key of chiseled steel which had a large, faceted amethyst stone inset into it. 

     The light mauve alicorn's horn glowed slightly and the box glowed in a similar color. There was a brief flash of arcane light then it subsided. Twilight then inserted the key into lock and turned it. The gemstone in the key glowed brightly for an instant and the lock clicked. Lifting the lid of the box she removed a wax seal and stick of violet sealing wax. Twilight's horn sparked for an instant and the wick of the sealing wax burst into flames. She then dripped several drops of the wax on the paper. Quickly she pressed her seal into the molten wax and then carefully lifted the seal leaving an impression of the seal in the cooling wax.  She then placed the document in a large pile of other pieces of paper, vellum, and parchment. 

    Extinguishing the wick on the sealing wax. Twilight returned the seal and wax to the box. She started close it when her eyes settled on another object in the teak box. It was a key. A much simpler type of key that was found on countless key rings across Equestria. The Princess of Friendship looked at the key and then to a bottle sitting on her desk. It was a modest sized bottle of deep pine green,semi-translucent glass. It had a flip-top stopper. Attached to the stopper was a steel shackle that hooked over and held in place by a utilitarian but very rugged looking lock. Embellished on the bottle was the image of an open book. 

     Twilight looked at the key and then to bottle. Then she glanced over to the large stack of paperwork that still needed her attention. She looked back to the bottle, then to the key in the box, then over to papers again. This cycle went on for a few seconds until the mare smiled and she muttered to herself. 

      "All work and no play make Twilight a dull princess." The paperwork could wait until tomorrow. A smile spread across her face. "I guess I can let her out to play for the evening." 

     The alicorn's flared again and the bottle levitated closer to her. The glow of her changed color and the lock and stopper flashed for an instant. Then she inserted the key and unlocked it. Then she removed the lock, flipped open the stopper, and then leaned back in her chair and enjoyed the upcoming show.

     After a couple of seconds a small geyser of viscous, glistening black liquid erupted from the bottle. The liquid hung in the air as more and more and even more of it emerged and hung in the air in defiance of gravity. After a second or so it started forming into the figure of Page Turner. The unicorn mare was wearing a leather ensemble that she called her Adventure Outfit. She twirled in the air a couple of times. Then she looked down at the princess and smiled. 

     "Evening your Highness. What services do you require from me your most loyal and obedient servant?!"

      Twilight steepled her fingers as she leaned back in her chair and looked up at the mare and grinned. "You know. I think you deliberately lost that bet we made. Because you're enjoying this way too much!"

      The Page Turner put her arms behinds back and leaned over and looked down at Twilight. "Is that a problem ma'am?"

      Twilight's grin grew even larger. "No problem at all."

      This is one of the drawings she started during my recent Picarto stream. Link The theme that evening was genies. In both my Equestria and Anthro MLP dreamscape Page Turner is part of Princess Twilight's security detail and the mare is now the princess's lover. This is the story that popped into my head as I was doing the drawing. 

[raayllum]

So Aaravos and Callum have always had some parallels as foils - not overtly, due to limited understanding of Aaravos’ backstory, and what little we do have makes him mirror Rayla far more - mostly due to being the series’ Narrators alongside Viren, mages who will presumably have connections to many or all arcana, etc. 

However, season four has started to escalate that in a few key ways

First, there’s the “through the glass” motif and a theme of transparency running between Callum in 4x01, Aaravos with his literal looking glass, and to a lesser extent, Rayla’s Moonshadow form in 4x02 (but more on that later). Aaravos is a character defined by his isolation, and we see variants of that with Callum in early season four as well. He’s trying to hide how he feels, the same way Aaravos successfully keeps his goals under wraps.

Then, you have the fact that both Callum and Aaravos choose to shatter something rare and powerful by their own volition. 

Although it’s not quite the same in execution as I thought it would be, as I thought Callum may lead to the mirror being shattered, I figured the show would parallel Callum’s smashing of the primal stone with eventual shattering of the mirror in some capacity, just because it seemed too perfect a parallel to pass up. Shattering the primal stone is what ultimately allows Zym to hatch and be freed, so it only makes sense that shattering the mirror would also be the prelude to Aaravos being freed as well.

Additionally, the arc that is set up for Callum after these events is very similar. In s2, Callum is trying to find a way to be a mage again because he wants to feel useful and like he can protect his loved ones. He feels lost and directionless without magic and wants to reclaim who he felt he was becoming. 

Now, some of that is already present in season four. Callum is paranoid and determined to protect Ezran at the drop of a hat. He’s not entirely certain or comfortable with who he is, or at least the position he has at court ( “Let’s go to the High Mage’s office, which is, uh, my office”). However, Aaravos possessing him and the fallout of that amplifies Callum’s previous season two struggles a hundred fold. Forgetting not feeling like himself, he feels like he had every bit of agency utterly stripped away, to not just a ‘powerless’ human, but an outright pawn and puppet. Instead of worrying how he can protect his loved ones, he’s worried about being forced to hurt them. 

This all takes place of course before the turn of the season when Callum does dark magic, so I’ll be curious to see how long or completely the structure holds, but I still think it’s very cool the show is showing not only how the Cycle continues on this microlevel, but also doing their thing where they repeat the Cycle but continually also escalate the stakes. 

[idesofrevolution]

Mr. Steal-Your-Man

You left the club exhausted. The music was hot, the people were hot, your girlfriend was... very drunk. It was the first time in MONTHS that you got to go out, and you were so excited to finally just let loose at a live concert again. Not that Christi was particularly into the idea. To be honest, listening to her complain and slur and talk shit about her "friends" had been nagging on your shoulder for some time now. If you were being real with yourself, you'd admit your feelings for her had diminished quite a bit. If you were keeping it truly real, you'd admit that you were tired of no sex for the past eight months. You were tired of her getting pissed when she caught you beating one out on a Saturday afternoon. You were tired of having to work, cook, clean, and silently agree with her every whim. In short, you were whipped and you were... well, exhausted.

You turned and did your best to let the bouncer deal with her drunken ramblings about you, as Uber began to load up on your phone. Please, don't be a long wait, you thought; begging to just get her home and into bed so you wouldn't have to worry. The little ding from your phone signaled you had precisely five minutes before "Greg" in is Red Toyota Sienna would come pick you up out front. Turning around, you prepared for the ungodly fight that was going to ensue to get her in the car and yet, as you scanned the crowd to see where she'd gone off to, you couldn't help but notice that you were being watched.

Against the side gate of the back alley leaned the musician for the night, fresh off the stage from his set. He was a DJ, you couldn't quite recall his name, but he was a fairly well known fixture around town after a few well received gigs and a quick tour. His face glistened with sweat as the streetlight illuminated him from above, his hand covering the flirtatious side grin he cast you from his face. Intriguing. You wonder if he recognized you from somewhere, or more likely his gaze was pointed at someone else closeby. Still, something felt magnetic from those stoned, red eyes.

"BAAAAAAAAAAAABE I wanna go homeeeee." Christi's whining broke the connection like a baseball flying through a plate glass window. You took a deep breath and turned to her. She was fumbling with her clutch, trying to find keys for a car you didn't have. "I don't knoww... Where the fuck are the keys. I think... I think that fucking bartender took them. I bet..." Just as you were preparing to turn and head back into the club to appease her, a gruff, smoky voice came billowing from beside you.

"What's up. How'd y'all like the set?" You turned, and were met with the DJ's chill, definitely toked out face. From up close, you were better able to read him, and absolutely one hundred percent he was flashing you and Christi some looks. She turned and immediately started to do her typical chipper grovelling. That beat drop was so cool yada yada yada, the lights were so colorful yada yada yada, it frustrated you to no end knowing that she hated the set and wouldn't even dance, so every lie she spewed made your expression sink a bit further into irritation. "That's what's up, that's dope. Thank you so much." He was suave, a laid back attitude that perhaps was elevated by an inordinate amount of weed (of which you could easily smell behind a thick veil of sweaty musk), but it felt genuine- not put on for clout.

"Yeah, man. I fuckin' loved it. I'm gonna have to check you out on iTunes." He turned to you and smiled, raising his hand to collide with yours. He did not break eye contact, but his brows did furrow just a bit, a facial signal you'd read many times before.

"Yeah, man. I saw you out there on the floor. Love seein' folks feel the music, you know what I'm sayin'?" You and Christi both nodded, your attention entirely entangled with him. "So, I don't know if y'all are into this or not. But, I'm headin' back to my place in a bit, if you two wanted to... you know. Tag along." You were picking up what he was laying down. You'd never been propositioned like this before, you'd never been propositioned for a threesome before, and for a solid moment there you sincerely thought about taking him up on that offer. You'd never been with a guy before, you'd never been interested in guys before, but something was different with this dude. Yet, as you turned to see Christi's uninterested gaze and felt her pinch your forearm- the universal signal she was saying no.

"We've been drinking a lot, and I think we're just gonna get home and hit the hay. Thank you for the offer though!" You tried to smile, express your nonverbal apologies, and it seemed to be received. He held his hands up and chuckled.

"Hey, shoot your shot, right? You change your mind, let me know, aight?" He pulled out a sharpie from his pocket, fresh from signing his headshots, and scribbled on your hand a phone number and his name, Apollo. He winked at you two as he sauntered back down the back alley out of sight. You turned to Christi, yet again destroying your chances not only of getting laid, but dictating to you about promiscuity or something. You stopped listening the moment she called him a faggot.

The night ended much as expected. "Greg" showed up in his Red Toyota Sienna and drove you and Christi home. She stumbled around the kitchen a bit before taking the last of your La Croix and heading up to your bedroom before passing out atop the duvet. This is how every outing went. And frankly, you were done. You'd been done for quite some time now, but for some reason, you couldn't shake Apollo's wink from your mind and the tension of having yet another opportunity whisked away from you boiled over. You pulled your phone off the charger on the counter and typed in the number hastily written on your wrist.

"Hey," you texted "thanks for the offer tonight. If you're still out I'll defs come grab a drink or something?" You felt a rush. Was this wrong? Is this cheating? Did you... care? Your phone chimed: your caller ID proclaimed a message from DJ Apollo Wilde.

"dope im leavin the bar now meet up at my place on esplanade" followed by the address. You snagged your keys (a plus of not being drunk this evening) and checked your hair in the hall mirror. Just a once over before slipping out of the front door as quietly as possible.

The drive only took about fifteen minutes, and you were eventually out in front of a fairly nice apartment complex. Super modern, nicely landscaped, floor to ceiling windows... Impressive. You pressed the call button and typed in 7A. The box rang and after a solid 10-20 seconds of anxiety, Apollo's sultry voice spilled from the intercom.

"Whassup, head on up, man." The door buzzed loudly, and you quickly swung the door open and crossed the lobby to the elevators. You rode them to the 7th floor in quiet anticipation. You were floored you were doing this. Never in your wildest dreams would you have imagined that you'd be taking up some dude's offer for a nightcap in his apartment- let alone while being 'taken.' The doors opened to the floor and you meandered to the end of the hall: 7A. Outside the door were three or four sets of sneakers and boots, all wafting a heavy stench of wet foot funk. You knocked on the door, and could hear from the far end of the apartment a bit of movement. Taking another guilty glance down at your feet, the well worn shoes had caught your attention. You'd never liked feet. You'd never really been turned on by musk or sweat... But something about that warm, sharp scent... fresh... right off of his body... leaving some of himself in them, his essence... Yeah, it hit different. Before you could even know what you were doing you'd picked up one of the more beat up AF1's and brought it to your nose. You inhaled deeply, and let that intoxicating smell right into yourself. It hit just like poppers, a wave of goosebumps flushed down your body, and your head got ever so slightly more misty and light.

The fiddling of the lock came quick and as Apollo swung the door open you dropped the sneaker back onto the pile, trying to pull off a nonchalant posture as you met his gaze and hoping he hadn't seen. Just one look at him and whatever concerns or qualms in your head about whether or not to follow through with this insane booty call melted away. That slicked back, sweaty black hair, that stoned gaze that felt so effortlessly cool, that natural man smell that poured from his lean, inked frame. He nodded his head in greeting, reaching his hand out to you once more.

Taking his hand, he guided you inside, letting the door shut behind him. The apartment was disastrously messy. Dirty clothes littered the floor atop mixers, amps, sneakers, tablets... all bathed in the blue and purple glow of colored lights. The fanciness of the apartment seemed more comfortable, to be honest, and you felt at ease in the smoke veiled flat. There, against a wall of glass, viewing the incredible skyline was a platform bed and a huge bong sitting atop an old MacBook.

"Damn, dude you got a nice..." You couldn't even finish before he'd taken your face between his slick palms and pulled your lips together. His lips were like butter, soft and pillowy; and his pierced tongue slid like a slick, smoky probe around your mouth. No girl had ever kissed this well before, no girl had ever tasted this mouthwatering. Your lips parting made you have an insatiable need for more, his hot breath still flooding your mouth.

"Fuck I'm glad it's just you, bruh. No offense but your girl is rough, man, but I was gonna push through it if I got to spend some time with you." His hands slid down your back and playfully groped your ass, before he pulled your hand toward the bed. He plopped down and finished packing the bowl he'd started, the leather jacket shining like polished latex in the fuchsia hues. "I know you ain't ever been with a dude before." The Bic lighter snapped as he lit the bowl, taking a considerable drag you were not confident you could follow. He winked at you as he blew the cloud of smoke into your face. "I can tell. But I'mma take it nice and slow for you, babe." Flashing a cocky grin, he passed you the bong. You brought the opening to your lips as he ignited the bowl. Pulling, pulling, pulling, until the bong was filled with white smoke. Before you could do it, Apollo pulled the stopper, and the smoke flooded into your lungs. Expecting a coughing fit of epic proportions, you held your breath. As you let the smoke slowly out, it felt as if you'd done this a million times even though this was by far the largest toke you'd ever taken. Your brows dropped, your eyes got heavy, your body relaxed, and your mind was finally contently quiet. He pulled out a small remote and clicked the speakers on. Some of his low fi, almost vaporwave beats began to pump through the bass. Though you'd never heard it before, you seemed to know every single beat, every single melody and scratch. He smiled as you bobbed your head to his music.

"That's right, baby. Here, take my boots off." Apollo swung his legs around, letting his huge, well loved Timberlands rest in your lap. "I saw you playin' with the AF's. You like it don't ya?" You absentmindedly nodded, and began to unlace the huge boats. Pulling off the first one, wet hot steam burst forth as if decompressing from the hot confines of the boot. His stretched out white socks were stained with his footprint on the bottom, beckoning for you. "Try the boot first, baby. Let summa that musty foot funk in." You brought the size 13 Timberland to your face and dragged just as you did from the bong. Sopping wet. Buttery. Salty. Tangy. It was as if you were inhaling his entire concert right out of the hot spring. His wet sock pressed and played with your growing bulge as you let your tongue slide across the insole, your tongue bursting with a flavor indescribably savory and addictive with every droplet of his sweat. "Fuuuuck, I love the way you love that funk after a show. Here, take the other one off."

You let the first boot thunk to the ground next to your feet, as you eagerly yank off the second yellow Timberland from his foot. As it drops to the ground, Apollo smiles as he puts his feet on your face, the sweaty, grimy slime of built up footsweat against your skin was better than any day spa could ever make you feel. So in euphoria were you that you didn't even notice your feet starting pulsate, as the hot smelly fumes from the Timberlands began to penetrate into your own soles and into every crevice behind each toe until your feet had begun to emanate his own irresistible musk.

"Fuck yeah, babe. I love how drunk you get off me. Gimme some of those lips." He pulled his feet from your face, smirking as he noticed the stubble that had begun to develop on your chin and upper lip. You crawled atop him in a feat of dirty passion you'd never had before, locking your rapidly plumping lips with Apollo's, still tainted with the taste of his own feet. You knew he loved your musty size 13's, especially after sharing his boots; a constant part of your filthy sex ritual. You knew he loved the taste of ashy weed on your pierced tongue as it slid over his, and you knew just how to make him happy when your lips met. His soft hands slid over your slimming body, ripping the ill fitted clothing from your tanning skin. You pulled away and began to slowly unbutton his pants. Tattoos sprawled out across your slimming fingers as your expertly pulled the ripped black jeans to the ground, exposing the throbbing outline of his cock behind the thin fabric of his Calvin Kleins.

"Aww fuck yeah, babe. You always know what to do." Apollo tossed the leather jacket aside, and sprawled backward with his arms behind his head; a naughty twinkle hidden in his narrow brown eyes. Pulling down the off-white calvins wet with sweat and pre, his lean, rock hard uncut cock nearly smacked you in the jaw as it does nearly every time. You lick around the head and under his foreskin, letting your piercing tease him while you taste that funky ass dick you love. He moans as you take him into your mouth, letting it slide down your throat without so much as a heave. He smirks as he grabs the back of your head and slams it down, face fucking you with rhythmic, rolling thrusts. His balls slap against your chin as your body starts to soak up his sweat on your skin, putting on just enough muscle to define your tall, sunkissed body. "Jesus Christ, you're so sexy." Apollo muttered, letting you up for air.

You smiled, your sultry and handsome face oozed sexual confidence matched only by his after years of damn good sex. Ripping off his shirt, you flipped him as he growled in furious lust, plunging your tongue into his tight, sweaty hole.

"FUCK, Mateo. Get in there, fuck yeah." Your cock elongated with every pump of blood; 6 inches. 8 inches. 10 inches, before the skin closed loosely over your 11" inch uncut python, begging to explore your man's spit slick hole. You pulled your tongue out, and quickly plunged your pre-lubed cock into Apollo. You fucked him bareback, deep with a swagger and romantic passion that drove you wild.

"Fuck, Apollo. I'm gonna blow." He growled thrust backwards, spearing himself on you and stroking your cock with an ass better than any fleshlight on the market until your inflating balls couldn't handle any more. You shot your famously massive load deep into Apollo, streams of white cum shooting out of his hole like a geyser. You smirked and pulled out just in time for him to grab you by the neck, tossing you onto your back.

"You're so fuckin' hot, Mateo. Let me in that ass." Gagging you with his socks you love to sniff every day, he plowed you rough with his wide hands against your throat until he could climax his own flood into your body. Apollo dismounted and plopped on his back next to you, throwing his arm around your neck as you fell asleep in eachother's juices.

The next morning, the sun shone bright through the windows onto you and your man's notoriously sexy bodies sprawled across the satin sheets. You woke up as you always did, swiping on your OnlyFans and Twitter until Apollo would wake. A grope of your lithe cock and a deep kiss was all you needed each morning from him, assuming it was just you two the night before. You hopped out of bed, slipping on one of Apollo's outfits from a show earlier in the week, and borrowing his ripe socks and Doc Martens to flesh out the look. In their home, "mi casa es su casa." Just as you were heading out to get some promo shots for the next album, a ping from your phone showed a strange text from an unknown number, asking about her boyfriend or whatever. Psh. Must've been the wrong number.

[hotwings0203]

Wat if katsuki actually had a s/o that loved Key word LOVED him but.....

Then when he started getting to aggressive and starts hitting her she suddenly stops all the love and affection. And that makes katsuki so confused and angry bc he like 'wtf why did they stop huggin and kissin me when I get home from my matches'. Then his darling becomes very depressed is and cooped up in her room all the time. So when katsuki friends come over they wonder where y/n is.

Tw:abuse, implied dubcon, depression

“Babe, you’re home!” You rush over to the door when you head it unlocking, arms outstretched already or embrace his wounds.

But when the door swings open you’re met with a scowling Bakugo who shoves you aside so hard you fall to the floor.

He grumbles and throws his bags down, kicking mud off his shoes onto the carpet as he glares at you.

“This place is a pigsty. Why the fuck didn’t you clean?”

You laugh nervously and raise an eyebrow. “Uhh, ‘cause I was out all day too? I just got home an hour ago and I was tired. What’s with you? Why’re you in such a bad mood?”

Katsuki’s eyes widen until they’re the size of dinner plates. His nostrils flare and his fists resume the same position as they do in the ring.

“You talkin’ back to me now?”

“What? No, you literally just asked-“

Crack.

The sound of him backhanding your cheek reverberates around the apartment, and you hold your face in shock.

It’s not so much the pain of him striking you that hurts, it’s the fact that this has been happening for a while now that aches the most. Nothing you do-no smiles, no amount of love you showed him in, no sobs or pleads-sways him.

You love him, it’s true.

But it’s hard to love him when he looks at you like that.

“Get the fuck up. And clean all this shit up, the next time I come home to this filth I’ll make the clean the floors with your tongue.”

He grabs you by your hair and throws you face-first onto the tile area, taking his own sweet time to turn around and walk to your shared room.

After you clean for hours until the place is spotless, you retreat to bed.

He’s on his phone typing away with a slight crease in his eyebrows, but he looks up at you as you walk in.

“Hey. You done?” He has the audacity to ask in a gentle voice.

“Mmhm.”

You don’t look at him as you begin changing your clothes in the restroom and close the door behind you.

His frown deepens at that. You’ve never shied away from being vulnerable and naked with him.

To test his doubt, when you walk back into the room with your head still down, he leans forward as you sit down on the mattress, your back turned to him.

You shut off the lights in silence as he reaches a hand out and curls it around your shoulders.

“C’mere, ‘wanna feel you.” He mumbles in his raspy sleepy voice.

But to his utter confusion, you gently brush his hand off and continue your journey to tuck yourself in bed.

With your back still facing him.

“I’m tired Katsuki. Not in the mood.”

His hand is still suspended in midair, his facial features still frozen in his initial shock as he’s left in a pitch black room which is suddenly overcome with a freezing cold creeping up his spine.

He’s too wounded, too shocked and shot from his ego to be irate.

You’ve never said no to cuddling at night. Never. So what was wrong now?

You were taking his anger so well for a while, what the hell was the matter with you?

But he doesn’t touch you again that night. He barely sleeps a wink to your usually comforting sound of soft snores and little mumbles in your sleep talk.

In the morning his lack of sleep gets the betterment of his temper, and he lashes out of you again in the shower.

You’re washing your hair when you feel a cool breeze against your bare body. You open your eyes and see Katsuki standing in front of you outside the glass door to your shower.

You feign an eye roll and merely grab the handle trying to close it shut.

He doesnt even let it budge. He just snarls down at your intruding hand and yanks the door back even further, pulling you along with the force.

You yelp and slip on the floor, falling unceremoniously at his feet.

The look on his face is frankly terrifying, much worse than yesterday’s. Bakugo slowly steps in along with your quickly reversing body and closes the door behind him, trapping you inside with him.

“Why’d you try to close it on me.”

It’s not a question, it’s a demand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Then get up and touch me.”

He’s towering over your cornered form, his fists dangerously swinging next to your head.

Your limbs don’t move though. Your heart thuds slowly, your love ebbing away from him with its slow rhythm.

You already know how this is going to turn out, but you try anyways.

“Please Bakugo, I’m really not in the mood right now.”

“Oh, so it’s Bakugo now, huh?”

Your body disassociates so you don’t feel it as much, but unfortunately your hands still flinch above your head in instinct.

“If you’re-thud-sorry, then you’ll fucking-crack-touch me you-smack-ungrateful bitch.”

Your cries are loud, but not loud enough to drown his roaring out, not enough to mute the sound of his hands cracking above your shaking body.

He leaves the shower unfulfilled in his heart and in his dick.

His mind is in shambles.

This is the longest you’ve wanted space from him, he could understand an hour but half a day?

He has a rude awakening when “half a day” becomes a couple more days, then a week, and then it’s half a month since you’ve willingly kissed his battle scars and loved him with your whole being.

He says willingly because otherwise you eat his hits up like you’re just another fighter in the ring when he gets angry at your apathy. The only restraining factor that differentiates you and the men he puts in coffins is his desperation for you to come back.

To no avail though. If you’re not keeling over on the ground or pinned underneath him and molding your anatomy to the shape of his fists, then you’re still as a corpse on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and wishing you were anywhere else but here.

Bakugo doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what to feel.

Rage is consumed by paranoia, paranoia is swallowed whole by depression, depression is swept away by panicked desperation.

His hair starts falling out, his punches grow weaker and he comes home with more and more bruises every day to match the ones littering across your body.

One might wonder whose the real fighter-him or you.

And so one day when he can’t stand it anymore, can’t stand the silence and tension that’s so palpable you could taste the iron in the air, he invited his friends over.

He need the distractions. He needs happiness, a word that doesn’t seem worthy of his pathetic being.

He’s more pathetic than your unmoving body.

“Heyyy man!” Sero and Denki exclaim in obnoxious unison and throw their arms around Bakugo’s shoulders. All three of them barrel through his half-opened doorway and practically topple him over.

The air of excitement is so foreign to him, but oh so welcoming.

“Hey,” he grunts back awkwardly.

“You’ve never really invited us over without Y/N dragging you by the ear for it. How is she by the way? Haven’t heard of her in a while.” Kirishima nudges his shoulder.

But before he can open his mouth Denki cuts in. “You knock her up yet? You sly bastard, no wonder you’re hiding her from us. The gigs over Y/N, show us that beautiful belly!” He cups his hands around his mouth and the quip slashes through the air and infests Katsuki’s heart. It’s a mockery, a cruel reminder of what he cannot have.

When their friend doesn’t answer and merely walks off, the boys behind him awkwardly look at each other.

Usually he’d explode at them or at least chase them around the room.

And usually you would come out to greet them.

Katsuki was wrong.

You weren’t different from him anymore.

Because when he accepts that not even his friends can release his stone cold heart from its catatonic confines, he’s never felt more in sync with you than he has now.

[fritesandfries]

Tanghulu (Fruit Sticks)

Thank you Karo® Syrup for sponsoring this post. Celebrate sweet moments together with Karo®!

You might be familiar with caramel or candied apples, but meet Tanghulu! This Northern Chinese treat is versatile for many different kinds of fruit. It’s traditionally made with a fruit called hawberry or hawthorn, which are like tiny apples. And similar to caramel apples, you get that sweet, sticky exterior except each bite is crunchy and it doesn’t stick to your teeth. I love the contrast of biting into Tanghulu with softer fruits like strawberries and grapes. Grapes are a particular favorite of mine because the sugar sticks to them so well. They end up looking like glass blueberries. The smooth texture of my Tanghulu recipe is made possible because of the sugar mixture it is dipped in. The key ingredient? Karo Syrup.

You might already know of Karo Syrup, because it is in so many classic American treats: marshmallows, fudges, caramels, pies, and scotcheroos...the list goes on. In a commercial kitchen, chefs often use it so they can produce all those treats at scale. I depend on its versatility to balance the sweetness and smoothen the textures of desserts. For this dessert, it allows the flavors of the fruit to shine through.

This recipe makes enough for about a pound of fruit -- I used a mix of cut apricots, oranges, grapes, berries, and kiwi. I highly encourage and recommend experimenting with Tanghulu using different kinds of fruits -- it’s such a fun dessert to make with older kids but it can be a visual showstopper for cocktails and other desserts.

Before we dive into the recipe, here are materials you’ll need:

Bamboo skewers: I used shorter 6-inch skewers. You can use longer ones for barbecue, but just add more fruit. Make sure that the stick is thick enough to withstand the weight of all the fruit.

Candy thermometer: there are ways around using a candy thermometer but this is an important and helpful tool for accuracy.

Saucepan: do not use non-stick pans since many of them are not built for high heat and candy making. (This is technically candy-making!)

Cold stone surface or ceramic bowls: You’ll need something to rest your dipped fruit. You also do not want to use materials with porous surfaces -- like wood -- that allows the Tanghulu to stick to it.

Now onto the recipe!

For 6 servings:

1 pound assorted prepared fruit, peeled and/or sliced

1 cup granulated sugar

1/3 cup Karo Light Corn Syrup

3 tablespoons water

Using bamboo skewers, skewer all of your fruit, filling the skewer half way. Set aside. If you do not have a cold stone surface to work on, use bowls: Sprawl out enough bowls for your skewers, enough to place the skewers around the edge so they do not touch. You will need this to rest your dipped fruit on. I prefer bowls because I can lean the stick against the edge of the bowl without risking it sticking to a surface.

In a saucepan, add the sugar, Karo Syrup, and water together. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Continue boiling until the syrup reaches 300°F-310°F degrees on the candy thermometer, about 8 to 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. If you do not have a candy thermometer, the sugar mixture should turn hard when you dip some into cold water.

Turn off the heat and quickly, dip a skewer into the sugar mixture until it is coated. Rest it back onto your stone surface or against a bowl. Repeat. For softer fruits like orange segments, hold the skewer close to the surface of the hot sugar mixture and spoon on the mixture.

Let the sugar coating cool to room temperature, about 15 minutes, before enjoying it.

Find inspiration for your next cooking project from Karo® Foodservice.

[liriostigre]

hey! I wanted to ask what your favorite poetry books are? I have a few but I want to read new and interesting stuff, and I trust your taste :D

hiii ♡

tbh i only started reading poetry collections like,, last year. i'm subscribed to poetryfoundation's newsletter (poem of the day) so i usually just read random poems

anyway, i'm not sure my recs could be considered new (cause i'm gonna start with Mary Oliver ♡) but feel free to message me if you want to know the themes, style, feeling (vibes, if you will) or anything you want to know about these collections. for now, i'm linking my favorite poems in each collection, i hope this helps you choose! ♡

here you go:

Dream Work —Mary Oliver (“Wild Geese.” “Dogfish.”)

Red Bird —Mary Oliver (“Summer Morning.” “Love Sorrow.”)

Blue Horses —Mary Oliver (“To Be Human Is to Sing Your Own Song.” “Loneliness.” “Little Crazy Love Song.”)

The Wild Iris —Louise Glück (“Sunset.” “Retreating Light.”)

Haruko/Love Poems —June Jordan (“On a New Year’s Eve.” “Mendocino Memory.” “Toward a City That Sings.” *under the cut)

Extracting the Stone of Madness —Alejandra Pizarnik (“Primitive Eyes.” “Summer Goodbyes.” *under the cut)

Ariel —Sylvia Plath (“Tulips.” “The Rival.”)

Prelude to Bruise —Saeed Jones (“Postapocalyptic Heartbeat.” *under the cut)

Absolute Trust in the Goodness of the Earth —Alice Walker (“Coming Back from Seeing Your People.” *under the cut)

I Must Be Living Twice —Eileen Myles (“Edward the Confessor.” *under the cut)

Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth —Warsan Shire (“Conversations About Home (at the Deportation Centre.”)

The Black Unicorn —Audre Lorde (“Hanging Fire.” “Sister Outsider.”)

Bright Dead Things —Ada Limón (“The Riveter.” “Glow.”)

Night Sky With Exit Wounds —Ocean Vuong (“Thanksgiving 2006.” “Logophobia.”)

Postcolonial Love Poem —Natalie Diaz (“Manhattan Is a Lenape Word.”)

Crush —Richard Siken (“Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.”)

Once —Alice Walker (“So We've Come at Last to Freud.”)

“Toward a City That Sings” by June Jordan

Into the topaz the crystalline signals of Manhattan the nightplane lowers my body scintillate with longing to lie positive beside the electric waters of your flesh and I will never tell you the meaning of this poem: Just say, ‘She wrote it and I recognize the reference.’ Please let it go at that. Although it is all the willingness you lend the world as when you picked it up the garbage scattering the cool formalities of Madison Avenue after midnight (where we walked for miles as though we knew the woods well enough to ignore the darkness) although it is all the willingness you lend the world that makes me want to clean up everything in sight (myself included)

for your possible discovery

“Primitive Eyes” by Alejandra Pizarnik

Where fear neither speaks in stories or poems, nor gives shape to terrors or triumphs.

My name, my pronoun — a grey void.

I’m familiar with the full range of fear. I know what it’s like to start singing and to set off slowly through the narrow mountain pass that leads back to the stranger in me, to my own emigrant.

I write to ward off fear and the clawing wind that lodges in my throat.

And in the morning, when you are afraid of finding yourself dead (of there being no more images): the silence of compression, the silence of existence itself. This is how the years fly by. This is how we lost that beautiful animal happiness.

“Summer Goodbyes” by Alejandra Pizarnik

The soft rumor of spreading weeds. The sound of things ruined by the wind. They come to me as if I were the heart of all that exists. I would like to be dead, and also to go inside another heart.

“Postapocalyptic Heartbeat” by Saeed Jones

I. Drugged, I dreamed you a plume of ash, great rush of wrecked air through the towns of my stupor. And when the ocean in your blood went toxic, I thought fire was what we needed: serrated light through the skin, grenade in the chest—pulled linchpin. I saw us breathing on the other side of after. But a blackout is not night; orange-bottled dreams are not sleep. II. I was a cross-legged boy in the third lifetime, empire of blocks in my lap while you walked through the door of your silence, hunting knife in one hand, flask in the other. I waited for you until I forgot to breathe, my want turning me colors only tongues of amaryllis could answer for. It owned me, that hunger, tendriled its way into my name for you. III. In a city made of rain each door, a silence; each lock, a mouth, I walked daily through the spit-slick streets, harbingers on my hands in henna: there will be no after Black-and-blue-garbed strangers, they called me Cassandra. (I had such a body then.) Umbrellas in hand, they listened while they unlistened. there will be no no. after

the world will end no.

you are the reason it no. ends

you no. IV. I didn’t exactly mean to survive myself. Half this life I’ve spent falling out of fourth-story windows. Pigeons for hair, wind for feet. Sometimes I sing “Stormy Weather” on the way down. Today, “Strange Fruit.” Each time, strangers find me drawing my own chalk outline on the sidewalk, cursing with a mouth full of iron, furious at my pulse. V. After ruin, after shards of glass like misplaced stars, after dredge, after the black bite of frost:        you are the after, you are the first hour in a life without clocks; the name of whatever falls from the clouds now is you (it is not rain), a song in a dead language, an unlit earth, a coast broken— how was I to know every word was your name?

“Coming Back from Seeing Your People” by Alice Walker

Coming back From seeing your people You were So wonderfully Full Of yourself.

But now You have supped With vampires They have fed Feasted On you.

They arise Bright-eyed Fit.

You alone have lost Not only Your sleep But also Your glow The luster of Affection Heart welcome Your people Sent home With you.

Beloved You must learn To walk alone To hold The precious Silence To bring home And keep the precious Little That is left Of yourself.

“Edward the Confessor” by Eileen Myles

I have a confession to make I wish there were some role in society I could fulfill I could be a confessor I have a confession to make I have this way when I step into the bakery on 2nd Ave. of wanting to be the only really nice person in the store so the harried sales woman with several toned hair will like me. I do this in all kinds of stores, coffee shops xerox shops, everywhere I go. And invariably I leave my keys, xeroxing, my coffee from the last place I am being so nice. I try so hard to make a great impression on these neutral strangers right down to the perfect warm smile I get entirely lost and stagger back out onto the street, bereft of something major. It’s really leaning too hard on the everyday. My mother was the kind of woman who dragging us into stores always seemed to charm the pants off the cashier. She was such a great person, so human though at home she was such a bitch, I mean really distant. I imitate her and I don’t do it well. She didn’t leave her wallet or us in a store. I’m just a pale imitation it is simply not my style to open the hearts of strangers to my true personhood. I hope you accept this tiny confession of what I am currently going through. And if you are experiencing something of a similar nature tell someone, not me, but tell someone. It’s the new human program to be in. It would be nice for at least these final moments if we could sigh with the relief of being in the same program with all the other humans whispering in school. I can’t quite locate the terror, but I am trying to be my mother or Edward the Confessor smiling down on you with up-praying hands. I am looking down at the tips of my boots as I step across the balcony of the church excited to be allowed to say these things. Outside my church is a relationship. On 11th street this guy and this woman are selling the woman so they can get more dope. All their things are there, rags and loaves of bread and make-up. And there was— this was incredible. Two men lying by the door of the church giving each other blow-jobs. They were sort of street guys, one black one white. I said hey you can’t do that here. They jumped up, one spit come out of his mouth. If you don’t get out of here I’ll call the cops. Don’t call the cops we’ll go, we’ll leave. That was a shock. That was more than I expected to see in a day. Something about seeing the guy spit come out of his mouth. He didn’t have to do that. I guess I scared him. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was scared too.

[weepinglevi]

summary: fem!reader and porco get it on in the bathroom. porco has his phone to document everything for colt, who is reader's boyfriend. all aged up to be 21+. warnings: 18+ minors dni. infidelity! semi-public sex, slight dacryphilia, heavy dirty talk, mirror sex, creampie - reader doesn't know he's filming at first but is okay with it. also poor colt :( word count: around 1.6k beta reader: the most wonderful @1252291 came through. love you to the moon and back. <3 A/N: contribution to my adult movie tropes collab! pock brainrot is strong with this one. i hope you enjoy and feedback is always greatly appreciated. take care and lots of love. xx

you know it’s wrong.

the moment he closes the door behind him and turns the key, you’re torn between wanting to push him away and pulling him in even closer. leaning against the cold porcelain of the sink, you take a shaky breath. outside, they’re playing music and you hear annie’s shrieking laugh.

outside is the party colt took you to. to meet his friends, as he had put it.

now you’re here, in a small bathroom at an unknown house, not with colt – but with porco galliard. heart beating heavy in your chest as he lets his eyes wander over your body, you feel small and pathetic. still, the longing that has brought you here is slowly catching fire, turning into lust.

he doesn’t say a word when he takes a step toward you, placing his hands on your hips and grabbing them tightly. his grip is sure to leave a bruise but with how he breathes against your ear, you don’t care anymore. “i-“

“shh, you’re gonna kill the mood,“ porco chuckles and dips his head down, driving the flat of his tongue against your collarbone before pulling away and blowing against it, causing you to shiver and the tiny hairs on your body to stand up in anticipation.

you know it’s wrong, know you shouldn’t allow him to hook his hands under your thighs and lift you up so you can sit on the edge of the sink – so why are you wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him in even closer than he already was?

“fuck, you’re needy, aren’t you,” he rests his forehead against yours, voice coming deep and stirring the heat in your belly, making you feel as if you’re about to implode, “he doesn’t know how to fuck you in the right way, huh?”

there’s no need for you to answer, no need to state the obvious, so you stretch your neck to close the small distance between his lips and yours, crashing against him. tasting the bitterness of the vodka he had just minutes ago, you close your eyes and let a whimper escape. he’s right.

he’s laughing against your lips now, knowing you agree with him.

“he shouldn’t have brought you here.” leaning back, his eyes seem to be darker than before and his pushed back hair is starting to come loose, “should’ve known i’d be all over his pretty little girlfriend.”

even though you hate yourself for it, you nod.

“that’s right,” he brings his hand up to your jaw, grazing his thumb against your lower lip and then pushing into your mouth, index and middle finger soon to follow, “make sure they’re nice and wet, we don’t have much time.”

he’s not nice and doting, not asking what you want like colt always does. he just takes with expectations – ones you are more than willing to meet. so you lock your eyes with his as you gag on his fingers alone, knowing to heed his warning; you try to soak them in your own drool.

when your eyes are brimming with tears, he pushes down even further, causing you to cough and the tears to flow over.

“crying, already?” he coos. “he must treat you like you’re made of glass, hm?”

leaving you gasping for air when he finally pulls out, he breaks free from the hold your legs had around his waist. there’s a short laugh leaving him when he’s giving you another once-over and then nods.

“stand up,” tugging at your dress, he seems impatient, “told you we don’t have a lot of time.”

as soon as you slide down, porco turns you around and presses you up against the sink, cold stone digging into your hips as he bends you forward. looking up, you see the reflection of yourself and him in the mirror in front of you. catching a glimpse of his smirk, you look back down.

as long as you’re not looking at him, you wouldn’t feel as bad and that’s why you train your gaze on how your hands are grabbing the edge of the sink.

his hands slip under your dress, he’s quick to pull your panties aside before gliding his thumb through your slick folds. “so wet already.”

one hand placed on your ass, thumb holding your underwear in place, he slides his fingers into you without any warning. your walls tighten around him instantly, causing you to bite down on your tongue to hold back the moan that otherwise would’ve filled the room.

“c’mon, tell me how good i feel,” his digits pumping in and out of your already throbbing cunt, obscene sounds bouncing off the tiled walls, “how much better i feel than he does.”

“some-” - trying to collect your thoughts while also fucking yourself onto porco’s fingers leaves you breathless, “someone’s gonna hear.”

all he does is laugh when he pulls out one final time and goes to circle your clit, leaving you to clench around nothing and bucking onto the ball of his thumb until he completely pulls away from you.

legs already shaking and head hanging low, you hear him unbuckling his belt and spit into the palm of his hand. the groan coming from him sends waves of heat up your spine and you try to brace yourself for what’s going to follow.

pulling your panties down and bunching up your dress in one hand, the thick head of porco’s dick is already pushing into of you, causing you to hold your breath because you know he isn’t planning on letting you adjust to his size.

and you were right. even with his fingers stretching you out, you’re struggling to fit him but he keeps on pressing into you, leaving you to suck in the air through gritted teeth.

“look at her,” you hear coming from behind, “how hard she tries.”

with your brain in a haze, you know you should wonder about what he’s saying but you don’t. you’re too concentrated on how good he feels inside of you. and how wrong at the same time, but this only makes your pulse quicken even more.

to know the others are in the room next door, having no clue about how you’re being spread open on porco’s dick, having no idea that you���re nothing but a cheating whore, has walls fluttering around his length.

and when he finally bottoms out, he starts pulling back out. at a mind numbingly slow pace, you feel him come to a halt before he leaves you feeling empty again.

“don’t stop,” being the only thing to leave your lips, “porco, i dare-“

“hear her begging?” he places his hand on your hip and pulls you back onto his dick, “i bet she never begs like this when you’re the one fucking her.”

driving his hips forward again, he hits the bundle of nerves inside of you that makes you forget about how you wanted to be quiet. the moan escaping your lips as he switches to a steady pace.

“oh, she sounds so sweet,” his laugh is breathless this time, “you never told me how good she sounds, colt.”

as soon as you hear the name of your boyfriend, you look into the mirror to see porco holding his phone in one hand, obviously filming himself thrusting into your cunt. stuttering in your movements, he lifts his gaze from his phone and smirks back at your reflection in the mirror.

“c’mon now, keep fucking yourself on my cock,” he reaches forward, wrapping his free hand around your throat, “be a good girl for me, and i might let you do it again.”

raising the phone, he now films your reflection.

and you know you shouldn’t look straight into the camera and push back onto porco. it’s too late now, you think, too late to go back so you might as well enjoy yourself.

“tell him how good i feel,” his words are coming slurry now.

and with his tight balls slapping against your clit, with him continuously hitting the right spot, you nod, “feels- feels so good.”

“that’s what i thought,” letting go of your throat, he quickened his pace, “little whore that you are- one dick isn’t enough for you, huh?”

his hand sliding down your side, he reaches in front of you to rub circles against your clit again. the sensation of watching him do that, hearing him moan as you clench your walls around his dick and at the thought of all of it being filmed for your boyfriend to watch has you losing your mind.

“you-“ you turn your head to him now, graze your lips against his jaw, “your dick is enough.”

“hear- hear that, colt,” he groans, “my-“

his hips stuttering against your ass, he places the phone on the counter in front of you, grabbing your hips instead.

seeing him losing his cool pushes you over the edge, slapping one hand over your mouth to muffle the sound of your moans as your whole body trembles, heat rushing over you with every thrust he makes.

porco shoves your hand away the moment he realizes you’re trying to stay quiet, “let him hear.”

and you do. you couldn’t care less at this point, so the breathed “you fuck me so good,” flows from your lips naturally.

his fingers dig into your soft skin as he pulls you down onto his dick and holds you there, pumping his hot load into you, his cock twitching inside of you as a low “fuuuck-“ leaves him.

you stay like this for only a few seconds, and then he reaches back for his phone, turning the camera to face him. he makes a peace-sign before bringing it back between the two of you, filming how he pulls out of your cunt.

“will you look at that,” he spreads your cheeks to allow a better view.

feeling his and your cum drip down your thighs, you shudder at the thought of what you’ve just done – and even more when you realize how badly you want to do it again.

taglist: @odmlevis, @inumakizone, @blondeboyfriend, @peachysimp, @droolingoverfanfics, @starrynightlys wanna be tagged in my next work? fill out this form.

[queenoftheworldisdead]

I have a request with dark prompts and tropes/ kinks from the list.

The Dialogues:

“Please, I have to get home.”

“Don’t move a muscle.”

Tropes:

Stalking/obsession

Kidnapping

(With the character Andy Barber)

Thank you in advance.

Hard day's night

Warning: 18 + Only, dark theme, kidnapping, choking, bondage, non-consent, dubious consent, forced fingering, cream-pie

Note: hope you enjoy

Dark Andy x Reader

The parking garage was partially empty compared to when you first arrived to work. Your heels echoed off the cement garage walls as you searched for where you parked. Some days you were lucky to park on L3 the prized spot closest to the ground, but today you were late and in your hurry you couldn't remember if you were on L5 or L8.

With the car fob in hand you press the unlock button. The familiar beep signaled that you were further away than you anticipated.

*Honk

The loud car horn from behind had you jumping out of your skin and screeching at the top of your lungs. With your heart hammering in your chest you turned only to be immediately blinded by the car behind you.

Blocking the light with your hand, you realized you were wondering in the middle of the driving path. "Sorry" you shouted back, moving over to allow them to pass you.

The black sedan creeped up and idled beside you. You clutched your purse and moved over closer to the side as the window rolled down. You didn't have mace, but you were sure your purse was heavy enough to wheeled as a weapon.

"Sorry I scared you" Andy leaned over, smiling as he looked up at you. It was slightly jarring seeing him like that. He had been extremely combative towards your boss during the deposition, each session ending in a screaming match.

Mr. Thomas, the defense attorney you paralegal for, had always been mild tempered. The objections during Mr. Thomas's cross drew an ire that you had never witnessed before. It was as if he sought to provoke him on purpose. Tempers were so high that Judge Peters threatened both sides with contempt, forcing several recesses to cool them off.

A process that normally lasted a few hours somehow turned into three grueling days of high tensions and long nights going over transcripts.

"Sorry I was in the way. I forgot where I parked." You jiggled your keys, almost embarrassed.

"Get in I'll help you find it. It's really late and you shouldn't be walking alone in the garage like this."

The offer was nice, but getting into the car of opposing console would surely be frowned apron at your firm.

You were about to protest when he unlocked the passenger door. With a sigh of defeat you got inside. Thankfully Mr. Thomas parked in reserved parking on the lower levels. Far from the general parking on the upper floors that you used.

"I assume your late because of me" he laughed lightly as he slowly drove on.

"Yeah its safe to say you are correct" you dryly chuckled as you hid low in the seat. The garage was slightly empty, but you didn't want to take the chance of being seen as doing something inappropriate. Idiot why did you get in the car?

Aside from him being apposing console Mr.Barber made you feel uneasy. During the hours long deposition you would feel a weird tingle, that made you look up from your notepad only to look up and lock eyes with the DA. You shrugged it off as an intimidation tactic used to get under the skin of the opposition.

---

Clicking your fob again you listened for your car, but somehow you were now further than you were originally. "Oh gosh can we turn back? I think I' m further up."

Andy nodded as he continued down the path. The signs above indicating 'More parking turn left' and 'Exit turn right'.

"Why are you still here?" You questioned him as you searched. The deposition ran long, but it ended hours ago.

"Oh.." He said caught off guard as he made a right turn toward the exit. "I spotted an old colleague John Wilson. We chatted for a bit, didn't and realize how late it was until the old ball and chain called."

Your office had a few former district attorneys. Most left the DA's office for the more lucrative life of defense.

"Um Mr.Barber.. you needed to make the left to go back into the garage." You pointed back when Andy made the right turn toward the garage exit.

"You know I'm impressed by your professionalism." Andy ignored and continued down the wrong path. "Thomas is lucky to have you on his team" he explained as he rolled to a stop behind a car inline to exit.

"Um thank you." You shifted in your seat at the impromptued complement. You hadn't done anything special or out of the ordinary. You just took notes like any other paralegal would.

Was he head hunting you? You heard about big firms doing stuff like that, but not for paralegals that were a dime a dozen.

Andy made no effort to change course and you felt increasingly uncomfortable as he inched closer to the exit.

"Um...you know I will just get security to escort me to my car from here." You pointed at the man in the glass box guarding the exit. "Thank you" you reached over to touch the door handle and heard an immediate click of the lock snapping shut.

"Don't move a muscle." You froze at his command.

"I wouldn't get out if I were you." He warned glancing at the rear-view. "Your boss might frown at you getting out of the apposing consoles car."

Stiffly you turned to peak over your seat, a cold chill fell over your body at the sight of Mr. Thomas car waiting in line behind Andy's in the queue. If you got out now you would be in deep shit. You slunk down low in the seat, in a veiled effort to hide. You shouldn't have gotten in this car. What the hell were you thinking?

"Come work for me" Andy casually grabbed his ticket to feed to the machine as he rolled to a stop. So this was just a job offer? If that was the case you were sure there were better ways to go about it. You had a nice chemistry with the old defense attorney and you were not interested in the stress of the DA's office or the pay cut you were sure to get.

"Um I'm not looking for a new job." You rejected him nervously. Hoping he would turn around and let you out.

"At least here my offer."

It seemed as you had no choice in the matter as he proceeded to pull out onto the road.

Your lips pressed into a frown. If you placate him, maybe he would let you go. He was a DA after all he wasn't going to hurt you tried to convince yourself.

"Fine, what is it?"

---

"Come work for me and I don't charge you with witness tempering"

Your eyes went wild at the allegation. "What!"

A lot of firms were dirty, but yours was not one of them. The cases you handled with Mr. Thomas didn't even rise to that level. At most he handled cases of over zealous brokers, financial fraud cases or embezzlement. The only time you ever came in contact with a witness Mr.Thomas was there with you. And even if it did you would never take penitentiary chances to get a leg up on the competition.

"Don't worry it's not true. I know your a good girl" he glanced over at you with a smirk. The praise graded you as you sat still stunned. "But that won't stop me from charging you. I'm willing to bet that until you get yourself untangled from the mess I am going to make of your life, your boss and his associates wouldn't think twice about letting you go."

You stared at him in disbelief. You barely said two words to this man, yet he was ready to blow up your life. And for what? For you to work for him? "And from what I know of paralegal salaries I would bet you could afford a public defender at best."

"Mr. Thomas would defend me" you scoffed.

"I wouldn't count on it. Because I would take him down too if he tried." He was serious.

You fell back on the seat as your head swam with the madness. You tried to think what you could've done to bring this on.

--

You had been to the DA's office a handful of times so when you saw the familiar building in the horizon you shrunk further in the leather seat.

Andy pulled into a reserved parking spot as the clock crept closer to midnight.

You didn't belong here. Maybe if you got out you could run for it. Make a mad dash somewhere and call the cops. But what would you say? The DA threatened you with a job, kidnapped you and took you to his office? They would think you were insane.

"Let's start your interview." He announced as he killed the engine. You pursed your lips and frowned deeply.

You were being made to interview for a job you didn't want nor ask for.

“Please, I have to get home.”

Andy paid you no mind, slamming the door in the face of your plea. Your eyes followed him as he headed toward the stone steps to the building.

What did he expect for you to do? Show up tomorrow at your office and sit on prosecutions side? You doubted the judge nor your boss would allow that to fly.

You watched him as you stayed paralyzed in the car. This had to be a joke or a dream. Had you slipped in the parking garage earlier and bumped your head. You tried pinching yourself to snap out of it only to be disheartened by the gravity of this situation.

---

Andy led you down the empty hallways, until he stopped at a door that bared his name.

You stood back while he unlocked it and motioned you to go inside. You couldn't move, dread cemented you in place. It was a miracle he had got you to come this far.

Andy tsked and shook his head in disappointment as he walked inside.

You tried to play back every encounter, every word you could've uttered that could've spearheaded this, but there was nothing.

You would've been surprised if he even knew your name, you couldn't even recall it being mentioned during the depositions.

While you drowned in despair Andy shimmed out of his blazer, tossing it on a chair off to the side.

"You're wasting your potential with Thomas" Andy declared, perching himself on the edge of his desk.

"I can tell your very focused and career driven." He continued on. It was surreal, watching him unbutton and roll up his sleeves. Like a disappointed father ready to reprimand their child.

"I noticed it from the start." The anticipation of what was to come became too much under the weight of his stare. You hugged yourself defensively while warm Tears streamed down your cheek.

It was as if he were a wolf ready to swallow you whole. You squeezed your eyes shut unable to hold his stare.

"Eyes on me" he said firmly. You sniffed uncontrollably as you forced them back open. "Good girl" Andy praised, adjusting his cock. He delighted in this, wetting his bottom lip, reveling in your discomfort.

"With a little more discipline and guidance you will reach your full potential. And I want to help you do that" Andy grunted as he loosened then knot of his tie.

Andy stayed sat before you unmoved by your tears as he slipped the fabric from around his neck, pulling it taunt with one hand while wrapping it around the other.

"You just need a firm hand to mold you. Or you can stay out there and watch as I turn your world upside down."

What could you say? He had you where he wanted you. You held your head low, sobbing to yourself as you approached him. You were no match for the power of the DA's office.

Andy rose from his perch and circled you like a shark with blood in the water. "Hands behind your back." He whispered into the shell of your ear. You looked back at him eyes wet with tears pleading. He sighed disappointed again taking matters into his own hands. You whimpered as he pried your hands from their hold, forcing them behind your back.

"Please Mr. Barber " you chanted as he encompassed your wrist with the tie. Knotting it so tight you feared for the circulation of your hands.

---

Andy's firm body pressed against you, his arms wrapped around you, roaming your body freely. The fabric of the tie burned as you struggled to free yourself. He ripped open your cheap blouse with ease, groping your breast over your bra. You withered in his embrace, unable to fight back.

"You made it hard to concentrate" he hummed into your neck while he played with your hard nipples over the fabric. The heat of his breath and the kneading of your breast electrified the coil that tightened in your core.

You tried to crouch into your shoulders, but Andy cupped your chin harshly. Forcing you to expose your neck to him and endure his assault. You went rigid when his other hand started to trail down your abdomen, tunneling past your waistline in desperate pursuit of your mound.

"Sitting so quiet, taking notes."

Your tears glazed Andy's hand as he forced you to look at him as he plunged beneath the elastic of your panties. His eyes clouded with lust at the sight of your facial contortions. Your clit buzzed as his fingers moved over it. You clamped your thighs tightly around his palm in an effort to stop further intrusion, but he pressed on. Rubbing firmly against your mound repeatedly, sparking an unwanted warmth. You felt shame and guilt as heat pooled in his hand.

"Hmmm so ready to be my perfect little helper." Andy purred.

"Are you ready to be molded by me" he teased. Andy pushed his fingers inside of you, releasing a gasp you could not contain.

"Fuck you're so tight" Andy cursed in your ear while he fingered you.

You bit down on your lip to stop the moan trapped in your throat. The embarrassing wetness, the involuntary moans, it was as if your body no longer belonged to you. Andy manipulated you like a puppet on a string.

You exhaled deeply when he pulled his fingers from you and released your neck. You panted from the over stimulation.

He built up a need and left you cradling on the edge. Without warning Andy spun you by the shoulder to face him.

"Look at you my needy little helper. Ready to learn." He smirked at you.

Your eyes went wide when he began unfastening his belt. You didn't want to find out what he would use that for. Your flight response started to kick into high gear as he closed the space between you.

Reflexively you took a step backwards, almost stumbling to the floor when you tripped on the leg of the chair behind you.

There was no way out of the room without going past him. You doubted you would get far even if you tried. The back of your legs hit his desk, halting your movements.

"Gonna be my perfect little helper?"

You opened your mouth to finally scream, but Andy swiftly rushed you. The grip on your neck felt deadly as you croaked. He leaned his weight on you, tipping you over until you slammed hard on his desk.

Whatever trinkets he had on his desk dug into your back and arms painfully. Andy wedged himself between your thighs, and haphazardly fumbled with his pants. Pushing them down with one hand as he kept you pinned with the other. You bucked and squirmed when you felt his need pressed on your pelvis.

Your skirt had rode up past your waist leaving your thin panties the last line of defense.

"Don't do this please Mr. Barber please I'll work for you please." Choked out incoherently.

You bucked more feverishly when he yanked your panties to the side. The tip of his cock lined up against your entrance.

"That's it. That's my good little helper. So wet for me." Andy praised as his sunk into you as he kept a firm hold on your neck. Your pussy pulsed around him as you strained to adjust. He made you painfully full.

Andy lifted up your left thigh, allowing himself to sink deeper. The added weight of him on top of you married with the pain from your arms.

His focused grip on your neck helped muffle your mewls, but not the sloppy sounds of your cunt. You turned away from his face as he rolled his hips into you. Only to be met with the smiling faces of his family. The facade of his wholesome life seemingly entrained by your predicament.

"Perfect little cunt fits me so well."

Your pussy clenched with every praise to your shame. There was no way to bite back the need he fed deep within you. Your stomach tensed as a staggered moan fell from your mouth.

Your feet curled in the air as your thighs squeezed around him. You felt of mix of shame and disappointment as you came around his cock.

Loosening his grip on your neck Andy could no longer hold himself back. He filled you to the brim, his seed seeped out of you as you milked him dry.

He laid on you briefly, panting heavily before pulling off. Carefully adjusting himself as he watched his cum drizzle down your raw cunt. "Get yourself cleaned up. We have cross in a few hours."

[gryffindors-weasley]

Midnight Dances

Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Summary: Upon your first week settling into your estate as a newlywed couple, you share a moment alone.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: brief mention of alcohol, fluff, kissing

(aesthetic made by the lovely @heloisedaphnebrightmore )

It has been three days since your arrival at your new estate across England, and still, you have yet to see the entirety of its beauty. It was extraordinarily perfect in every way one could imagine, and impossibly grand for two newlyweds who spent most of their time in each other’s presence. In just three days time, you felt as though maybe you’d only seen just half of your newfound home, and you were determined to change that.

You huff out a quiet sigh as you stare up at the ceiling once more, not a single bit of fatigue as you lay awake. The same could not be said about Benedict as he lay tangled with you, soft snores puffing into your skin lightly. Nothing could get you to sleep; not the warmth of his skin on yours, not the late hour of the night, not the breeze seeping in through the open window, bringing with it the scent of flowers and fresh air. Any and all efforts to be swept into a blissful sleep were rapidly proving to be futile as the minutes passed.

With an exasperated sigh, you untangle yourself from him as carefully as you can manage, a smile gracing your lips as you watch his face nuzzle into the pillow. You slip on your night robe with a fond shake of your head, tying it closed before heading towards the door. You offer one last glance at your lover, at the grand details of your bedroom and the way the curtains fluttered under the breeze blowing against them. You slip out of the room and pull the door closed quietly, making your leave down the hall.

Your footsteps go unheard on the navy colored rug, not a single tassel out of place as they lined the entirety of the hall. Warm lighting illuminated the space in a dim glow, just enough to navigate but not enough to wake those trying to sleep. You were quite sure everyone in the vicinity had been asleep, everyone in the town even, everyone except for you.

The windows you pass by overlooked the gardens, perhaps the most brilliant and extravagant you’ve had the pleasure of seeing. It was hard to believe that it was yours. Finely manicured bushes were assembled in a meticulous pattern, almost maze like. And there were as many flowers as one could possibly imagine and then some, each different in color and type, each just as beautiful as the last. The blossoming trees were what had enchanted you the most, with the way their petals rain down in a flurry of pale pinks with just the slightest gust of wind.

You descended the marble staircase, your hand sliding down the smooth and cool stone railing as you made your way down the curving steps. It felt impossible to look at any one thing at a time, for everything was too glamorous and too wondrous to do so. Even down to the candles melted at varying heights as they sit in their rightful candelabras, ready to be lit again.

Shortly you arrive at the first landing, the familiar skylight coming into view as you continue walking down the stairs. The arched glass structure tucked amongst the lavish detailings on the ceiling lit up the first floor with a natural glow, the stars glimmering just beyond it. You found you liked it better at night than in the light of day.

You pass through familiar halls, ones you’ve frequented most often since arriving there but a few days ago. You passed familiar rooms such as the library, too grand and full of books for your own excited good. You passed the kitchen, still smelling of honey and cinnamon from that night’s dessert. It was the kind of scent that carried with it warmth and the feeling of being truly at home, regardless of the fact that this estate was still very new to you and most likely would be for a little while as you adjust.

With what seemed like a daunting amount of wandering through gorgeous hallways, each just as vacant as the last, you finally reach unfamiliar territory. Maybe you’d already been there, things tended to look quite similar when you were lost. The sound of ticking clocks had been apparent just about anywhere you’d been and anywhere you will go, as was the consistent artwork adorning every other wall in small glimpses of other worlds in depictions of nature. The only noticeable difference was the navy rugs had since changed to a soft lilac, fluffy golden tassels lining the perimeter.

With a few more steps, your brow raises at the sight of the unfamiliar double doors standing tall before you, adorned with intricately carved woodwork as gold sparkled on its surface. You have yet to see what was on the other side at all, and now you were taking full advantage of the opportunity to with your newfound time.

Upon pushing open the doors, you’re met with a sight so grand and enthralling you hadn’t quite expected to be presented with such beauty. Perhaps the most wondrous ballroom was contained within your very own home. It’s cream-colored walls were lined with carved framework at every edge and every corner, a metallic bronze detailing every curve and bit of linework lacing along its perimeters. Several paintings lined them, each encased in a carved and complex frame to house each nature scene captured within them. The far end of the large room held rather tall windows, nearly floor to ceiling, the very tops arched with a matching set of mirrors to adorn the walls between the glass structures. Not a single smudge was to be found.

Ruffles of silky cream curtains frame each window, pooling on the polished wood floors. Through those very windows, the moonlight had been streaming in so brightly it illuminated the room much like any candelabra could. It’s moonbeams reflected off the several chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the myriad of crystals that dangle from each one casting little flecks of light on the floor and over your skin. The ceilings were made up of several sunken ovals, the same bronze detailing encircling each one. The murals inside had made you feel as though you were standing underneath the sky itself, and it was so meticulously painted you hadn’t known how many hours it must have taken. Surely far too many to wrap your head around. The ceiling in its entirety was so impossibly detailed and intricate you could give yourself a headache thinking of the effort put into creating it. It was delightfully busy.

Your eyes fall on a grand piano sat in the corner next, sleek and pristine with its ivory keys on display and waiting to be played. And the silky upholstered seats spaced out throughout the room. It was spacious, so vast you felt as though it could house all of England if they’d been invited. Though selfishly, a part of you wanted to keep this all to yourself.

“So, this is where you’ve run off to?”

You spin on your heel, a smile pulling at your lips once you see Benedict standing in the doorway. His arms crossed over his chest, the buttons of his shirt only half done and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a haphazard attempt to look decent as he roamed the halls in search of you. His hair was a mess, however, dipping over his forehead as the corner of his mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin. A grin that never fails to uncage butterflies in your stomach. You were unaware of just how long you’d been gone.

You smile, twirling once in the grand room as your nightdress flutters at the action. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I quite like it,” he says with a shrug, pushing himself off the doorframe to make his way over to you. “Though I do believe that some things in this room are far more beautiful than others.”

You turn to face him fully, a blush staining your cheeks that had fortunately gone unseen in the lighting. His smile widened as he raised a brow at you, a laugh falling past his lips when you rolled your eyes.

“What? I was referring to the chandeliers, of course,” He quips with mischief, his eyes crinkling with his grin as you swat at his arm lightly. Your attempts to evade his grasp were futile as he grabs your hand, turning you to face him again as his lips press to your cheek. “I am only kidding, my love.”

“You really are terrible sometimes, you know that, don’t you?” You ask, a lightness in your tone as he drops a kiss to your neck.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” He says, his hands squeezing your own. “Though I suppose it’s better than being terrible all the time, is it not?”

You roll your eyes once more as you turn away from him in an effort to conceal your smile at his antics, walking over to one of the large windows. Just outside was a different angle of the garden, a view aiming straight down a long pathway of perfectly imperfect trees. Fluffy hydrangeas appeared just under the stone window ledges in varying hues of pinks and purples, vines climbing up the far wall of the building.

It hadn’t been long before you felt his arms snake around you, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“We must take a walk through the garden tomorrow,” you state, your heart fluttering at the feeling of his lips on the exposed skin of your shoulder. You could barely remember what you had planned to say next, until you’d forgotten altogether. “Are you listening?”

“Certainly, we must,” he responds with a soft laugh, pressing his lips to your cheek again. “And should it rain?”

“Then we shall take an umbrella,” you say as if your answer was entirely obvious as you slip from his arms with a delighted grin and a tap of your finger to his nose. You left him to look after you with parted lips and a shake of his head. He was awestruck to say the very least.

You wander about the room again with a bounce in your step, running the tips of your fingers along the soft curtains. Upon closer inspection, you discover the detailed linework you had seen moments before were in fact sculpted and carved vines and flowers spidering up the walls. Such a beauty nearly made you swoon at the very sight of it. Everything just kept getting better and better the more you gazed at it.

“What could be the need of a ballroom this grand?” You ask with a laugh, your eyes falling on Benedict.

“Perhaps to dance in,” he says with a shrug, an amusement in his features. You huff out a sigh though you can’t seem to fight your smile this time.

“You know what I meant. Of course it is made for dancing. ”

“Would you be so kind as to have this dance with me, then?” He asks, a teasing tone still weaving around his words as he offers you his hand.

“If I must,” you huff lightheartedly.

His nose scrunches at your counter and he promptly pulls you close, eliciting a squeal to echo into the room at the sudden action. His hand envelopes your own and his arm encircles your waist in the rightful position of a slow dance. Though this time, it was much less formal with the absence of watchful eyes and the need to execute every move with a flawless ease. For you were quite sure bare feet and slippers, night robes and half-tucked in, half-unbuttoned dress shirts were not of appropriate attire for such things.

No music was needed to find your own rhythm, no music was ever needed when the two of you were in your own world.

“I apologize…for waking you,” you say after a few moments, meeting his gaze once more.

“I was barely asleep, not with all your tossing and turning,” He says as you sway.

“Your snoring tells me otherwise.”

A look of faux surprise and offense crosses his face as he twirls you, wrapping his arm around you once more, “I do no such thing!”

An incredulous scoff leaves your lips as he tugs you close, your brows knit together and he continues to act as though he had entirely no idea what you had been talking about.

“I suppose I’m just hearing things then,” you state, far from being earnest as he nods along, “Perhaps it may have even been me.”

“Perhaps it might’ve,” he repeats in playful agreement, halting your frown from deepening as his lips press to yours in what surely would not be the last of many kisses that evening.

You sigh softly as your lighthearted bickering falls silent in favor of enjoying each other’s presence, enjoying the very fact that this was your home. This was your life now and you couldn’t think of anything better than that. He was ever so tender when he kissed you, when his fingers grazed up your side each time you fell out of rhythm. He claims it was just to hear you laugh, and rightfully so, but it was also in a playful payback for your sleepy dancing skills or lack thereof.

He was patient regardless, for the technicalities of the dance were not of much importance, they never were. Not even in a formal setting did he care if it was done perfectly. He cared about the fact that the most wonderful person in the world had been in his arms, and he loved you for all that you are and all that you will be. He hadn’t even needed a fancy ballroom to want to dance with you, hadn’t needed a large estate to be happy with you. He was perfectly content dancing with you in the field of flowers he’d spotted just two days before, and he made a mental note to take you there the following day.

For a while it was silent between the two of you, save for the occasional giggle when his fingers brushed over your skin. Or the patter of your slippers on the hardwood floors. Or his boisterous laughter he cannot contain when your lips ghost over that very sensitive spot just under his jaw, the fading scent of his cologne still lingering on his skin.

He twirls you before drawing you back into his arms, not without you stumbling into him, of course. It was as if your own two feet had been out to get you, and the undeniable grin on his face was telling enough that he’d been up to no good. Not after that.

“Remember that one dinner with my family?” You sigh in mild exasperation as you groan and look away from him at his words, fighting your smile nonetheless. “You had been so nervous you’d sent a spoonful of peas all over the floor. And—if I recall correctly, you proceeded to knock your wine onto my lap.”

“Am I to assume that you shall never let me live that down, Benedict?” You ask with a squint, your arms wrapping around his neck.

“Yes, you would assume correctly, Y/n.”

“It is only your fault, you have a dreadful habit of making me flustered after all,” you defend with furrowed brows and pursed lips.

“I very well see that,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smirk.

You bite the inside of your cheek to stave off your grin, he did not deserve that satisfaction. Instead, you lean on your toes and press your lips on his, effectively kissing away the teasing smile he once had in favor of basking in the feeling of the warmth of your lips brushing over his own. In the feeling of your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck once more. His arms tighten their hold around you out of instinct, a soft hum escaping him.

“Perhaps I should bring it up more often if this is how you choose to quiet me,” he suggests against you, stealing another kiss.

“Or perhaps you shouldn’t.”

You pull away from him much to his dismay, and he finds himself chasing your lips for more. You laugh softly, your hand settling on his cheek as his once teasing smirk turns to that of a fond smile. The crystal reflections of the chandeliers above glimmer down over you, the moonlight illuminating the loving gaze that had been focused on you and only you. He couldn’t help but to capture your lips once more, for now that he had the opportunity to do so just as much as so he pleases he finds he can’t get enough.

Your hand falls from his face as your giggle brushes against his lips, his embrace sending you stumbling back a step or two.

“We’re supposed to be dancing, are we not?” You ask, breaking from his hold and spinning away from him, leaving him to smile after you in a lovestruck daze as you twirl in the glow moonlight.

He stood back to watch you for a moment, the way you seemed to beam more beautifully than any natural wonder ever could. The way you captured his attention far more than the lavish ballroom you currently resided in. Of all the luxuries he’s seen, of all the dashing estates and elegantly decorated soirée’s he’s been in attendance of in his life, there could be no greater beauty than you. There could be nothing in the world that is more enamoring, more effortlessly alluring.

He never knew the profound effects of love until it came along and grabbed hold of his heart, the feeling lancing through him with a wholehearted certainty that it was real and it was all-consuming. He knew love, of course. The Bridgerton family was large and filled with an unwavering warmth and welcoming one could surely wish for. He knew unconditional familial love amongst numerous siblings no matter the bickering that was bound to take place, serious or not. But this—this was different.

This kind of love was wonderfully and delightfully dizzying as it crashed down upon him in waves, immeasurably intoxicating with every fleeting moment that passed him by.

“Are you going to stare at me for the entirety of the night?”

Your teasing voice had stolen his attention once more, his attention that had been so distracted focused on you. It was then that he grabbed you by the waist and lifted you off your feet, suddenly spinning with you in playful retaliation for noting his gawking and telling him all about such a thing. Your laughter rang out into the glorious space while his lips pressed a flurry of kisses up your neck, your hands settling on his shoulders as his breath danced across your flushed skin.

To marry your best friend, whom you truly love endlessly is but a wonder indeed, a fate many dream of but very few experience. It is a feeling most incomparable to all else.

He set you back on your feet but his kisses never cease, his lips brushing along the underside of your jaw with his laughter left to linger against your skin. They travel upwards to press tenderly across your blush stained cheeks, to the very tip of your nose, and perhaps most giddily and passionately to your already kiss swollen lips.

He doesn’t know how he manages to stop; perhaps it’s your constant yet soft laughter breaking the two of you apart, or perhaps it’s his desire to see the way your eyes sparkle in the glowing light. Or the way your face is illuminated so beautifully that it has him fighting the urge to grab his sketchbook, but he does not want to leave you not even for a second. Perhaps it’s both and it’s almost entirely too much for him to handle all in one moment.

“Why ever are you looking at me like that?” You ask, amusement in your tone.

“Because,” He says with a breathless laugh, “because I love you. I burn for you.”

A fond smile pulls at your lips immediately as you look at him, and it is impossible to ignore the warmth blossoming in your chest, lancing through you. It is impossible to ignore the insurmountable love coursing through every part of your being as you gaze into the eyes of your lover.

“I love you, Benedict,” you murmur, “I burn for you.”

He finds his smile unable to be contained as his forehead drops to rest on yours, noses brushing. His hand once again finds yours, his arm encircling your waist, and you sway. In the ridiculously large ballroom, to a melody unheard by anyone else. You sway and twirl and laugh in a slow dance all your own, a midnight dance.

—

Tags: @dreaming-about-fanfictions @valwritesx