#combed marbling

[uwmspeccoll]

Marbled Monday

This week's book contains a veritable smorgasbord of marbling! This is Harvesting Color: The Year in a Marbler's Workshop by British marbling master Ann Muir (1939-2008). Published by Incline Press in 1999 in an edition of 250 copies, the book contains a third of a sheet of 12 marbled paper designs, each representing a month of the year. All of the paper, including that for the cover (which matches the month of April), was marbled by Muir. The sketches of cats are also by Muir.

The patterns included in the book are each meant to evoke elements of the their corresponding months. They are shown in order here except for April, which is shown here on the cover of the book. There is a wide variety in the patterns—some are combed patterns while others are swirled with a stylus. Some are Turkish while others are Spanish moiré. The examples demonstrate the breadth of possibility in marbling and Muir's own mastery of the art.

View more Marbled Monday posts here.

-- Alice, Special Collections Department Manager

[letmeinimafairy]

And another one, because I'm obsessed, and because for some mysterious reason carving with shaking hands is way easier than drawing. Carved shell, moss and resin, sea glass and pearls for a necklace.

Available

[saltpepperbeard]

stepping through scenes™ as i do and

...there was another shoulder touch?

THERE HAD BEEN ANOTHER SHOULDER TOUCH?????

[brittlebutch]

Actually, it's interesting to think about the sheer amount of footage that Jay never shows us. I'm rewatching Season One again, and Entry #3 caught my eye because Jay says he cut together about 2.5 Minutes worth of clips that he pulled from around 12 different tapes.

Depending on what kind of tape Alex's camera used, a single tape could hold anywhere from 1 to like 5 hours worth of footage -- at Minimum Jay watched 12 hours worth of footage just to make that video where he showed us like 0.002% of it.

I wouldn't go so far as to suggest that Jay was deliberate about framing Alex in any particular light when he started the channel, but it is interesting to think about the footage he decided wasn't interesting or worth sharing, and what kind of story a different cut would have told

[neofelis----nebulosa]

Mackerel:

Classic:

Spotted:

Ticked/Agouti ("ticked" is usually used when stipes are still prominent, "agouti" is usually used when they are not):

Marbled and sokoke, respectively (I apologize you don't see the markings well for the latter, that is the only fair use image i could find)

Rosetted:

Braided:

[thisisnotkitty]

slowly but surely piecing together a timeline for tbhk bc the time travel stuff makes things wonky but i want to prove that the past, future, and present are kinda sorta happening simultaneously and also i have like,, 7 theories that are neither coherent nor complete but still

[harpe-et-nitroglycerine]

Phoenix 3/4 Bath Bathroom

An illustration of a medium-sized transitional bathroom design with 3/4-sized white and marble tiles, a green floor, shaker cabinets, a two-piece toilet, beige walls, an undermount sink, quartzite countertops, and white countertops.

[florencemtrash]

Prim and Proper - Azriel x Reader

Warnings: Some suggestiveness

Masterlist of Masterlists

Summary: Y/n and Azriel get dressed for a party at the Court of Nightmares in their own special way.

Author's note: This has been sitting unfinished in my drafts. Time to get it out into the world.

The taste of metal seeped onto your tongue, the bite of iron grating against your teeth as you held a pile of pins between your lips. You sat in front of your vanity, hair gathered up in your hands as you tried to create something of a shape. 

Shadows, cool, black fingers, gently slid up your back, whispering against the expanse of skin before gripping your chin. One by one you let the pins fall from your lips where they were caught by spectral hands. 

“Thank you, Azriel,” you said with a smile. You didn’t need to turn to know your mate, and husband, had appeared in the room. He was, always, silent as mist and moved like it too. Once there, and in another instant, gone. 

“Thank the shadows.” Hands, scarred and corporeal, brushed against your shoulders. “They needed no commands from me.” Azriel smiled, leaning against the vanity when he moved in front of you. 

The scent of his latest fight against Cassian still clung to his skin and leathers. His knuckles were bruised and split — an injury you knew would disappear before you even stepped foot outside of Velaris — and a faint red mark tinged his high cheekbones from where he’s been struck. 

“Do you need help with that?” He asked coyly. You spit out one last pin. It fell against the marble countertop with the plink of rain on a tin roof. Then you dropped your hair, shaking out your arms as your hair fell down your back. 

Azriel’s eyes traced you hungrily, and he couldn’t help the disappointment in his stomach when that wide expanse of bare skin disappeared behind the curtain of hair. But perhaps it was a good thing. He’d have a hell of a time keeping his fists to himself if any male eyed you in your strappy dress. 

You draped an arm over the back of your chair, eyelashes fluttering up at him in a way that made his heart stutter. Seventeen years of knowing you, and three years mated, and you still pulled at his heartstrings like a puppeteer. 

“That would be lovely. But!” You held up a hand before he could walk any closer, then pointed towards the bathroom door. “Shower first.” 

Azriel huffed, stealing one quick kiss before slipping into the bathroom. 

Steam billowed out from beneath the door, rolling over the floor like white caps over a beach. Azriel combed back his hair, towel sitting loosely on his hips as you busied yourself with makeup. The smile you’d adopted while brushing blush over your cheeks became real as Azriel rested his hands on your shoulders, stealing a kiss along the curve of your neck before you could say anything. 

He put up your hair and you helped him with the buttons of his dress shirt, especially the pesky ones that lined the slits below his wings. With that done and out of the way, the real work could begin. 

“Three inches or four?”

“Three. The four-inch one is too heavy.” You touched a strand of hair that Azriel had purposefully left out of its arrangement. For framing those beautiful eyes, was what your mate had said. “I want the hair to last if it comes to a brawl.” 

“Smart.” Azriel smiled and spun the thin, three-inch dagger in the air before sliding it into its sheath and then into your hair. The ends that showed looked decorative — beautiful — and discrete, but he’d seen you pluck out a male’s eye with a needle — you could do far more damage with this. He then added a few pearl pins — also using for stabbing people in the eyes. 

“I have a surprise for you,” Azriel murmured against the curve of your ear. 

You hummed in curiosity, then your brow shot up as he gently laid a new pendant necklace against your chest. 

“Raskel finished it in time?!” 

“He did indeed. You’ve got twelve shots.”

You fingered the teardrop shaped pendant, hearing the faintest clatter of hair thin darts within it. You raised the fuller, blunt end to your lips before aiming at the wall and blowing. A sharp, thin whistle followed by the faint plink of the dart hitting the wall made you laugh with glee. 

Azriel smiled adoringly. “Now you’ve got eleven.” 

“That’s eleven of Keir’s males if he decides to test us tonight.” You winked back, for the darts held a poison concentrated enough to kill a fae… if her aim was true… which it always was. 

They traded teasing remarks and began a heated discussion about Sellyn Drake’s newest novel — the author’s first foray into historical fiction — all the while trading daggers and hidden poisons and the odd cutting wire here and there. 

“I like Hellvin Thorv best,” Azriel said from his position on the floor. He slid the sheath up your thigh, tightening it until you nodded in confirmation and slipped a simple silver dagger into its rightful place and flung your skirt over top. 

You clicked your tongue half in disapproval. “You would like him best.” 

“What is that meant to mean?” He asked in shock. 

“Nothing.” 

You helped him put on his thin, leather gauntlets with the hidden blades tucked against his forearm, buttoned up his shirt, and helped lace together the corset he wore, each of the boning channels hiding a knife thin as a feather but stronger than steel. You’d designed it for him, much to Raskel’s chagrin as he was the one who made your creations come to life. Raskel loved to moan and groan about the injustice of it all, but he did love a challenge… and gold. 

As a final touch you made Azriel sit down in your vanity chair before climbing into his lap and holding his chin in a gentle grasp as you lined his eyes with kohl. 

“I would like to see us back in this position at the end of the night,” he sighed. 

“Then let’s hope no one tries anything tonight.” You pressed your lips against his neck leaving a berry red stain. 

“Leave it,” Azriel said when you went to wipe it off, then grinned at the expression on your face. “Let them remember which female I belong to.” You left two more marks on his jaw, just to reinforce the message. 

“Shall we go, Husband?” You asked, standing to your feet and holding out your hand. 

“We shall.” He squeezed once before sliding his arm around your back and squeezing your hip. 

Rhysand and Feyre were the center of attention at the Court of Nightmares with their glittering jewels and chins raised high. Cassian’s voice was loud and grating to unfamiliar ears, and Nesta’s eyes shone like two ice chips, flashing like spotlights as they raked over the crowd. But everyone knew it was the silent pair furthest back from the front of the dais that needed to be feared. The ones made of shadow and darkness that could disappear and reappear seemingly at will. 

Keir caught your gaze once and shivered much to Azriel’s delight. He tipped his head to the side ever so slightly, letting the room catch the smear of lipstick on his neck. The male gritted his teeth and fled out of view. No one would dare raise a hand in defiance so long as you and Azriel graced their presence.

[kosije]

sins in silk

c/w ★ ׂ duke!miguel ohara x princess!reader, they are from different kingdoms, mentioned age-gap, forbidden love aspect, pregnancy kink, mentions of masturbation, unprotected sex, creampie, mutual head, fingering, size kink, art cred: kammie_arts1903

"Princess, the Grand Duke is here. May I bring him in?"

"Show him to the study for now. Tell him I will be right out. Be sure to thank the Grand Duke for his patience."

"Yes, Princess."

"Oh, Will?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"After you inform the Duke, please excuse everyone to their chambers, yes?"

"But princess, you know if the king found out we had left your side, even with the Grand Duke we could lose our-"

"I will not let that happen. So please, Will, do this for me."

All though apprehensive, your servant bows and disappears from your room, in long strides to the Duke.

It's the 5th time this month he has come to the estate. Always with the intention to see the King and ruminate. And despite him being so much older than you, your father's closest friend and strongest connection to the 2099 kingdom, and is only to wed a woman from his territory, each time he has come has left you tangling a hand in your silk sheets, hushed cries of the Duke's name left to fall from your wet lips in a silent plea.

Every time he drops by unannounced, talks to your father, and leaves. Every time he has his salt and pepper sprinkled brown hair combed back away from his face, showing the wrinkles on his forehead. Every time his eyes have focused on you, running over you like the pretty oil portrait that hangs above the study's mantle as his jaw flexes brows furrow, something in you ignites and the yearning becomes almost palpable.

Never does he say more to you than a few words, only acknowledging you after with how his body tenses when you're around. He runs as cold as the marble under your feet as you move to your vanity to reapply your perfume and shift your dress to expose enough of your collarbone without looking intentional. You're buzzing at the thought of seeing him, taking the rollers out of your hair with bubbling anticipation. This is the first time he's come amidst nightfall and the first time you two will be alone. With your hands resting to your front, you walk to the study well aware of how low your neckline is dipping while high pillared walls with paintings of cherubs and past battles trail you illuminated by ivory candles.

When you push past tall burgundy doors, you're greeted by the sight of Grand Duke of 2099, Miguel O'hara, who's stretching his back with two large hands on his hips. The deep groan he lets out makes your skin flush, and when his cold gaze meets yours you almost shiver. His eyes drift from your face to just right where your dress exposes a bit of the fat on your breast, and you smile when you hear him suck in a breath.

"What do I owe the pleasure, Your Grace?" His eyes tear from your chest as he focuses on the crackling fireplace.

"Just here to see your father, is he near?" He asks, brown eyes fixing back onto yours. Your smile only widens.

"I'm afraid the King is away, but he should be returning soon, you are more than welcome to stay 'till his return."

"I shouldn't-"

"Humor me, Your Grace. After all, I am a bit lonely without my father to talk to." you say, batting your eyelashes at him bashfully.

Apprehension is so clear on his face, but still he nods, straightening his white button up and waiting for you to go on.

"Follow me," you say, walking back down the hall until you reach your room.

"Princessa, I will not go further, this is inappropriate. A young lady shouldn-"

"'M not as young as I was before. Surely you can agree, no?"

"Even so," He coughs. "That is not the point-"

"You should have no trouble entering. I have already given my permission."

He doesn't look convinced.

"Do you not trust me? Have I done wrong by you?"

"That is not it, Princessa-"

"Then please, my duke, time is slipping right past us." you whisper, slipping through the doors, intentionally brushing your hand across his thigh. You grin when you hear his shaky breath, and hear your door not only close, but lock.

"What is it that you have here that we couldn't be anywhere else for?"

"Are you putting on an act," you ask him, turning around to face him still at a distance. "Or are you truly this aloof, Your Grace?'

"I’m sorry?-"

"I have a confession," you say. walking closer and closer until his breath is caught in his throat, and your lips are just a nudge away from his.

"My father won't be returning anytime soon." And suddenly, it seems it has clicked in his head, as his eyes darken.

"This can not happen."

"You're right," your hand is pressed up against his chest.

"Someone could hear us," He whispers, making no effort to push you away.

"I've already dismissed everyone to their chambers."

"If your father ever found out there could be a war," he tries to argue, but his head is still dipping down, ghosting over your lips.

"We have all night to just the two of us."

And just a second after saying that, he kisses you. His lips are hot, hungry, and experienced in the way they move against yours, swallowing your every breath. His hands find your waist, but he hesitates and you can tell he hasn't given in completely. And something about that excites you.

You pull away from his lips, leaving him noticeably confused until your hand reaches down and palms his cock, happy at the way he's already hard.

"Do you know just how long I've been wanting this?" You ask shifting him around you.

He doesn't say anything, only shakes his head "No."

"Ever since the day you came back to visit, I haven't been able to think of anything else." When you push him down on the edge of your bed, he shivers when you drop to your knees and play with the button on his slacks.

"Every night, I touch myself on these sheets to the thought of you." You confess, finally free him from his pants, leaving him in the thin fabric of his underwear, painfully soaking up the front of them with his pre.

"Princessa," He finally says in almost a whine. "If you say things like that I'm afraid I won't be able to hold back."

And dipping your hand under his waistband to grip his cock, you savor how thick and heavy he feels and the groan he lets out with a kiss to his base. You can't deny the bit of worry that flushes through you when you see just how big he is. Thick beads of cum pulse out of him that you lick up hungrily, humming at how you can feel hus veins on your tongue.

"Then please, Your Grace. Give me everything."

That seems to shatter his self control, because suddenly he has a hand in your hair and a hand on his cock as he forces your lips over his angry brown head.

"You're such a damn tease, you know that?" He gritts out, bullying his cock all the way to the back of your throat and then some. You gag and choke around him, already feeling your throat burn and eyes well up.

"Always coming around me with your father with your body on display in those cute little gowns, batting those pretty little eyes at me when you talk. What would your father think if he knew all of that was because you were trying to get my attention?" He coos between groans while using your face like just a vessel to get off, and your cunt starts dripping. "Just so I could fuck your pretty mouth like this?"

You can't do anything but moan around him, croaking out gasp when he finally lets you catch your breath before immediately pulling you back down onto his dick rapidly as snot mixes in with tears, spit, and cum starts to drip down your jaw and onto your floor. He begins to unbutton his shirt, before tearing it off completely, leaving buttons to fly across your room. Looking up through teary eyes you take in the way his usually combed back hair sticks to his sweaty forehead messily, as his abs tense and relax with every rapid breath as his mouth lulls open with lidded eyes, moaning when he sees just how well you swallow him.

Swiftly, you run your tongue over the slit of his cock, hearing him whine, and feeling the grip on your hair tighten enough to burn your scalp. Your throat aches with every heavy thrust that only spurs on the throbbing between your thighs as your hands play with his balls and he stutters in your mouth, shooting his seed down your throat, midst mumbling praises.

Without word or warning, he flips you over, effectively pinning you down to your bed once he's come down from his high. His large calloused hand runs up and down your thigh before tossing your nightgown up, and he groans at the sigh.

"You needed me so bad you didn't wear anything under this frilly thing? What a filthy girl." He grins, slapping your dripping cunt and drinking up your moan in a kiss.

"Your Grace,"

"That's not what you should be calling me." He grits, crouching down to his knees to lick a stripe up your throbbing pussy.

"M-miguel,"

"Yes, Princessa?"

"Please."

"Please what, Princessa?" He says, licking another stripe, but slower.

"Please...don't tease me." You whimper, muffling your moans with the back of your hand.

"And what shall I do instead?"

"Kiss me harder, please. I need it, Mig-" and your sentence is cut off by the feeling of his nose kissing your clit as he buries his face into your sopping heat, groaning at the way you suck his tongue in. You're writhing at the feeling, but when you feel one of his calloused fingers push through you, you lose your vision for a second.

"Fuck- you're even tighter than I thought you were," he groans, and you feel your body ignite at his admission.

"You'd think of me?" You ask with such a worn out voice, Miguel's hips buck up in search of any friction at all.

"All the damn time. Would fuck my hand everyday over those pretty eyes and lips, imagine how pretty you'd look all happy and spent, with the image of my love spilling out of you." He confesses, speeding his assault on your hole, hitting spots with his fingers you could only dream of, before latching his mouth back on and fucking you with his tongue and fingers. The arousal in you was rushing through you like a wave and just after a strangled moan it blows out of you in pleasurable burst that leave you flushed. He hungrily drinks you up like a starved man until you're whining from the sensation.

When he rises from the floor he doesn't bother wiping your slick from his mouth, only laughs at your fucked out expression, and runs his lips over yours, amused by how you trail after him. Annoyed, you wrap your hands around his collar and pull his lips onto yours, gasping and licking into his mouth. Between the taste of you on his tongue, his rock-hard cock rubbing against your puffy folds as your hands run through his sweaty hair.

"Gonna give me one more?" He asks, voice low like gravel.

"I'll do anything for you, Miguel. Anything you want."

He kisses you again, a passionate thing as you both whine at the feeling of him bullying into you.

"'Ts too big, Mig- oh! S-slow down!" You cry, but his hand slaps the fat of your thigh and grips it, hitting you even deeper at a fast pace. The pain is still there, but feeling of pleasure is much more intense. And it only skyrockets when you hear his voice.

"Sshhh sweetheart. You're-fuck-already taking me so well. so damn tight around me. Be good and take what I give you. So I c-can tell your father what a nice cunt his perfect little girl has." He rasps, pounding you even deeper than before, and your nails dig up the fabric of your sheets, leaving fabric frayed in long scratches. One hand grips your thigh as the other moves up your dress to tweak and grope your breast, making you clench down around him. He drawls out a curse as his head falls into the crook of your neck, inhaling the smell of your sweat and perfume that makes him impossibly more needy to where he's plowing through you in quick hard strokes that move your bed to knock against your walls, shaking the shelf above you.

His teeth sink into your neck, almost as a mark of ownership, before sucking a bruise into your skin, continuing his markings lower and lower to focus them on your breast. Your back arches at the sting and you cry out at the imposing feeling building up inside you.

"Such a pretty girl," he says, leaning over to look you in your eyes, studying the gaping of your mouth and tugging on your brows as your orgasm builds up. His eyes are trained on you, as he throbs inside you, stimulating you further.

"I'm close-" you whimper, voice cracking as he licks a stripe up your neck.

"Yeah?" He asks, smirk practically audible as he hums in your ear. "Do it. Squeeze me, sweetheart."

It only takes a few heavy strokes to hit your sweet spot before you are gushing around him, making his thrust sporadic and moans louder.

"Yes-shit- let me fill you up. I'll give you an heir, and then I'll-hah- fuck you again, and again, and again."

"Yesyesyes, please." You think you exclaim, but can't tell if you said it out loud or just in your head because of how overestimated you are. His hand rubs circles on your clit, and your toes curl as your heels dig into the muscle of his back.

"Fuck- I'm gonna-" He spits out, just before spilling his seed into your cunt, carefully riding out his orgasm inside you while pushing his cum deeper into your womb. His palm stretches over the expanse of your chest as he leans down to kiss just above your belly button. The room is quiet now that he is still inside you, and you watch Miguel lean down to kiss you once more, in the form of a soft peck to your swollen lips. Once he pulls back, he leaves you briefly before returning with a warm damp cloth that he wipes you down with. Once he is done, he discards it into a bucket and lies himself down next to you.

"If we continue to do this," he says, carefully pulling out of you. "We will eventually have to tell your father."

"You're right," you whisper scared, but when you feel his strong arm pull you flush against his chest, hope surges through you and you bury your face into his warm body.

"We'll need to get up early, the maids would appreciate finding us like this."

"We'll be fine. After all, a pregnancy will shock them far more than this."

"I'm sure it will," he laughs, kissing your forehead.

Since envelops the two of you, as you notice his breathing deepen.

"Your, Grace-"

"Miguel," he corrects, eyes dancing across your face with a small smile.

"Miguel, my father will be gone on the next full moon."

"The next full moon, huh?" He asks no one at all, pushing your hair behind your ear.

It’s bittersweet asking him to sneak around with you again. And yet, all he says is a simple "Okay," placing a kiss to the palm of your hand, and you understand what the gesture is:

A promise.

[notlongtolove]

the garden is growing

"you live together, work together. doesn’t it all get a little boring?" there’s a weight to her observation, something invasive, like she’s pulling out weeds that you never asked her to tend, tilling through soil that’s been left unbothered for too long. the cups of tea, the folding of blankets. you could never call that boring.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff! maybe angst if you really really squint

content: after catching up with an old friend, bau!reader and bf!spencer have a contemplative talk about their relationship as they walk home. domestic... mentions of marriage... lurve in the air...

word count: 2.2k

note: a post finals treat to myself! leaned heavy into the garden imagery for this one lol, this was heavily inspired by the poem linked, i highly recommend it! o i also added some song recs below for this one :P (ps i did not mean to compare spencer's eyes to PEBBLES but it was either that or a random brown flower... sorry.)

a line: The perennial pushes its way through the cracks in the concrete—small, steady, and undeniably alive. It’s there. It’s growing.

If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say Except that the garden is growing. - wendy cope

When you were younger, you had a garden. A field just a stone's throw from your front door. Not the kind in a backyard, fenced in and manageable. No, it was wild and uncontained, the grass alive beneath your feet. They used to say love was like a garden. You'd think about that sometimes—how you were supposed to tend to it, rake and comb and pull out the weeds before they strangled your beautiful flowers. And when it rained, you just had to let it. Let the downpour come and see what survived.

You’re standing under the awning, shaking droplets off your jacket. You mumble a thanks to the doorman as he holds the door open, offering a silent nod in return. The door opens to a polished, marble lobby, and suddenly you’re acutely aware of how out of place you look. You’d come straight from the office, having dwindled your stack of case files from a grand total of 26 to a modest 19. The grand mirror to your left does nothing to help. If anything, it’s magnifying the creased fabric of your trousers and the damp strands of hair stuck to your cheek. You shift uncomfortably, tugging at your sleeves and smoothing your hair out in a futile attempt at order. It was urgent she’d said. A matter of utmost importance. You’re not sure why you’re here, but you know with certainty that you’d rather not be.

She sees you before you see her. She calls out for you, the nickname wrapping around you like a sweater one size too small—warm but suffocating. It might as well be. You haven’t seen her in nearly a year—maybe a year and a half? You shrug, suddenly missing Spencer’s precision, his ability to pin things down to the day, the hour.

"Hi," you manage, sliding into the seat opposite her. “I’m really sorry. Work was crazy—" you start, but your words dissolve the moment she thrusts her hand forward. A diamond—no, a boulder—catches the light, dazzling and deliberate. You nearly choke on the glass of water you’ve just picked up. 

"Let me tell you about crazy," she says, her grin sharpening. 

Oh, the yacht! And don’t even get me started on the violins, can you believe it! The sea was just gorgeous—Did I mention it was on a yacht? Her words tumble out as you try to follow along, but you can’t quite keep up, only noting it definitely involved an abhorrent amount of Dom Perignon.

“I wish you could’ve been there to see it,” she says, her voice tinged with what you hope is nostalgia and not pity.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” you murmur, and you mean it—sort of. You used to be close, but since starting at the BAU, everything else kind of took a backseat. It had to. “I wish I could’ve too. Work’s been—”

"Crazy, right," she cuts in, waving it off. "Big fancy BAU," She winks. "That job’s gonna be the death of you one day y’know, all those hours." You force a laugh, but her words hit a little too literally, heavier than she knows. You don’t think she quite grasps the reality of your work.

“So,” she says, leaning in now, her chin propped delicately on her hand, her diamond ring catching the light. You can’t help but think it’s mocking you. “How’s things going with Spencer?”

"Oh, they’re going fine."

"Fine?" She raises her brows. "Trouble in paradise?"

“No, not at all,” you insist, your voice instinctively rising in defence. “We’re—fine. You know, same old, same old. We just wrapped a big case actually. This guy—” You cut yourself off, realizing mid-sentence that the story of a guy meticulously collecting hair from women post-mortem doesn’t feel like the kind of story to share during dinner under a sparkling chandelier—Not that you’re doing much eating anyway. The menu was a labyrinth of fancy salads, obscure cheeses, and entrées described in French that you’re only half sure translate to lamb. You’d settled for pushing a few greens around your plate, making a mental note to stop by the bodega later.  

Her laugh pulls you back to the table, "I don’t know how you do it."

"Do what?"

"You know… Live together, work together, day in, day out. Doesn’t it all get a little..." She trails off, letting her expression finish the sentence. 

"A little… what?" 

"Boring?"

You blink. "Boring?" 

The word tastes bitter. You don’t like it. The way the dog always chases the cat? Boring. The way the cat always seeks shelter in the same tree? Boring. But the way they both come running home every time you call? That’s never boring. Spencer in the quiet mornings—hair tousled, voice soft and sleepy as he murmurs a 'good morning.' The cups of tea, the folding of blankets. You could never call that boring. 

She laughs lightly, the sound cutting through the restaurant’s hum. "Not in a bad way! I just mean... do you guys even go out? Like, for fun? You guys have been together for, what like, years now?” Three years and 4 months, you think to yourself. You’d never need Spencer’s eidetic memory to remember that. 

"Well, yeah, sure we do…" you say finally. "Um, we went to a museum recently." You don’t tell her it was to interview a suspect. Her smile tightens, like she’s not sure whether to believe you or feel sorry for you. You take a careful sip of water, resisting the urge to shift under her gaze. There’s a weight to her observation, something invasive, like she’s pulling out weeds that you never asked her to tend, tilling through soil that’s been left unbothered for too long. Outside, the rain keeps falling.

By the time you part with polite hugs and hollow smiles, the downpour has softened to a drizzle. Spencer is waiting by the curb, hair slightly damp. His eyes light up at the sight of you. Under the glow of the streetlight, they remind you of the pebbles you used to collect by the garden path. You’d carry them home, pocketful by pocketful, washing and scrubbing at them until they shone. Only your favourites made it to your shelf. Tiny, perfect trophies.

“Hi, honey.”

"Hiya." You lean into his chest, a tired smile tugging at your lips as you manage a strained, “I’m starving.” 

“Hi starving. Care for a burrito?” he asks, tilting a takeout bag toward you with a small smile.

Your eyes meet his, and there’s something in his smile—soft, understanding, familiar—that makes your chest ache. “How’d you know?” you ask, practically tearing into the bag.

“Searched the menu after you left,” he says simply, falling into step beside you as you start walking. “Figured you wouldn't have liked much in there," he shrugs, casual. You feel your cheeks warm. Two hours away from Spencer Reid is two hours too long. 

The walk home is quiet at first, the two of you picking your way around puddles reflecting neon signs. The burrito’s long gone, leaving your hand free for Spencer to hold, fingers interlocked.

“She’s engaged,” you say eventually.

Spencer furrows his brows. “Already?”

“It’s only been like, what, eight? nine months?”

Spencer frowns, pauses then says, “256 days”, the precision drawing a faint smile from you.

“Crazy isn’t it?”

“I guess. Some people are like that,” he says, “Did you know statistically, couples who get engaged within the first year of dating are 20% more likely to divorce within the first five years?”

“With that prenup incoming she’d better hope they’re the exception then…” you murmur, not really listening. 

There’s something in your chest, persistent and heavy. You can feel its roots stirring, working its way beneath the surface, threatening to loosen the earth that keeps you grounded. 

A few more steps in silence. Then, quietly, “Do you think we’re boring?”

“Boring?” Spencer tilts his head slightly. “Do you think we’re boring?”

You hesitate, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t think we’re boring, but you know, we don’t do much.” 

“We’re in the FBI, honey. I’d argue we do a lot.” He smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching playfully. You try to laugh, but it comes out forced, brittle—like a flower trying to push out a bloom that's not quite ready yet.

Spencer notices, as he always does. “Is there something you want to do?” It stirs in you again, something tender and uncertain. You don’t know if it will be a flower that blooms or a weed that chokes out everything else. 

“No,” You say a little too quickly, “Nothing really, just... Other than work and home—”

“What’d she say?”

“Hm?”

“You love work, you live for it—I practically have to drag you out of the office most days,” he reasons, tone calm and steady. “And, if this is something that was bothering you… I’d have known. So it must’ve been something she said.” You stop walking, the words catching in your throat. It bothers you—how her vines have crept into your garden, straight through to the soil beneath. Flowers rarely thrive in foreign soil, you think. 

“Not really,” you lie, biting your lip—a tell Spencer surely catches. “We just talked about the engagement. Well, she talked.”

He doesn’t press, though you can tell he doesn’t believe you. His gaze lingers, but he chooses to give you space. “How was it? The engagement.”

“Something about a yacht,” you reply with a shrug.

“I thought she was afraid of water.”

“Not when it’s on a million-dollar vessel, apparently.”

Spencer chuckles. You continue to walk. Your feet do their best to trace the familiar trail, trying to find the garden path that takes you home. Left. Right. Left. Right. But your thoughts snag, tripping on an unseen vine, and you stumble.

“Do you ever think about it?” you ask.

“About what?”

“Like... if we ever get married and stuff.”

Now it’s Spencer’s turn to stop mid-step, rooted to the spot, his body going still. You freeze too, breath trapped in your chest, a flush spreading across your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you rush to say, the guilt sharp and immediate. “That was silly, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” 

You tug softly on his hand trying to pull him forward, but he doesn’t budge. His brows knit together as his gaze locks with yours. 

“When.” 

“When what?”

“You said if. I’m saying when. When we get married.”

“When we get married?” you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might shatter the moment.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “When. Not if. I don’t think really of it as a hypothetical possibility.”

Your chest tightens and you don’t know exactly what to say, but your fingers instinctively tighten around his. Spencer senses your silence and rushes to fill the space.

“Do you… not think that?” he asks, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

“I do! Of course, I do.” Your voice falters. “I just… I didn’t know you thought about it that way too.”

Spencer hums, soft smile on his face. “I know I tend to look at things in terms of statistics, probabilities—But us? There’s no ‘ifs’. Not with you, honey. Never with you.”

And just like that, the earth beneath you shifts, breaking apart to reveal a bud. Not a flower but a fruit-bearing tree. You try and fight the urge to throw yourself into his arms and kiss him, but he’s already leaning in, his lips warm and familiar against yours. As you pull back, eyes locked, you think back to the pebbles you used to collect. Your tiny, perfect trophies—Spencer’s eyes are far better, you think. 

“You smell like burrito,” he teases. You laugh, the sound light and easy. “You love burritos.”

He brushes a stray curl from your forehead. “I love you.”

Through the clearing, you see it. The vines have receded, the rain has come and gone. Your feet step off the garden path with certainty. It’s safe now. It’s here. 

“So,” you say with renewed excitement, your steps light as you glance at him, “Beach wedding?”

Spencer wrinkles his nose. “Do you have any idea how much fecal bacteria there is in beach sand?”

“Blegh.” 

“No, seriously. Beach sand has 10 to 100 times more fecal bacteria than seawater.”

“How about we don’t throw around the word ‘fecal’ when my burrito is still working its way through me,” you reply, grimacing. “What’s your genius idea then?”

He grins. “Barn wedding?”

“Spence, I love you, and I know you’ve always wanted to be a cowboy, but I’m not walking down the aisle with hay in my hair.”

He laughs, shaking his head as you walk side by side, hands swaying between you. Spencer spots a perennial growing out of concrete cracks by the lamppost 2 steps ahead of you. 

“What about a garden wedding? In spring?” 

“A garden wedding,” you say, a soft smile spreading across your face, “Yeah, I’d really like that, spring’s nice.”

"Okay,” he says, hand warm in yours, “in spring then."

There’s no towering oak tree, ancient and steadfast, to mark this moment, no circle of wildflowers dancing wildly around with their colours. But still the perennial pushes its way through the cracks in the concrete—small, steady, and undeniably alive. It’s there. It’s growing.

They used to say love was like a garden. When his drought comes, silent but devastating nonetheless, you quench it with your rain—soft, temperamental. And when your rain changes her tide, thrashing and wild, he shelters you beneath his leaves, vast and unyielding. Together you prune the dead parts, plant anew, and marvel at what thrives.

The next time someone asks you how things are going, there’s no pursed smile or hesitant pause, distant in thought. You just smile and say it's going. It's going alright. It's going great. It’s going fine. 

Because all that matters is that it's going. 

Your garden is growing. 

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: nothing by bruno major love letter from the sea to the shore by delaney bailey

[fel-09]

Emperor Geta x reader

Words:2.400+

2Part Part 3

Second life

The air was filled with a sweet haze of wine, grapes, and incense. The room felt suffocating despite its vastness and marble columns stretching to the vaulted ceiling, where warm light reflected faintly. The Empress stood near one of the columns, her silhouette lost in the dim light. She seemed out of place in this grandeur, invisible to those who laughed and indulged themselves in pleasure.

At the center of attention, as always, was him. Geta. Her husband, the Emperor of Rome, and the man who had completely stripped her of her significance. Reclining on a lavishly adorned couch, he leaned back, allowing his concubines to feed him grapes and share jokes. The delicate fingers of one woman traced his shoulders, while another gently combed his hair. He smiled. This scene was far too ordinary, far too familiar.

She didn’t move. She only watched, clenching her hands behind her back to hide their trembling. Long ago, at the beginning of their marriage, her presence at least unsettled him somewhat. Back then, she could say something, and he might respond with a condescending remark or even a smile. But not anymore.

"Did you want something?" His lazy voice reached her at last when he finally noticed her.

She flinched slightly but quickly composed herself. Once, that gaze would have compelled her to justify herself, to apologize, but now… she remained silent. Instead of responding, she turned away and left the hall, leaving him with a faint smirk on his face.

Something broke inside her chest, but it wasn’t pain. It was a strange mix of bitterness and indifference. Everything she had felt, everything she had endured by his side, had now lost its meaning. He had taken everything from her—her rights, her freedom, her respect. Even her death, as it turned out, had not piqued his interest.

When she had died, poisoned on the orders of one of his favorites, her final thoughts had been a plea for forgiveness. Forgiveness for allowing him to trample on her pride for so long. But now, standing here alive, as if fate itself had given her a second chance, she knew she would not waste it.

Day by day, she began to act. It wasn’t an overt rebellion or loud proclamations. Her resistance started with small, unnoticed actions. She observed, listened, and waited.

The first change she made was in the imperial council. Previously, Geta’s concubines were allowed to attend, having been delegated much of the Emperor’s responsibilities. Her opinions were never sought; her words held no weight. But now, she took her place.

When one of his favorites, the young and arrogant Aurelia, rose to speak, the Empress calmly raised her hand, cutting her off.

“I don’t recall an advisor of Rome wearing silk robes and emerald necklaces,” her voice was soft but firm. “Sit down.”

A tense silence fell over the hall. The council members, accustomed to her silence, exchanged glances. Aurelia paled but tried to maintain her composure.

“Geta permitted me…”

“Perhaps His Highness is too busy to remember how the council operates. But I do,” her voice didn’t rise, but there was an edge of warning in it. “Sit.”

"all the more so, you are a mistress and should know that in public he is an emperor for you"

Aurelia slowly sank back into her seat, her face burning with embarrassment. The Empress didn’t look at her again, focusing instead on discussing pressing matters.

This small victory did not go unnoticed.

Later that same evening the emperor began to scold for behavior that was supposedly not right , in public, Geta hit the steel with his hand, looked at her sullenly and shouted through his teeth

"The fact that you are an empress does not give you the right to such behavior You insult my people, you insult me!."

She raised an eyebrow at his words as y snorted and laughed, covering mouth with her hand.To which he raised his eyebrows in surprise, although anger was still boiling inside him.

"Oh please... mistress... advice? Isn't there anyone more absurd in this situation?"

The emperor looked at her in surprise, word after word she did not stop arguing until she were separated from each other, it was strange for Geta, for the first time she fought back...

Weeks passed, and the changes became apparent. Her status in the palace was no longer nominal. She reclaimed everything that was hers. But most importantly, she reclaimed herself.

At the gladiatorial games, which she had been obliged to attend since the beginning of their marriage, she no longer averted her gaze. Once, the scenes of violence and death would make her tremble. She would hide her eyes, turn away, while the crowd roared in delight. But not anymore.

She sat upright, her posture impeccable, her expression calm and detached. When one of the gladiators fell, clinging desperately to life, she watched him as if she were a judge, dispassionately assessing his struggle, a silent question lingering in the air: Was this worth it for you?

Geta laughed loudly, watching the spectacle with his brother. A servant placed wine on the table before him, and as he turned, he noticed her. For a moment, his gaze lingered longer on her than on the battle itself. In his eyes was a mix of curiosity and irritation.

“You’re no longer afraid? Strange… even refreshing coming from you,” he asked, drawing her attention.

She turned, her gaze cold and almost disdainful.

“It just seems meaningless to me now. And I’ve grown used to the spectacle.”

His eyebrows raised slightly. This tone was uncharacteristic of her. Her words were direct, almost provocative.

“Hm... Still as boring as ever,” he said, looking at her dismissively, as if he wasn’t interested in the first place.

She turned away, as though he wasn’t worth her response.

The more she changed, the more it unsettled him, though he didn’t want to admit it. Her newfound coldness both drew him in and frightened him. He was used to her looking up at him with reverence or fear. To him, it had always been natural, the way things should be. But now, her gaze was indifferent.

They sat in the same room one evening, but she spoke only to Caracalla. She didn’t look at him, not even once. His younger brother deserved more of her attention than he did… her husband. Their conversation was lively, but he decided to ruin this little idyll.

“Do you think I don’t see what you’re doing?” His voice was tense, laced with threat.

She stopped, slowly turning her head toward him.

“And what exactly am I doing, Your Highness?” Her words made his teeth clench. She hadn’t called him “my Emperor” for days now. He didn’t know why he had become fixated on this, but he had.

“Your behavior. Do you think I’ll just let you do whatever you want?” He stepped closer, his voice lowered as he leaned in, the scent of her skin hitting his senses and nearly making him lose control.

His brother watched with a smirk, leaning back on the couch as though enjoying the unfolding scene. “Oh, come on, brother. Our sister-in-law is simply in a mood, and you’re ruining it,” Caracalla teased, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The gesture made Geta’s brow furrow in anger.

“I would still like to clarify the situation,” the Emperor grumbled, his hands tightening on the couch she sat on.

At last, the Empress looked at him directly for the first time in days. She met his gaze, not looking away.

“If I’m doing something unbefitting of my status, if i do let me know, Your Highness,” she said with a defiant smile, knowing she wouldn’t face any consequences. And she was absolutely right.

He fell silent, his lips twitching slightly, unable to find the words.

Now their conversations were rare. She no longer sought his attention or tried to be noticed. Instead, she focused on reclaiming her place in the world.

When he saw her in the palace gardens, she was sitting on a marble bench surrounded by advisors. She laughed—not out of politeness, but genuinely. Her eyes sparkled, and her voice brimmed with confidence.

Geta stopped for a moment, watching her from the shadows. This woman was no longer the timid girl he had married for political gain. She was… something greater.

And it irritated him. Her laughter, her smile, her demeanor—everything irritated him.

He began to search for her throughout the palace, hoping she might once again desire his presence, a small conversation, a glance—anything. But each time, she dismissed his attempts, even when he tried to manipulate her by saying, “We need heirs.” She didn’t even flinch.

But one day, they met in a corridor, and the conversation started poorly from the very beginning.

“Do you think you can ignore me? You’re my Empress, my wife… mine, do you understand? And your behavior is nothing more than childish defiance!” he said, intercepting her in the hall. He was visibly displeased—displeased with her actions, which cast a shadow on his status. He loved power, loved everything about it, but she had become dangerous to him… and yet, all the more desirable.

She looked at him without any interest in his words. Once, she would have hung on every word he spoke… but now, it all seemed like the meaningless ramblings of a madman rather than the speech of a man.

“It’s too late, Your Highness,” she replied before walking away.

Her words hurt more than he wanted to admit. He stood alone, surrounded by concubines who no longer seemed desirable to him.

Now he understood he had lost her completely. Each step she took away from him, without looking back, was like a blow to his heart.

________

Sorry for the mistakes in the text, I just want to sleep and I don’t understand what I wrote.

[uwmspeccoll]

Marbled Monday

It's been a minute since we last posted for Marbled Monday but we're back with an exciting combed French curl or snail pattern! This pattern was created by dropping colors onto the water bath, creating a gel-git (or zig-zag) pattern with a stylus, then combing it once perpendicular to the gel-git with a fine-toothed comb creating a pattern called nonpareil, and finally using a wide-toothed comb to create the characteristic curly swirly snails. This particular pattern uses blue, maroon, cream, and yellow. The marbled paper was used for both the front and back covers and the endpapers of the book.

The book inside the lovely marbled binding is a 1779 ninth edition of Sketches from Nature, which features "upwards of one hundred portraits, or characters, of the most conspicuous persons in the kingdom." This edition was printed for George Kearsly (or Kearsley, 1739-1790) and was written by an anonymous author. It is a satirical piece with humorous profiles of well-known figures and so the names are all printed with blanks in the middles (ie: Mr. G_____s), but in our copy all of the names have been filled in by an industrious owner.

View more Marbled Monday posts.

-- Alice, Special Collections Department Manager

[redtsundere-writes]

Part 1: Ear Cleaning

King!SukunaRyomen x Servant!FemReader

Summary: You used to be just another servant among the army of humans operating under the command of the terrible king, Sukuna Ryomen. An ordinary human who only knows how to wash, clean and cook. Until one day, he notices something in you that you hadn't seen before.

Tags: MDNI. +18. Murder. Blood. Cannibalism. Sukuna Ryomen Is The Warning Itself. Nudity. Sexual Display. Vaginal. Fingering. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst.

Word Count: 1936 words.

A/N: From popular demand, I'll post the fic here too. Enjoy! :3

Next →

Sukuna walked through the corridors illuminated by the dark sun that ruled among the kingdoms. His long, heavy footsteps made the marble floor rumble under his weight. His sharp profile, tattooed shoulders and large body, contrasted by the reddish sky of the cursed land, terrifying any small human who encountered him. He was a king who could control anything thanks to the terror that his large body and absolute power conveyed. He had the power on his hands to kill whatever and whenever he wanted like an omnipotent god, but he liked to watch his rats run from one side to the other to obey his mercy. It amused him to play with his servants to the point of making them cry, tremble or, in extreme cases, commit suicide. He had plenty of servants, so he could afford to kill as many as he wanted. The poor uniformed humans trembled if his dark eyes rested on them. They all tried to dodge him at all costs to avoid performing tasks that involved being near him, especially cleaning his ears. 

Being a monster with senses sharpened to the max, he hated having his ears touched, but it was necessary for him to clean them to have his five senses ready for any battle. He is not someone ticklish, but his ears are the most sensitive part of his entire body. He could clean his own ears himself, but what kind of almighty, omnipotent king would clean his own ears when others could do it?

His eyes navigated through the long and endless corridors of the terrifying castle where he lived with all his subjects. The king's home was a place where darkness, cold, and uncertainty dominated the atmosphere. Even though it was surrounded by luxuries, it felt more like a secret attic than a castle fit for a king. Silver chandeliers, red candles parading on the walls and furniture upholstered with exotic fabrics from around the world decorated each room that was commonly surrounded by portraits made by hundreds of artists who feared for their lives. 

His predatory eyes sought out the first poor servant that crossed his path. He heard the bristles of a broom being scrubbed against the floor. Sukuna spotted a small figure sweeping one of the guest rooms. There you were, humming a song softly from your childhood as you made the broom dance from side to side. You were so focused on your task that you didn't notice the king standing dangerously close to you. As you turned around, you suddenly bumped into his imposing body, giving you a mini heart attack. Dressed in elegant robes, gold rings on each finger and with a wicked grin on his face, he was looking at you as if you were a despicable creature he could get rid of in the blink of an eye. 

You are the youngest and most inexperienced servant in the entire castle. You had not been living there for more than two months, so your direct interactions with the king had been few. Sukuna saw you from head to toe. He remembered you perfectly from the day he met you. Your neatly combed pigtails with two white bows showed off your innocence, the corset accentuated your small waist and the long brown skirt covered your promising legs. He accepted it, you were cute. Other than that, you were a disgusting human like everyone else, but there was something about you that caught his attention. Sukuna didn't know exactly what it was that you had. For the time being, he would continue to treat you as you deserved for being a nasty rat. Immediately, you knelt before your majesty. Your head rested in your hands against the freshly swept floor, your fingers barely touching his feet because of the closeness. 

“Are you having fun?” Sukuna asked, sarcastic. 

“No, my king,” you answered quickly, avoiding making eye contact. 

Sukuna placed one of his bare feet on your back. The oppressive weight crushed you against the cold floor. You prayed inwardly that your bones wouldn't start to creak. You bit your lower lip and closed your eyes tightly to avoid letting out a moan of pain. Having satisfied his need to make the new maid see who her master is, he removed his foot from your agonized back. You took a deep breath to fill your lungs with air again. 

“To my room. Now,” he ordered without deigning to look at you before leaving the room. You remained on the floor, slowly catching your breath. A metal taste touched your tongue. You bit your lower lip so hard that it was bleeding. 

This was the first time he ordered something directly from you. Usually you followed Uraume's general instructions like everyone else. You sat up slowly to regain what little balance you had left. You followed him to his room as he had ordered. Your heart was going to burst out of your chest from how nervous you were. As your small steps echoed like a pleasant trickle in the gloom, the servants came out of their hiding spots to quickly sign you in. They wished you the best of luck and that you would make it out of his room alive. That only put more pressure on you. 

You entered your majesty's luxurious room. Your eyes were fascinated to see so many extravagances in one place. Crystal chandeliers, rugs made of exotic animals and gold decorative pieces. All the furniture was precisely designed to suit his majesty's tastes and everything was neatly arranged. Unlike the rest of the castle, his room was a museum full of expensive artworks that the average person could not even imagine existed. 

The great fearsome monster was reclining on a red satin-covered divan. His eyes were closed, his four arms crossed over his broad chest and his legs barely touched the floor due to his impressive height. You approached him carefully so as not to ruin his peace. Next to the divan was a wooden cabinet with all the necessary tools to groom him thoroughly.

“Clean my ears,” he ordered in a gruff voice, cocking his head over the rest for you to begin immediately. “You better do a good job,” he threatened you. You swallowed dryly because it would be the first time you would touch his majesty and if you did it wrong, the last.

You took out the necessary instruments to carry out the task. You knelt in front of his head. As expected, the king smelled exquisite. It was strong, woody, and addictive. His pink hair was soft to the touch, but you tried to avoid touching it so as not to muss it. You dedicated yourself to cleaning the outside of his ear with a swab, concentrating on the helix and the back of the ear. Your hands were delicate around his sensitive ears and the friction did not bother him because it was minimal and warm. Sukuna's body began to relax as time passed. If he didn’t focus, he could fall asleep. 

Sukuna felt a shiver run down his back as you stuck a small wooden spatula into his ear to remove the excess earwax that prevented him from hearing well. You carefully dug so as not to hurt him. You could feel his discomfort in the way he squeezed his eyelids with each movement you made.

“Let me know if I get too deep, my king,” you said with a shaky voice. 

“Just do your damn job,” he answered grudgingly.

You continued cleaning his ear little by little. The task was not as complicated as you thought, but you could not let your guard down with a king who can decide your fate with a snap of his fingers. After wiping the outside with absorbent cotton, you were finally done with the first ear. Sukuna was falling asleep until you asked him if he could lie down on his opposite side so you could proceed with his other ear. He did so with a grunt of annoyance, as he was very comfortable on that side, while the couch creaked under the weight.

You took a deep breath. All you had to do was repeat what you had already done, and you would finish the task alive. You watched mesmerized as Sukuna's tattooed chest rose and fell from his steady breathing. Sukuna let out a whimper as soon as you stuck the spatula in too far. You already felt your throat being slit for a simple mistake. 

“Be careful! Can’t you do something so simple?” He grumbled. 

You apologized immediately and continued on your task as you lowered your head in fear. “Damn humans,” he thought with a frown. As soon as your magic fingers touched his ear, he got over his anger and returned to the oasis of relaxation where he left off. 

Sukuna let out a yawn as soon as you finished. A proud smile of your own escaped your lips. You had survived your first direct order. You glanced at the time on the large gold clock hanging over the door. It was getting late, and you had to get back to the kitchen soon to help with the dinner preparations. You returned the utensils to their respective places and got up to politely leave the place. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sukuna asked you as he got up from the couch to move to his giant bed. “Massage my head,” he ordered once again. You nodded obediently. 

His majesty's bed was lined with the softest fabrics in the world. The silk pillows were engraved with the flags of the kingdom, the blankets were of pure wool and the mattress appeared to be made of goose feathers. Sukuna's heavy head was on your comfortable lap. Your soft thighs were softer than her own pillows. Your magic fingers massaged his temples in circles. You could hear him purring subtly like a contented kitten, even though he was physically not as cute as one.

Before long, Sukuna was fast asleep. Seeing his eyes closed and his light breathing, you decided to go with the other servants to continue your work. As soon as you got off the bed, he left his heat provider on his side. Before you could continue your way to the exit, you heard that terrible voice behind you.

“Who told you could leave?” You froze in place and turned to face him. His red eyes looked at you with disdain, more on the terrifying side. “Come here,” your heart did a backflip when you heard that command. 

More than an order, it ended up being a warning. He pulled you by the white apron to capture you in his four strong arms. The warmth of his body and yours merged, causing the temperature to rise between you. Your body began to sweat from nerves. You didn't know what his intention was with you. You had never been with a man like this before, let alone a tyrant twice your size. All worry disappeared from your mind as he began to stroke your body slowly, taking care not to scratch you with his long black claws. 

Slowly, you could feel on your back as his majesty fell asleep. Sukuna did not snore as you thought he would. He let out a fainter, quieter sound, it was almost like a kitten with a stuffy nose. His arms around your waist and shoulders, his heavy breathing and comfortable chest encouraged you to fall asleep. “His majesty's orders,” you thought so you wouldn't feel so guilty about falling asleep.

Next →

Open fanfic commissions!

Masterlist.

[missydior]

prince of monaco ౨ৎ

notes: charles leclerc x reader, est. relationship, suggestive content, alcohol, insinuation of nudity (bathing) but no explicit details or sexual activity.

a/n: i wrote this at 11pm & it's a little ridiculous but this is also me projecting my manifestations for him to win his home grand prix this weekend.

The sweet aroma of your Miss Dior: Eau de Parfum in damask rose and incense against pink peonies, clean linen sheets mussed about the inviting embrace of the bed, café au lait from a drained mug on the nightstand beside sweet-smelling lilies, and white, lace stockings abandoned and draped over the velvet loveseat.

Charles' claim of 1st at the Monaco Grand Prix was most blessing, and the perfect excuse for a long night of a plentiful of Moët & Chandon champagne, honorary chants, and celebratory reverie: announcing him the 'prince' of his beloved home, a victory he has been yearning for, since forever.

You had remained with him through the week, watching and admiring through every practice session from your usual seat, enjoying luncheon together and laughing over the usual lovey-dovey or noncommittal subjects as a means to distract him from his nerves before qualifying – the kind of thing he doesn't admit to but you know is only human – and your never-leaving gaze throughout the Grand Prix itself.

Until you got to watch from below with love hearts in your eyes when he stood on that podium, in his true and most divine stature whilst the crowds called for him and the Monégasque anthem resonated like the music of the heavens.

Now, it is quiet in the apartment you both call home, all minimalist but comfortable interior in a palette of white, créme, beige and hints of colour against the décor that define it as yours: the polished trophies before the white-varnished piano, heavy and velvet curtains stirring lazily about closed balconies of their rocaille-esque motifs, the abandoned sweater forgotten on the sofa, your rose crocheting yarn on the coffee table beside a copy of last month's Vogue.

Peaceful and content, stood before the ornate mirror in the en-suite of polished marble and quiet luxury, humming some gentle and absent tune to yourself as you comb your hair – dressed down to the comfortable, white gossamer silk of your négligée – whilst the only tune that resounds being the hushed television down the hall.

It is only a minute later that you are interrupted from your daydreaming by the sound of the mahogany front door as it draws open and closed. The familiar clink of keys set down on the oak furniture in the foyer, shuffled footfalls a little less balanced than usual, quickly silenced against the sound of a familiar voice like melting caramel on the subtle, slurring song of inebriation.

"Chérie?"

Hair comb set down on the neat counter beside the porcelain embellished basin, you absently gnaw at your lower-lip whilst silent feet wander the parquestry of the flooring through the flat in your approach to the source of your boyfriend's return, tucking a hair behind your ear, "Charles, I'm–"

The words are lost on the edge of your tongue the second you emerge from the bedroom's suite, down past the plush sitting area to be met by the sight of him where the corridor joins the rest of the homely setting.

"Bonsoir, bébé."

Even when he is slightly hair-tousled with damp, brunet strays falling about his forehead and the linen of his shirt slightly wrinkled, Charles is a handsome man, devastatingly so; the kind of beautiful that renders the air from your lungs a little even when you hold back light laughter at him now.

From his posture, an effort of an elegant curve to his physique like he is trying to be some suave, pretty flirt from those old, romance comedies you watch, where one elbow is propped against the wood arch of the threshold – the only thing evidently holding him upright – whilst his flushed cheeks strain a little on a dimpled, lazy and contagious smile.

"Hello, Charles."

"Ma belle, I missed you, I'm home," With something close to a brief pout and an attempt at a wink, the man lets his lovely eyes dance down and along your own figure in a lingering admiration and a slow, drawn-out smirk that looks both laughable and far-too-endearing, lithe fingers absently adjusting his loosened shirt collar as you come closer.

"I can see that," In response, you try not to appear amused though it is perceptible on the curve by the corner of your sweet mouth when his eyes follow the subtle shift of your hips as you draw forward until your arms fold around his midriff, breathing him in: champagne and cologne, hints of warm amber and rosewood. "You're drunk."

His arm falls around your shoulder comfortably as he sways against you, kissing the crown of your head like a useless reassurance when he murmurs a lieu of words in the thickened curl of his accent, "Non, ça va, je–"

"Charles." Your face shifts with a look, the both of you stumbling a little backwards where his weight almost has you falling on the edge of a floral rug, a hushed, noncommittal sound close to a chuckle falling from the man as he buries his face into the side of your neck with the punctuation of an open-mouth kiss.

"D'accord, d'accord."

"Stupid," You mutter affectionately, rolling your eyes fondly despite knowing all too well what has him so distracted, the warmth of his mouth and the gentle rasp of his five o'clock shadow tickling the underside of your jaw and the sensitivity there, a purr reverberating from the back of his throat as a response.

"Are you hungry– would you like anything?"

"Just you, chérie, I want to..." The Monégasque trails off momentarily like he is disputing internally with his own dialogue, lightly calloused palms feeling the curve of your waist through pale silk before pausing at your derrière absently – tracing his tongue against the edge of pearlescent teeth – as the two of you move further through the sitting room, his voice a whisper, "Je veux te baiser, mon ange."

With a blush dusting the edges of your cheekbones at the obscène words, you offer a half-apologetic smile whilst stroking back his tousled hair, "How about we get dressed down and settled first, at least?"

Initially, he seems reluctant to offer any hint of acquiescence but he eventually nods a little with a vague sound of acknowledgement, fingertips still feeling over your figure as you walk the path together before reaching the bathroom, the door falling shut gently.

Even when the reality of the presence has you accepting tonight shall be long, the man is undoubtedly his most entertaining and equally sweet as romanticised prophecies when he is intoxicated.

"Mm," It is the only indication you are given when Charles' touch falls upon the lace edges of your négligée, drawing it down the curve of your shoulder slowly as he traces the shell of your ear with his mouth, "You're wearing my favourite."

A soft laugh leaves the depth of your chest – a hushed affirmative sound in reply – before his hands come to cradle either side of your jaw tenderly whilst his thumb caresses the apple of your cheek, the kiss that follows his gentle persuasion more loving, his lips parted softly.

Just as quickly as the almost peaceful, drawn-out intimacy begins, it ends when he gives some hushed, breathless sound of sheer enjoyment whilst his hips absently meets yours until you feel the edge of the basin behind, a palm splaying over his chest just enough to encourage him from pausing.

"We can have a nice bath first and then I might consider your suggestion, monsieur," You offer gently in hushed humour, undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt whilst sealing your sentence with a chaste kiss near his chin.

"I'd much rather have you."

"So romantic," Muttering the words quietly, your nose brushes the bridge of his own fractionally where you see the slight glaze of liquor in his eyes, like gentle moss and warm oak, his mouth shifting almost proudly with momentarily met gazes.

"Only for you, mon cœur, I could write you sonnets of love, la mélodie de tes yeux–"

"Okay, Romeo Montague, how about you wash first?"

The initial hope had only been to coax him into the warmth of the bath waters amongst a touch lavender oil that threatens to lull him further into quiet and peace, wash his hair from your seat and prevent the possibility of any difficulty, though clothes are mutually forgotten on the marble floors and small, white-cotton rug when he guilts you into joining him.

"Charles," A whisper of his name though the cadence of your voice lacks the intent of reproach, bodies close together as he guides you into a comfortable situation about his lap whilst you work nimble fingers through his dampened hair slowly, hoping to distract him from anything but washing and settling down from the dizziness of too much alcohol.

"You smell nice," He mumbles indulgently against your shoulder, tracing a kiss on the jut of your collarbone in the dreamy lull of his voice as though lost in the figments of his own thoughts, "Like les fleurs..."

"And you smell like a bottle of Moët."

The man offers a lowered tune of disagreement, a palm idly stroking the curve of your thigh and down the inside of your knee beneath the warm water as you lather the product through his tresses, holding back a smile when he responds drunkenly like some smitten, hopeless lover of the poets:

"Non, c'est seulement le parfum des nuages."

It is the kind of sweet words that would usually have your cheeks warming or laughing like some conjured image of him in your mind, rifling through books of poetry because you cannot fathom him thinking of such phrases alone, though the moment his lips find the curve of your throat and the sensitive area beneath your jaw, it is harder not to succumb to the gentle temptation and let him have his way, a sigh falling from you.

"What are you doing?"

"Loving you." He says the words so easily, like it is the simplest, most natural truth he could ever admit, the warmth and wetness of his mouth trailing the lines of your throat and across the arch of your shoulders.

"You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love with you," He sounds proud of himself. Then, he is guiding the two of you, bodies pressed flush against one another as you are moved back, the weight of him familiar and the pressure of his mouth meeting yours slowly, "Let me love you, s'il vous plaît, ma chérie."

There are the smallest fragments of his soul and the secrets of his heart within the way his body moves, the gentle touch and the softness, the vulnerability and the passion even in the humour of his intoxicated mannerisms; how he makes love and the manner he holds you after, and there is an undeniable and irrefutable trust you hold for him alone.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

The Emperor's Soft Spot

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Maid! reader

Warnings : Fluff

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The grandeur of the Roman palace was overwhelming to most, with its marble columns stretching toward the heavens and gilded mosaics adorning every corner. Yet for you, the splendor had long since dulled. Day after day, your life revolved around quiet servitude—polishing brass, sweeping floors, arranging flowers. You were just another cog in the great machine of the Roman Empire.

But all of that changed on a crisp morning in the early spring.

The air was filled with the faint scent of jasmine as you placed the last of the roses in a vase perched on a side table in the Emperor’s private chambers. You had heard stories of the young Emperor Geta—his ruthlessness in court, his sharp wit in battle. But to you, he was a distant figure, one you had no reason to encounter. Until now.

As you adjusted the vase, the heavy oak door creaked open. Startled, you froze, your heart leaping into your throat. You turned to see him—a tall, imposing man dressed in the deep crimson and gold of imperial garb. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his sharp, piercing eyes locked onto yours.

You dropped into a hurried curtsy, the vase forgotten. “Forgive me, Caesar. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on you as though studying a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. Finally, his lips quirked into a small smile. “Intrude? You are precisely where you’re meant to be.”

Your cheeks burned under his scrutiny, and you ducked your head. “I was only finishing my task, my lord.”

“And what is your name, little dove?” His voice was softer now, almost curious.

“Y/N,” you answered, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Y/N,” he repeated, as though testing the weight of it on his tongue. His smile grew. “I’ll remember that.”

---

Weeks Later

The encounter should have been forgotten—a fleeting moment in the endless expanse of your days. But Geta seemed determined to ensure it wasn’t.

It began with subtle glances in the hallways, his eyes lingering on you a second too long. Then came the questions, casually slipped into conversations with the head steward. “How is Y/N finding her duties?” or “Ensure Y/N is assigned lighter work today.” The servants began to notice, their whispers following you like shadows.

One afternoon, as you scrubbed the steps of the western courtyard, a shadow fell over you. You looked up to see him standing there, dressed in simpler robes than usual but no less commanding.

“Caesar,” you stammered, quickly rising to your feet.

“Geta,” he corrected, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Must I remind you again?”

“I couldn’t possibly address you so informally,” you replied, your hands twisting nervously in your apron.

“Then you must,” he said, stepping closer. “For it is my wish.”

You swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. His proximity was overwhelming, his presence like the sun—impossible to ignore. “As you wish, Geta,” you said at last, the name foreign yet strangely natural on your tongue.

His smirk softened into a genuine smile. “Better.”

---

The garden was your sanctuary, a rare place of peace in a world that rarely offered any. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, you knelt among the herbs, carefully plucking sprigs of basil and thyme for the evening meal.

You were so lost in your work that you didn’t notice him until his shadow stretched across your path. Startled, you turned to find Geta standing there, his arms crossed and an amused expression on his face.

“Do you always work so diligently?” he asked, his tone teasing.

“My duties require it,” you replied, rising to your feet and brushing dirt from your skirts. “Why are you here, Caesar?”

His smile faltered, and for a moment, you saw something vulnerable in his eyes. “Because I tire of being ‘Caesar.’” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “In your presence, I am simply a man. Do you understand?”

You didn’t. Not fully. But you nodded anyway, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I find myself thinking of you more often than I should,” he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. “Your kindness, your grace—it is a rare thing in this palace.”

“Geta,” you breathed, his name feeling both intimate and forbidden. “This... this isn’t right.”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “But I care not for what is right. I care for what feels true. And this”—his fingers lingered against your cheek—“feels true.”

Before you could respond, he closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both commanding and tender. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the weight of the empire momentarily forgotten.

---

The palace buzzed with whispers of the maid who had captured the Emperor’s heart. Some were scandalized, others intrigued. But Geta paid them no mind. He openly courted you, defying tradition and expectation with every stolen moment you shared.

Late at night, in the privacy of his chambers, he would recount tales of his childhood—of the weight of the crown he had never wanted, of battles fought and victories that felt hollow. And in return, you showed him the beauty of a world beyond marble walls and golden thrones.

“You have given me something no one else could,” he said one evening, his voice soft as he held you close.

“And what is that?” you asked, your head resting against his chest.

“Freedom,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Freedom to be myself.”

Though the road ahead was uncertain, you knew one thing for certain: you had claimed the heart of the Emperor of Rome, and in doing so, he had claimed yours in return.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[ghouljams]

👏 CORRUPT 👏 THE 👏 WIFE 👏

When soot blackened the soles of your feet, when your nails chipped against the iron of the forge door, when your hair grows wild and free between the teeth of his comb, is that not corruption?

Does fire not consume that which it is placed beside? Does it not grow off the backs of that which was once alive? Did it not damn humanity to a life of pain and jealousy? Prometheus chained on a cliff face. Pandemonium unleashed on the world.

And Nikto's hands bleeding with the warmth of it.

And you.

Born from seafoam and stardust, crisp and cold and ephemeral. Gentle in the soft crashing waves of your voice. Willing in the brush of your hands over his worn skin. Burdened with the brute force of his appearance, of his trade, of his corruption.

"Husband," you call down the echoing marble corridors of Olympus, "my husband." A constant song and refrain that sluices through him like an eagle plucking out his liver. A curse.

He never should have taught you that word.

He wouldn't have if he knew how you'd take to it, the same way you took to all his blights.