#easy pop art face paint

[fabled-fiction]

Hiiii!! Can I request a hobie brown x fem reader where the hobie swings by the readers room and just cuddles with her because he’s tired from patrol and the reader loves it because he only has a soft spot for her! And it’s just very fluffy!

Open Window (Hobie Brown x Reader)

Summary: Hobie didn't realize how strung out he was until a certain someone crosses his mind.

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: MINOR SPIDERMAN ACROSS THE SPIDERVERSE SPOILERS

A/N: I tried writing in a fem reader and then realized as I was writing I neglected that. I tried going back it but it felt forced, I hope this still suffices!

It felt like he never slept.

When could he afford too? It seemed like every step forward he took in taking down Osborn and his regime, they took three. Every running start he had they moved the finish line.

It was exhausting to be honest.

And now on top of his own problems on his earth, this stupid watch wouldn’t stop beeping with anomalies that needed taking down and tethering back to their Earths.

Hobie could feel the bags forming under his already painted ones.

His head had been reeling recently. Jumping back to his Earth after coming from the Spider Society was never easy no matter how much radioactivity was coursing through his hardened veins. He had a theory that despite having the wristband that helped him jump back and forth, he needed one for his head. The shift in perspective, and what could be perceived as art styles of the different Earths were making his vision hazy. 

Perching himself onto the top of a billboard, Hobie hit the side of his head with the edge of palm. Maybe if he hit his head hard enough or in the right spot he could knock the buzzing in his brain out long enough for him to make sense of where he was. 

On occasion it almost felt like he was back in that stupid spider tower, or another unfamiliar Earth.

Shaking his head, he took a glance about the neon lit streets of his Earth.

Wait, he recognized this street…no wait. No yea he recognized where this street lead to. 

Pulling the edge of his suit wristband back, he pulled up the time on his watch.

4:32:02am

Hobie knew exactly what he needed to rejuvenate, to put the rock back in his roll. 

Standing from his perch, he felt his bones begin to ache as they realized where they were about to be. Pulling his mask back over his head, he was about to flip when his watch started to buzz.

The holographic face of Gwen popped up.

“Hey! Hobie, Im glad I caught you. You got a seco-”

“Sorry Gwendy, can’t talk right now.”

“Wait! I n-”

He couldn't swing fast enough.

There was a warm purple light coming from your window, leaking through your curtains like a holy light.

He’d have to lecture you about leaving your window unlocked for anyone to crawl into later, it didn't matter that you were on the 14th story of your building. But as of right now, as he peeled your window open he saw it as a blessing as he tumbled head first into your room.

Hobie hadn’t realized how long it had been since he had seen you.His spider work had always been number one, taking down the rising regime of fascism in his city. Even the Spider society jobs have seen more of him than his own bed. It almost felt like he was more Spiderman than Hobie Brown, his heroism taking priority over everything else.

Well, almost everything else.

But now as he stumbled about, throwing his sneakers and guitar in the corner of your room the only thing on his mind was you. More specifically crawling into your bed that seemed to always be WAY more comfortable than his.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed you.

Hobie was so preoccupied with getting out of his Spidersuit that was growing increasingly more annoying by the second, he hadn’t even realized you were now leaning against your doorframe.

Sometimes you thought he played up these so called spider senses. There was no way he let you sneak up on him as many times as you have.

“Where..I know you ‘ave it somewhere in ‘ere.” He mumbled to himself, digging through your drawers with little regard to your neatly folded clothes there were already in there. 

Placing your cup of water on your nightstand, you perched on the edge of your bed and watched as your once clean-ish room transformed to match the thought process of the sleep deprived Spider in front of you.

You knew what he was looking for, Hobie had a tendency to leave shirts in your room whenever he stayed over. He said it was for convenience, it made it easier to switch from Spiderman to Hobie Brown. You couldn’t count the amount of times on your fingers when you had done laundry and realized nothing in the basket was yours. He almost had a full drawer in your dresser.

“Try the very bottom drawer.” You yawn, a few joints popping as you stretched out whatever you could stretch out.

Hobie turned his head to look at you for only a moment, and you hadnt even realized that he had discarded his mask somewhere into the clothed chaos that was hurricane Hobie.

Falling back onto your bed, you let out another big yawn as you made yourself situated. You could hear Hobie shuffling about your room, making himself more than at home as he slammed the window shut. A very loud click of your window lock followed by a thunk of a thwip made you chuckle.

“You seriously need to considah lockin’ your window. Could’a been an unsightly fella.” He muttered as he reached to fully close your curtains.

“Well I know who to call if I see one of these so called unsightly fellas.”

There was a grumble that came closer to your bed, and what you swore you was the gulping down of YOUR glass of water followed by the creak of your mattress.

It was like a second nature to the both of you even though you hadn’t physically seen eachother in what felt like months (in reality it was only a week but you too were too clingy to admit to each other it had felt longer). Molding into one another was easy for you too.

Hobie’s arm easily found its way over your waist, pulling you as close to him as he physically could. The minute he had his head resting on your chest he swore he could feel the color coming back to him. Feeling your hand run over his wicks, and eventually come to rest on the nape of his neck made him break into a hazy smile.

But then his stupid watch started buzzing. Didn’t he take it off?

He tried ignoring it for a moment, hoping whoever was calling him would get the message.

When you had started to pull away was when he had enough. 

Ripping the watch off his wrist, he threw it across the room and webbed it to a random wall. Before you could even protest that he had yet again left webbing that would take months to come off, he wrapped his arms around you and flipped around so that you were laying ontop of him. His arms basically locked around you, and solidified that you two would not be moving for the rest of the night.

He needed this, and he could tell based off the way that you melted into him that you needed this as well.

“Hobie shouldn’t you have answered that?”

He could deal with the consequences later, right now he was exactly where he needed to be.

“Nah.”

[churipu]

PAINTING THEIR NAILS 𓆝 ⋆｡𖦹°‧

ִ ࣪𖤐 featuring. gojo satoru, geto suguru, itadori yuuji

ִ ࣪𖤐 warnings. none :)

note. i don't know, something about painting your partner's nails feels intimate to me. like, yes. make art on my nails pls.

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

"what are you doing, baby?" gojo asks, his cerulean blue eyes gazing into the on-going television series playing in front of him.

you didn't answer him, brows furrowed in concentration — slipping your tongue out, a bit past your lips. index finger and thumb clutching onto the polish brush as you try to stroke his nails neatly with a light pink color.

"are you painting my nails?" he asks again.

much to his dismay, the room was void of answers yet for the second time. but gojo wasn't angry, his eyes finally gazes at your figure, eyeing you in content. his chin prepped on top of his free hand, limping the hand you were holding onto, "just a little more," you whisper to yourself.

three minutes passed and you pulled yourself back, "all done and dolled up, give me your other hand," you commanded, ushering gojo to give his other hand.

"good job, baby. they look pretty," he chuckles, indulging to your command — letting you have your fun, "can i do yours after?"

you nod, "mhm, i want to use (favorite color). and you gotta do it neatly too . . ."

gojo shrugs, "easy job to me."

it was in fact not an easy job to him.

𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔

"paint my nails?" geto parrots softly.

you stood in front of him, holding a grey colored pouch — that geto knew was filled with different colored polishes, he's seen you done your nails for fun and then erasing them just a few hours later because you were bored.

"yes, i want to paint them. can i?" you ask him, taking a seat right beside him on the couch, immediately letting yourself sink a bit into the fabric.

"mhm, sure baby. what color were you thinking?" geto raised his hand up to your thigh, letting you take over.

you hummed, "i was thinking . . . just a simple silver colored cat eye nails, you have pretty nails, you know?" geto, frankly, couldn't understand what you meant by that — cat eye on his nails? but you were his partner, and he trusts you.

it didn't take you long to finish a hand. his eyes never leaving your hand as they moved in slow strokes, "how do you think they look? i was watching a video on the internet, and i thought this might look pretty on you. 't looks a little different than what i saw though."

geto's gaze fell onto his nails, a smile popping up onto his lips, "'t looks pretty, thank you."

"really? you're not just saying that, right?" you ask, narrowing your eyes jokingly.

"nope, 'm being serious. do my other hand," he offers, leaning his lips to the top of your head, "ever considered opening a nail boutique? you have the skills for it."

"now that you mention it, maybe i should."

𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐈 𝐘𝐔𝐔𝐉𝐈

"can you do my nails, please?" yuuji asks, wiggling his fingers in front of your face, "i want them to be painted prettily."

you raise a brow, "they're already pretty though."

yuuji puckered his lips out slightly, "but i wanted you to paint them for me," he draped himself over you, chin laying on your abdomen. brows furrowed like a baby, "make them look prettier."

"grab my nail polish pouch in the room, yeah?"

your words lit him up like a lightbulb, and yuuji was almost immediately up and about — disappearing into the room to grab the pouch you told him to. his giddy smile not leaving his face even when he came running back to you, laying the pouch on your tummy.

"i think maroon would suit you," you rummaged through the pouch, "or black? whichever you'd like . . ."

"can you do both? zig-zag?" yuuji questions.

you nodded, "mhm, anything for you, yuuji."

it was obvious that the boy was excited, his body trembling as you painted his nails, "woah . . . they look pretty," he whispers, squeezing your hand a bit.

"you're pretty," you replied back.

yuuji looks at you, a bit taken aback, but said nothing to deny you — only letting out a soft laugh, "too busy for a kiss?"

shaking your head, you leaned in towards him, stealing a kiss from his lips, "nope, never too busy for a kiss," yuuji huffs out with a large grin.

"i love you, you know?" he asked you.

"mhm, always. i love you too."

© CHURIPU 2024 , DO NOT COPY OR REPOST ANYWHERE

[artdcnaldson]

PAT GIVING ART A BLOWJOB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! omg elaborate need ur thoughts………

-🩰

Patrick's first BLOWJOB 💜 (giving ofc <3)

He's just curious! Maybe they're both high or crossed after a party with Art's Stanford tennis friends, and Patrick just wants to know what it's like!! He fucks girls' faces all the time, he's just curious what it's like. Maybe he just doesn't phrase it correctly.

"Can I see what your dick tastes like?"

Art narrows his eyes, which is a feat considering they're already half-lidded. "Dude, what?"

But Patrick's a convincing guy (not that either of them needs any convincing, really. The thought has lived in both of their heads for a long time), and their inhibitions are already lowered soooo far that it's not long before Patrick's on his knees between Art's thighs, watching as Art tries to stroke himself to full-hardness.

"How are you gonna— ngh— know what to do?" Art pants, teasing over the head of his cock with the pad of his thumb, digging into the slit just the way he likes.

"I'll just copy what girls do," he says. "How hard can it be?"

It's mostly intuitive— Patrick finds, and he can't really find an easy way to describe the taste of cock on his tongue. He likes it, though. The weight and heat of it.

When they were younger, he and Art would compare dick sizes. Soft, then hard, 'cause that's what really counts. They'd frantically jerked off, then lined them up side by side.

"So close, champ," Patrick had teased when he beat him in length. Not that Art had anything to be embarrassed about, but winning was always a rush, in every facet of life.

Now though, with Art's dick in his mouth, his jaw aches a little, and there's so much spit pooling at the corners of his mouth that it's messy.

"Am I doing okay? Is it too messy?" Patrick asks, his voice a little hoarse.

Art nods, flushed from his cheeks to the tip of his nose to the tips of his ears. Flushed even through his cock. "No, you're... it's good, just... maybe you can take it deeper," he pants.

Patrick nods, spitting onto Art's dick. It twitches. He watches as precum beads at the tip and spills down the side, following the vein down the side.

Art whines when Patrick takes him back into his mouth, when his cock presses against the back of his throat and the brunet gags pathetically around it. The drool pooling at the base of Art's cock is thick, stringy, dripping down Art's balls messily.

He has to remind himself to breathe through his nose— to not suffocate around Art's dick, not that it would be too bad of a way to go.

He falls into a rhythm, sucking Art's cock deeper, bobbing his head up and down and relishing in the sound of Art coming apart just above him. Lithe fingers tangle at the back of his head, not pushing, just guiding how he wants. He wonders if the girls who've sucked him off felt comforted by it the way he does.

There's just so much he wants to do. He's not sure if it's because of that innate curiosity, or if it's about Art. Except it is about Art. Everything is, usually. He tries to use a little tongue, to lave over the underside of his cock as he goes deeper. He takes him as deep as he can, which, admittedly, isn't impressive, but is rewarded by the prettiest noise from Art's mouth.

"F— fuck, Pat—" Art slaps at his shoulders frantically. "C'mon, up— fuck— up... Gonna c— shit—"

Art had always cum a lot. Every time they jerked off together, he saw that. But in Patrick's mouth, it was a lot. He feels Art's hot spend paint his tongue and tries to swallow as much as he can. Part of the experiment, part of knowing what it's like. It tastes different than his own cum, not as salty, which is... well, it's something.

Art pants, collapsed back onto the bed with an arm slung over his face. Patrick releases Art's softening cock with a pop.

They both feel a lot more sober now.

[perotovar]

before a mirror — drabble

moodboard by @yopossum

pairing: jack daniels/marcus pike rating: PG content: fluff, jack and his never ending list of petnames, flirting, general cuteness word count: 626 dividers: @saradika-graphics beta: @qveerthe0ry (ily)

a/n: written for @yopossum 's mootboard and minifics celebration!! thank you for letting me be a part of it and congrats, honey ♥

masterlist | follow @oakslibrary and turn on notifs ♥

New York was like a second home to Jack.

The first would always be Kentucky, where his mama made the best pecan pie, and where he first learned to ride a horse. It’s also where Statesman headquarters is, but Jack wasn’t so lucky to be there. He’d been stationed at the New York office for years now and had gotten used to the unsavory sounds and people.

But New York had a lot of good things as well.

For one, not that Jack would ever admit it out loud, New York had a lot of amazing museums. He had a soft spot for the paintings, and when he had quiet moment, he’d pop over to a museum nearby to take a walk.

Jack’s favorite painting was of a nude woman, standing in front of a mirror. He didn’t know the meaning behind it or what it was meant to depict, but it spoke to him. The colors were both rich and warm as well as cool and standoffish.

“Woman before a Mirror by Toulouse-Lautrec, 1897,” a smooth voice hummed next to him. Jack turned toward the man, an easy smirk creeping onto his face as he recognized who it was. “Post-Impressionism.”

“Swear, y’must be an encyclopedia of art, Pike,” Jack chuckled, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the tight denim he wore.

Marcus rolled his eyes and snorted. “It’s literally my job,” he shrugged.

“Details.”

The two had met a few times. Marcus’ job often led him up north to take care of a few cases and Jack didn’t get a chance to go out into the field much anymore. Not unless something big happened or came up.

“Which street food catch yer fancy this time?”

“There’s a really good hot dog stand down the street, might go there after this.”

“And what’s this today, sugar sweet?” Jack smiled. He hadn’t looked away from the painting yet, not until it took Marcus a second to answer. That was something he really appreciate about Marcus Pike. He always made sure he said exactly what he was thinking. He was very focused, to the point. Jack wished he could be a little more like that sometimes.

When he turned his head toward Marcus, his breath caught in his throat a little. It always shocked him to see Marcus up close like this; he had such a striking profile and intense, but sweet eyes.

“Just taking a walk, actually. I’m on my lunch,” Marcus grinned.

“No kiddin’? So am I.”

“I know. You always come here around this time.”

“You keepin’ tabs on me, Pike?” Jack smirked.

Marcus shrugged, smiled, and didn’t answer, looking back at the painting. “And if I am?”

Normally, this would raise suspicion for Jack, but given Marcus’ line of work he knew he didn’t have anything to worry about. Statesman had every law enforcement officer’s information, including their undercover identities, so he knew Marcus Pike was cleaner than clean.

“Well, angel eyes, I think I’d ask ya what ya had planned, then.”

“Come with me. I’ll get you one of those hot dogs,” Marcus winked, turning toward Jack and looking him over. Jack felt a chill run down his spine.

He looked back at the painting and took it in one more time. The colors and the mood washed over him, briefly taking him to a time period he’d never known. He wondered what Marcus saw when he looked at this painting. He’ll have to ask him sometime.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirtin’ with me, Pike,” Jack hummed. He watched as Marcus walked toward the entrance of the exhibit and back out into the main hall.

Marcus looked at the cowboy over his shoulder and grinned. “And if I am?”

[rotworld]

20: Instinct

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

you're the primary caretaker of a lorleian child who was raised in captivity. to help her learn how to survive in the wild, you've had to enlist the help of an adult lorleian with extremely territorial streak.

->original work. explicit; contains dub-con, mentions of child neglect/abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, murder, breeding kink and dirty talk, tentacles, terato, mentions of hard vore/cannibalism.

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.

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It’s a two hour drive from the Marine Life Rescue Center to the particular stretch of beach where Awimi has her rewilding lessons. The journey requires preparation: a custom child’s car seat, upholstered with soft absorbent padding that maintains moisture. A barrel of saltwater solution with an attached spritzing nozzle that dispenses in five-minute intervals. An array of increasingly complex plastic puzzle boxes, central chambers stuffed with shrimp and minnows. The van smells like a fish market but you only notice for the first ten minutes. You take a snaking coastal highway, the windows rolled down to let in the sea breeze, the scent of brine and the squawks of gulls. 

“I’m hungry,” she complains. You can hear the squeal and creak of plastic coming from the backseat, and the sounds of her suckers popping off of things.

“You’re going to eat so many fish in just a little bit,” you assure her.

“Want fish now.” 

“There’s fish in your box.” 

“Want better fish,” she insists. One of her tentacles scoots down the side of your seat, playing with your seatbelt. “Fish that move.” 

“Soon,” you promise. “I bet Ishi’s saving all the best ones for you.” 

She pouts. “He better.”

You glance at the mirror frequently to make sure she hasn’t unbuckled her seatbelt and started sliding around. So far so good. She’s hard at work on one of the puzzle boxes, her enormous eyes and squiggling pupils trained intently on a stubborn sliding mechanism that she keeps prodding and picking at. It’s no wonder she’s so hungry with how big she’s gotten. Her tentacles used to dangle off the edge of the car seat without touching the floor and her hair-like head tendrils were just short, wiggling nubs. 

Malnutrition and time spent in a cramped enclosure have impacted her growth and she’ll probably never be as large as an average adult of her subspecies, but she might get to be your size, at least. You’d worry a lot more if you weren’t certain she won’t be facing the open ocean alone.

“What are you most excited about today?” you ask her.

“The reef!” she says. Bored of the puzzle box, she passes it from her hands to her tentacles. They keep working on it even as her attention wanders to the rolling waves outside. “It’s pretty! And the water is good! And there’s lots of fish, and shells. Ishi is really good at shells. They should be easy to open but they’re not. You have to be really strong. Ishi is the strongest.” 

“He is,” you agree. “But I bet you’ll grow up to be really strong, too. You’re already stronger than me.”

“Really?” She sounds suspicious.

“Yep. You remember that sardine jar I gave you last night?” 

“Tasty,” she says.

“I’m not supposed to give you the whole jar,” you admit. “But I couldn’t get it open.” 

Awimi grins. Her teeth are like rows of spikes. 

There’s always a moment of tense, solemn silence when you pass beneath a rocky cliff with a view of the water. There’s an exit lane snaking up a steep hill to a sprawling, empty parking lot. The words “SEA SAFARI” are no longer mounted atop the decrepit ticket gates but their ghost remains in faded paint stains. You only saw the place once, and only in the midst of it being gutted and drained following a series of ruinous lawsuits. Awimi had crammed herself into the corner of a completely bare and featureless enclosure. She was clearly sick, her tentacles pale pink like raw clam when they should’ve been maroon speckled with white spots. Her chromatophors sparkled a warning when you waded in. She bit your hand when you offered her food and wrapped her tentacles all around your arm, suckers pulling harshly at your skin. 

When you didn’t do anything—didn’t move, didn’t yell, didn’t try to hit her—she blinked her large eyes, banded like colorful marbles, and her suckers loosened. She was so small and weighed so little that you could lift her up and carry her in your arms, her tentacles winding around you like the straps of a harness. The Rescue Center had brought a tank to transport her but she wouldn’t get in. You spent the entire ride back with her clinging to your chest, misting her with a spray bottle while she tried to camouflage herself with the colors of your shirt.

“No more bad place,” Awimi says quietly.

“No more,” you promise her. The property’s already been sold as part of Sea Safari’s liquidation. They’re going to build a new shopping center aimed at summer tourists. “No one is allowed to catch you and put you in a little tank anymore.” 

“What if they try?” she asks.

“Then we’ll stop them. So will Ishi. You know how strong he is.” More accurately, he’d kill them. He’d do it for a lot less. “Almost there,” you say. Awimi flicks her tentacles impatiently. You hear the snap of the puzzle box opening and then the crunch of shrimp. 

Your destination is a shingle beach. Rocky, far from anything and bearing a horrific reputation of drownings and disappearances, it’s a quiet place that’s made for the perfect meeting spot. You park at the top of a steep, dirt hill and strip down to your wetsuit. Awimi is out of the van the moment you open her door, flinging off her seatbelt and oozing out in a flurry of excited movement. She’s a bit floppy on land but she’s perfectly capable of getting where she needs to go. She’s snuck out of her enclosures at the Rescue Center more times than you can count to grab a midnight snack from the freezer down the hall, the only evidence of her brief adventure a trail of puddles on the floor.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” she says, suckers pulling at your ankle. You check your scuba gear one more time before you follow her down the bumpy slope. “Ishi’s here! Ishi!” 

That’s unusual, you think. Usually he waits at the cove. When you look down the beach where seafoam trickles over the rocks, your stomach clenches in fear and revulsion.

There, at the very edge of the water, you see an enormous creature perched on the rocks. It’s an adult lorleian, the same subspecies as Awimi. His head tendrils are fully grown into gelatinous strands, smoothed back from his face and plastered flat to his back and shoulders like wet locks of hair. The webbing between his fingers is thicker than Awimi’s and not quite as transparent, and his torso is covered in old scars—everything from shark bites and serrated squid tentacle scrapes to knife wounds. He’s much larger than either of you, his lower half a mass of squirming, enormous tentacles, each one long, thick, and wrapped around a man in a waterproof coat who flails like he’s fighting for his life.

“Wait here for just a second,” you tell her.

“Why?” Awimi says. 

“I have to ask Ishi a grown-up question. It won’t take long, I promise.” She pouts until you grab a puzzle box from the van, and then you rush down the beach. You hear awful gurgling sounds the closer you get, muffled screams and groans of pain. The man is almost entirely engulfed in the slithering grasp of unyielding tentacles. He thrashes and wails, limbs trapped, the full weight of a lorleian pinning him face-down in the shallow water rushing over the rocks. 

“Ishyr,” you say, your voice firm. 

The lorleian looks up and a shiver runs down your spine at the predatory coldness in his gaze. Like Awimi, his eyes are large with swirls and speckles of fantastic color. His pupils are long and narrow like a leering glare, constricted in the harshness of surface sunlight. “Yes?” he says, sounding bored. 

“Stop.”

“Mm. No.” He holds your gaze while his tentacles squeeze tighter. One of the man’s arms is wrenched behind his back at an unnatural angle and then yanked out of the socket. You hear him try to scream, shoulders trembling and heaving. “He brought a crab trap. To steal my crabs. Isn’t that illegal?” 

“Yes, but you can’t—”

“Then stop me.” Ishyr hunches over his prey possessively, leering at you. “Go on,” he says. “Try it. Come a little closer.” You don’t think he’d kill you in front of Awimi but you’re not certain. There’s no safe approach. His reach is long enough in every direction to catch you before you’re close enough to do anything. He watches your frown deepen with faint amusement and makes a rumbling sound, a grating purr that sets your teeth on edge. “Mhm. That’s what I thought.” Ishyr doesn’t dislocate the other arm. He wraps a tentacle all the way down, shoulder to wrist, and squeezes. You hear a series of sharp crunches as bones snap and shatter beneath ripping skin, blood darkening the man’s sleeve.

You move in sheer desperation, lunging at Ishyr. You don’t even get within arm’s reach before he has you encircled, two tentacles wrapped around your body with a threatening, bruising grip. He drags you closer until you’re ankle deep in the rising tide, seafoam tickling your ankles. 

“That wasn’t smart,” he says. “You could die. I could strangle you. Snap your neck. Hold you under until you drown. That’s always fun. I could even do this.” His claws seize the man by the hair, dragging his head out of the water so you can see his bulging, terrified eyes and the tentacle threatening to break his jaw. You can see it bulging beneath the skin of his throat as it undulates and slithers deeper but you know he’s keeping it tightly compacted. The same way you might clench your first, Awimi and Ishyr can flex their muscles and alter the thickness of their tentacles. Useful for dragging prey out of tight spaces. “I can reach all kinds of things like this,” Ishyr murmurs. “Things you really don’t want me to reach.” 

“Don’t,” you beg him. “Ishyr—”

He never looks away from your horrified gaze as he unclenches his muscles. The tentacle instantly expands to its full girth and you hear several things crack and pop inside the man’s body. Blood trickles from the ripped skin at the corner of his mouth. His eyes roll back in his head and you desperately hope he’s unconscious. Ishyr lets his head drop back into the slick stones gracelessly and something else crunches unpleasantly. He smirks at you. “Today’s lesson is how to open shells. Isn’t it?” A tentacle wraps around the man’s neck and twists sharply.

Your stomach churns. Ishyr lets you go and you stumble away from him, nearly losing your footing. He calls out to Awimi in Enteroctal Lorleian, a language of melodic trills and chirps that’s almost ear-piercing on the surface without water to muffle it. Awimi slowly scoots down the beach, glancing between the two of you. “Do you have to do that in front of her?” you whisper. 

“Does she look upset to you?” he asks. 

She doesn’t. Nervous, yes, the way she always does when you argue, but her eyes fall to the dead man as Ishyr snags the back of his shirt with a tentacle and starts to drag him into the water. She doesn’t look afraid, or disgusted, or even confused. She looks hungry. That’s the look she gives her puzzle boxes when she can smell fresh fish inside. Her suckers lap at the blood on the rocks. It doesn’t matter that it’s human. It’s flesh, and Ishyr killed it, so it must be meant for eating.

“Can I try?” she asks shyly.

You pointedly ignore the smug look Ishyr gives you. “Yes,” he answers in Lorleian. “But you have to open it yourself. I’ll show you.” 

It’s an uncomfortably long swim to Ishyr’s cove, but only for you. Awimi blossoms once she’s in the water. She unfurls her tentacles in a big, shivering stretch and then she spins and flits around with bubbles jetting behind her. You can’t hear what she says to Ishyr or what he says back. Everything is muffled to your ears, Lorleian sounding like musical warbles and grunts. But she’s smiling, laughing with high-pitched tinkling sounds like dolphin squeals, her tentacles grabbing playfully at his, and Ishyr is so gentle with her. His tentacles make little grasping curls where they touch her skin, rubbing with featherlight gentleness the same way their subspecies strokes their soft, vulnerable eggs. 

In the waving green stalks of a kelp forest, Ishyr suddenly comes to a stop, lower body flared defensively. He passes the corpse to his hands and engulfs Awimi with his tentacles, hiding her completely from view. Another lorleian drifts by—big, thick with muscle, a gray back and shoulders with a white underbelly. You recognize the sharp-tipped fins of a shark knifing through the kelp. It circles you once, then twice, slightly closer. Your heart leaps into your throat when something loops around your ankle and pulls. 

Ishyr drags you over with a tentacle until you’re close enough to grab with his claw, long fingers wrapped all the way around your neck. You struggle when he lowers his mouth to your neck, dagger-like teeth pricking your wetsuit. He makes a low, rumbling sound that you feel more than you hear, a vibration quivering all across your body. The other lorleian circles one more time, staring at you intently, before it sneers and swims away. Ishyr waits for some sign invisible to you before he suddenly lets you go and starts swimming again, his tentacles parting to allow Awimi to swim back out. 

He keeps you close after that, you notice. He looks back to make sure you’re still following several times, gesturing impatiently with a curl of the nearest tentacle. 

The next time you surface is on the sandy beach of the cove. Ishyr and Awimi stop swimming and start snaking along the ground, pulling themselves out of the water. There’s a scattering of large rock formations and tide pools with small, colorful creatures darting around, and the mouth of a sea cave up ahead. Bones litter the shore, sun-bleached and picked clean. Some animal. Some lorleian. Some human. Ishyr drags the corpse with his tentacles, leaving a soggy, blood-speckled trail up the beach. He stops to glance back over at his shoulder. 

“Might want to wait out here,” he says. 

You don’t argue. You can smell dead fish and decay, and you have no desire to see his food stash again. He chirrups at Awimi and she makes a similar sound back, much higher in pitch. You swear he almost smiles. 

You wait in the shadow of the cave’s entrance, watching the tide roll in and wisping clouds drift by. It’s peaceful here. Nothing but the whisper of the ocean and the faraway song of seabirds. You see crabs scurry around and small fish dart back and forth. A pod of dolphins cruise by in the distance, followed by a group of sleek gray lorleians. Coves like these are common spots for lorleians to rear young, whether they’re laying eggs in shallow nooks and burrows or whelping in the sand. It’s odd that Ishyr is the only one here, using it as a place to store his extras, but maybe he wasn’t alone once. 

All those months ago when he first saw you with Awimi in your arms and tears in your eyes, maybe that’s why he showed himself—sliding slowly and carefully up the beach with a pensive expression—instead of just swimming away.

Their voices echo from further in the cave. Ishyr uses a very different tone with Awimi than he does with you, evident even when he speaks Lorleian. The sounds are longer and drawling in sharp contrast to Awimi’s quick trills. Patient, you think. He goes slow and he listens intently. You also hear some truly sickening sounds—the shredding of meat, the crack of sinew, the wet slurp of soft tissues and slippery organs sliding around. 

It’s easy to lose track of time. Eventually, the chatter stops and the wet noises of a body coming apart fade to silence. You risk peeking deeper inside, only to find Ishyr very carefully depositing Awimi in a tide pool. She’s fast asleep, her tentacles curling and uncurling in unconscious motions. They cling to Ishyr’s arm when he sets her down until he plucks them off with his own, the gentle grip of his suckers seeming to soothe her. Ishyr strokes her head-tendrils. 

“Say something when you come in,” he mutters, keeping his voice a low, quiet hiss. “I don’t like surprises, especially here.” 

“Sorry,” you whisper. He glowers at you over his shoulder. “How is she?” 

“Mm. She’s doing well.” That almost sounds like pride in his voice. “Very stubborn. It’s a good thing. She doesn’t give up, even when she’s frustrated. She speaks better. Do you practice with her?” 

You wish you could. You don’t have the right organs to make the noises necessary for Lorleian, but you’ve studied to understand as much as you can. “There are recordings online,” you say. “I play them, and then we both try to figure out what they’re saying.” 

Ishyr sloughs towards you, tentacles squishing wetly against the stone floor. He flicks his hand towards the entrance of the cave and you follow, easily keeping pace beside him. His tentacles keep wandering over and sliding against your legs. You wonder if he even notices he’s doing it. Awimi’s the same way—her limbs all have minds of their own and sometimes grasp or smack things when she’s not paying attention, acting on their own impulses. 

“Do you have young of your own?” Ishyr asks. He doesn’t look directly at you but he watches you carefully out of the corner of his eye. 

“Me? No,” you say, startled by the question. 

“Mm. You could.” One of his tentacles slithers up to your thigh and you almost stumble. “Very easily, you could.” Ishyr snags you by the waist this time. You’d be more frightened if you weren’t so confused. His tentacles aren’t squeezing like they usually do. They’re loose and slippery, suckers plucking at your wetsuit and caressing your body. “Take this off,” he says.

“Wh—huh?” you ask. 

Ishyr cups your chin and makes you look him in the eye. “Take this off,” he repeats with a sharp smile. “Or I will rip it off of you.” 

“Ishyr, what—are you—wait a second!” You pull frantically at his tentacle when one of his suckers tugs threateningly at your sleeve. “What are you doing?” 

Another tentacle winds up your thigh, the tip settling directly between your legs where it starts to stroke and writhe. You completely lose your train of thought at the sensation of his suckers clinging and releasing in short bursts. It feels like a kiss, like a hot, sucking mouth trying to get at your sex through your clothes. “Is it not obvious?” he asks, claws grasping your jaw.

“It’s unexpected,” you insist. “Do you even like me? Like, in any way?” 

He regards you with narrowed eyes, searching your face for deception. “I haven’t been subtle.” 

This is news to you. “You threaten me every time I see you—”

“And yet you live,” he says wryly. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. More bones on this beach.” A tentacle drapes over your shoulder, the suckers honing in on your nipples and teasing them, pulling gently. The more you squirm, the more you’re surrounded by grasping, groping limbs. You’re surprised when he presses his lips against yours. They’re slick and salty, sharp teeth nibbling at your lower lip. “You’re here,” he murmurs, hot breath warming your mouth. “In my cove. My territory. I’ve invited you here, over and over, and I’ve let you leave alive. Either you’re kin, or someone trusted.” 

He starts tugging at your wetsuit again and you find yourself complying. This doesn’t feel real. The truth is you’ve snuck a few glances at Ishyr in the time you’ve known him and had some thoughts you’re not too proud of about his tentacles. Never in a million years did you imagine he’d be hooking his claws around the zipper of your wetsuit and tugging it down with such hunger in his eyes. 

“I’ve been contending with my instincts,” he admits. “But probably not the ones you’re thinking of. There’s a part of me that wants to bite when I see you doing stretches on the beach. You expose your neck…your belly…weak spots. Very enticing.” His tentacles squeeze those spots he likes so much while he speaks, suckling at your neck and wrapping around your stomach. Your face feels hot. Was he there when you did your warm ups before getting in the water? You don’t remember seeing him. Unless he’d stayed in the water, lurking somewhere just out of sight without saying anything…

Once your zipper’s down far enough, his tentacles are all over you. They’re helping, you think, trying to peel it off, but they’re also touching, fondling, feeling like tongues and fingers and firm hands and something else all together, all at once. Ishyr doesn’t waste any time. You’ve still got one leg in the wetsuit when you feel his suckers toying with your sex. You gasp and the tip of a tentacle fills your mouth. The taste is strange and briney, the texture slightly bumpy. 

“Shhhh,” he whispers. “Awimi is sleeping.” It’s infuriating how calm and collected he is, not even panting as he encloses you in constant pleasure. A tentacle rubs your sex while another toys with your entrance, the rest coiling sensually around your chest and hips and thighs, suckers sliding wetly over your skin like thousands of tongues. “Had you ever seen our young? Before her? I bet you hadn’t. We’re very solitary and the shore is too dangerous for the little ones. For us, when we see a happy, healthy hatchling swimming alongside a beautiful mother…a dedicated father…a lorleian, strong enough to rear young and protect it…” He shivers with a groan. “Mm. I would’ve mated you in the sand the day we met if we were the same species. Given the little one a sibling…or two…or more.”

He’s getting excited the more he talks about it, pulling the tentacle out of your mouth and replacing it with his tongue. The sensation of being covered in him, draped in licking, sucking kisses and caressing hands, pushes you rapidly towards climax. He must be able to tell because you hear him moan into your mouth and then everything gets harder, faster and more intense. The tentacle engulfing your sex feels like it’s pulsating, the suckling sensation making you buck your hips and whimper against Ishyr’s tongue. He wraps around you firmly, urging you to rut against him harder, to ride the wave of ecstasy as long and hard as you can. 

“If I could breed you, I would,” he murmurs, nipping the corner of your mouth. He trails kisses along your jaw to your ear, curling his tongue around the lobe. “You wouldn’t leave here empty. No, you wouldn’t leave at all. You’d be so, so full, it would only be a matter of time. Mm, you’re lucky I can’t. Seeing you with my eggs might ruin me. All I’d be able to think about is breeding you again, and again, and again.”  

He pulls you against his body when you come, your chest pressed to his and your hips pumping frantically in the wet, pleasurable warmth of his tentacles. You’re still catching your breath when you realize he hasn’t stopped babbling, muttering in your ear about breeding and eggs and how unbearably sexy you’d be guarding his little translucent bundles of joy. He stiffens suddenly, tentacles suddenly going rigid before his whole body relaxes and he sags against you.

“Ishyr? Ishyr!” you hiss. He’s too heavy and you both end up on the floor of the cave. He’s not bothered about it, if the way he immediately wraps around you is any indication. “Did…did you…?”

“I had to calm myself,” he mutters, his speech slightly slurred. “Can’t mate you today. We need time. You have to take Awimi back when she’s finished napping.” 

“Time?” you ask, intrigued. “How much time?” 

Ishyr rolls onto his side and brings you with him. You’d call it spooning if he wasn’t somehow on every side of you simultaneously, warm and comfortable. “Mm. The better part of a day, ideally.” 

“A day?” you echo, incredulous. “Do lorleians really mate that long?” 

Ishyr smiles. It’s wide, sharp and threatening, the same way he smiles when he casually threatens to bash your skull open against the rocks for questioning what he’s teaching Awimi. Did he think you’d realize he was kidding somehow? Was that its own strange form of flirtation? “I guess you’ll find out, won’t you?” he purrs, tracing your lips with his claw. 

You meet him halfway when he leans in for another kiss. You guess you will.

[lov1ngreid]

cherry blossom

⌕ studying abroad in japan you never would’ve thought you’d be drawing the stranger sitting under the cherry blossom tree.

⟣ ﹒bau!spencer + gn!reader

⟣ ﹒content warning: none! just fluff

⟣ ﹒wc: 1.7k

⟣ ﹒ 🧋me being delusional because I want to live in japan so bad

listen to what i did when i wrote this! ➘

You hadn’t always gone outside to paint, but today the weather was your favourite you simply had no choice. Cold enough that you could see your breath a little in the atmosphere, but not too cold that your jacket and scarf weren’t enough to keep you warm.

You were fixated on the largest cherry blossom in the garden, hundreds of bursts of baby pink and white coming from the branches, and a light brown trunk flowing all the way into the sky, branching off in different directions.

It was easy to start sketching, you always loved coming to this garden, not many people knew about it so it always seemed quiet, only the sounds of the water trickling through the stream and the faintest noise of the metro occupying your ears.

One of your most favourite places in the garden happened to be the bench on the small bridge overlooking the small river stream watching the koi fish jump and nip at the surface making small little popping noises as they did.

you always found yourself absolutely indulged in your art, completely zoning everything else out.

Just your pencil tracing along your sketchbook.

So hyper focused on the beauty of the tree in front of you, you had yet to notice the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen in your entire life sitting just below it.

His outfit consisted of browns and neutrals, paired with a deep purple scarf and blue and orange polka dot socks you could see barely peeking out from his ankles and glasses propped up on the bridge of his nose. You watched quietly, completely entranced in how gorgeous his presence was. you looked completely in awe, his long slender fingers dragging down the page before flipping to the next one, and his glasses that sat in front of his pretty brown orbs.

Without giving it another thought you started to sketch the beautiful boy in front of you, starting with his fluffy hair, glancing between your sketchbook and your subject of choice.

A ringtone beaming from somebody’s cell phone broke your trance from the boy sitting in front of you, watching as he reached in his right pocket and pulled out his phone to answer it it only took him seconds to snap his book shut shoving it into his bag before getting up from his position under the tree.

He looked incredibly rushed before making his way towards you, phone still to his ear as he mumbled incoherent words into it, incoherent to you at least, considering you were still focused on how beautiful his face was.

Before you could even consider sparking a conversation with him, heavy footsteps onto the wooden bridge seemed to be inching closer and closer, you get a better look at his beautiful brown hair and the way it falls over his glasses a little.

It was almost like he was so close that you could see yourself in the reflection of his glasses, like he was speaking to you, almost as if you could feel his body heat next to yours.

“Um densha-no… what is it…. eki-wa doko desu-ka?”

“What” you breathed confused, he was that close to you, and that reflection you thought you saw in the reflection of his glasses, was in fact you staring at him dumbfounded as he tried to talk to you in Japanese.

“Oh thank god you speak English” He chuckled, rubbing his neck as pink flushed his cheeks, even his voice was dreamy “Do you know where the train station is?”

You giggle a little at him before nodding “you just have the leave the gardens take a left, you’ll see the signs, it’s around the corner” you smiled taking a moment to rake your eyes over his tall figure before meeting them back to his.

“Thank you” he smiles back at you, his eyes light up beaming down at you, he was so incredibly gorgeous and his cologne left you feeling so addicted, he brushes past you for a moment obviously in a rush before pausing twisting on the balls of his feet to turn around “I’m Spencer” he furrowed his eyebrows, almost as if he was talking to himself.

His almost innocent demeanor made you giggle a little “Hi Spencer” smiling back at him “I’m y/n” you tilted your head a little, a little surprised he had stopped to talk to you considering he was obviously in a hurry.

“Are you busy?” He rushed searching your face for any sort of disgust or disapproval, you shook your head in response, you truly weren’t busy but you would’ve cleared your schedule regardless “will you walk with me?”

You felt like your heart had made its way to your throat with how fast and hard it was beating, like it was all you could hear, without answering you just nodded your head making your way next to him.

Your mouth ran dry, what where you supposed to say? You just sat there and drew some random person for like 20 minutes you definitely looked like a stalker.

You both walk a little in silence before he timidly turns his head to face you “Do you live here?” He asks in attempts to kill the silence between the both of you.

You nodded your head before glancing up to meet his eyes “I study here” you smiled nervously shoving your hands into your warm jacket pocket.

“That’s awesome” he beamed smiling down at you, his perfectly row of teeth almost blinding you “I’d love to live here, it’s so peaceful”

you both walked in beat with each other perfectly matching each others strides “especially when I don’t have people watching me read” he snickers smiling at himself

Suddenly you snap your head towards him in complete horror, your face turning incredibly pink “you saw that?” You squeaked absolutely horrified that he thought you were some sort of weirdo.

He laughed turning around to face you “of course I did” he rolled his eyes playfully still laughing, hilarious to him, but to you, you’ve never been so embarrassed in your entire life “But I only noticed cause I was watching you paint that tree”

“oh” he was watching you?

He loved your timidness, it almost matched his, seeing how embarrassed you got when he caught you watching him only made his heart flutter even faster

“You don’t think I’m weird or anything do you” you rushed, convinced that absolutely nothing could pull you out of this embarrassing hole.

He shook his head gripping at the strap of his shoulder bag “No I don’t think you’re weird” smiling back at you cocking his head to meet your eyes “I thought it was sweet… you were looking at me the same way you were looking at that tree” he pointed a little at the pink covered tree you were just sitting near.

If even possible, more heat rushed to your cheeks before you stared at the busy footpath in front of you. Absolutely humiliated he had seen you absolutely swooning at the sight of him, before you knew it, you both stood at the entrance of the train station, it really was just around the corner.

“Thankyou y/n” he nodded nervously hands shoved in his pockets, your quietness made him a little nervous that he had said something wrong, did you think it was weird he was also watching you indulge in your art so peacefully.

Nodding your head a little with a quick smile, you both stood staring a little into each others eyes, both looking like you were reading each other. The hustle of people around you pausing and the volume of the city sounds fizzling out as you both daydreamed, lost in the depths of each others eyes.

That was before Spencer’s phone buzzed a few times to let him know someone was trying to contact him urgently, snapping the both of you from your gaze, Spencer smiled again before turning quickly to hop down the steps.

“Wait-” you rushed taking a few steps forward to meet him, Spencer reacted immediately turning around to meet your gaze again, you looked up at him before unbuttoning your bag and searching for your notebook before pulling it out. Flipping through the pages of trees and buildings you had watercoloured months before.

Spencer looked down in awe at all the pieces of work you had created, although you weren’t purposefully showing them to him, he was ultimately amazed by your talent and wanted them all framed in his apartment.

You huffed a little before finding the page you were working on just before, a beautiful pink cherry blossom and the prettiest blue lake.

And the prettiest boy sitting under it.

In awe once again Spencer was completely oblivious to the fact that not only were you painting the tree he was sitting under, but him as well. He fixated on it examining every line and detail you had captured, even the polka dots on his socks, his eyebrows furrowed as he heard a ripping sound.

You had ripped the page from your book, careful to not ruin your work but simply tearing it from the confinements of the notebook before shoving it in his direction, confused Spencer looked down at it a little before reaching out to grab it.

“I want you to have it” you nodded closing your sketchbook placing back into your bag.

“It’s beautiful” Spencer admires looking at the piece close up.

“It’s okay” you giggle a little embarrassed your eyes meeting your shoes for a bit as you watched him scan over the piece for a little longer than you thought was necessary “wow you like it that much” you laugh watching his reaction.

He nodded quickly looking back up at you grinning “Well… I’ll make you another” you smile tilting your head a little, Spencer nods again before stumbling to remember why he’s even at the train station.

“Um- I have to go but will I see you tomorrow?” he rushed continuing to walk down the stairs as he talks, glancing between you and the station behind him.

You nod without hesitation at the boy grinning in front of you, he stops walking down the stairs for a second before waving a little, returning the wave, you watch his rush down the stairs glancing back at you every few steps.

BACK TO MASTERLIST

[ravennaortiz]

Please more Coco ( my soul is lost to this man) with 6. Are you afraid of me? , 16. Your scars are beautiful, 22. Make me, 32. You’re mine, 38. Beg.( Sorry if there’s a max on prompts but I think they work well together for something super smutty 😇.)

Welcome back Love!!! I can def get you some more Coco!( No prompt limit, feel free to put in as many as your heart desires!). As Always 18+.

Scars

Coco sat watching you as you made drinks behind the bar and chatted with EZ. The two of you had seemed to be building something but whenever he seemed to get to close you darted away. He assumed it wasn't the biker image since you kept coming around the clubhouse. So he figured it was him. Granted he had a reputation but he had never hurt a woman.

You could feel Coco's eyes on you from across the clubhouse. You knew you owed him an explanation about the other night when you two had been making out on the hood of your car. Embarrassment of that night had you dropping the beer in your hand.

"Your suppose to be helping me not making my life harder" teased EZ as he playfully smacked your arm with the towel he had been drying glasses with. "I can leave if you want?" you replied with a raised brow as you moved to pick up the glass. Before EZ could respond Coco's voice rang out. "Yo Boy Scout! Quit flirting and start working" called Coco his jealousy getting the best of him.

"I'm going to pop outside for a bit" you whispered a few minutes later as you gently touched EZ's shoulder. Once he nodded you grabbed your jacket and a beer and headed out the door. Once outside you inhaled the fresh, cool night air. You were lost in your own thoughts when you felt someone grab your arm.

"Are you afraid of me? Is that why you took off and are flirting with EZ? questioned Coco as he turned you to face him.

"What?" you questioned as your brow furrowed at the insanity of both questions. Coco took a breath and repeated himself.

"No, I'm not afraid of you Coco" you replied with a shake of your head. "Granted you did just grab me in the middle of the night but I put that to poor judgment. Same as saying I was flirting with EZ. We both know he's not my type" you replied with a easy laugh.

Coco couldn't help but let out a sigh of relieve and a laugh of his own. "Fair enough" he replied as he let your arm go but didn't move back away from you. "So you wanna tell me what I did wrong the other night that had you running for the hills?" he asked cautiously his eyes searching yours.

You bit your lower lip as you considered his question. This was inevitable and would have to be talked about sometime. "Things were getting a bit too real and shit. I have...I have" you started before you stopped trying to find the right words.

"If your going to say dick. I'm fine with that" offered Coco making you laugh. "No. Its not a dick" you replied with an eye roll.

"I have some pretty ugly scars and its hard to be... intimate.... with them and feel comfortable in my skin" you replied quietly your eyes looking anywhere but at him now.

"The word ugly should never come out of your pretty mouth. Especially not about this art piece" murmured Coco as he ran his hands down your sides and onto your hips as he pulled you closer. "You should let me show you how your scars are beautiful" he continued as his lips ghosted your neck sending spikes of pleasure through your body.

Feeling emboldened by the hands and lips ghosting over your body you ran your hands under his shirt as you replied. "Make me Coco".

Twenty minutes later the two of you were naked in his bed as his fingers, lips and teeth paint hot trails along your skin. You squirm and whimper as he licks along the raised purple scar that runs under your right breast as his fingers skim between your wet folds.

Coco smiles into your skin as he dips two fingers into you, slowly pushing them up into that sweet spot making you clamp around them. "So fucking beautiful" he murmurs as he kisses the jagged scar that runs down the center of your abdomen. You could feel your orgasm start to build when he abruptly pulled his fingers from you.

"Patience" murmured Coco as he kissed his way back up you body until he was hovering over you. You could feel the head of his cock at your entrance and raised your hips slightly. "Nah Mama" scolded Coco as he pushed your hips firmly back down. "You're mine now. Only good girls get this" he stated as he leaned back and teased you by rubbing his head through your wet folds. "Beg" he ordered gently as his lust blown pupils found yours.

"Please fuck me Coco." you pleaded as you pouted. Coco shot you a smirk as he quickly slid himself completely into you making you both moan. Coco grunted as he gripped your hips firmly, pounding in and out of you. All you could do was moan and take it as Coco held you in place beneath him. Without warning Coco hooked your right leg up onto his shoulder making you clench tighter around him. He smirked as he watched your eyes roll back and mouth fall open in a silent scream. "Be a good girl and cum" ordered Coco as his fingers moved between the two of you to pinch your clit.

Within seconds his name was falling from your lips as your body released around him and your body spasmed uncontrollably. Coco thrusted into you a few more times before pouring out his own release as your body milked him. Coco slumped down on top of you as you both panted.

His hands traced along your scars as his lips found yours. "So beautiful" he whispered as he pulled back slightly.

Want more Coco? Click here

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[yourlocaldilemma]

Golden Thoughts {part 4} (ln4)

Lando Norris x fem!sprinter!reader

word count: 2.1k

part 4/? part one, part two, part three, part four, part five

warnings: not edited

a/n: comment and reblog :) feedback is much appreciated! ______________________________________________

The cold corners, minimal furniture and stark white paint of Lando’s flat are the exact opposite of the bubbly boy that stands in front of you.

“Sooooo?” He drags out the word while bouncing on the balls of his feet. You’re standing in the kitchen, the ocean infront of you, cooking space behind you and his large flat spanning further to the right. 

“It’s completely lovely, it’s just not as you as I thought it would be.”

“Were you expecting a university frat boys place?” He tosses a smirk in your direction.

His response pulls a smile to your face. “I was expecting some art on the walls, maybe some of your merch lying around.”

“There’s merch in a closet somewhere,” he chuckles, “a lot of it.”

His voices softens into a curious tone. “As for the art, it’s complicated, but sometimes it feels easier to-, it’s almost-, I feel like-,”

“Like if you personalize it then it feels like home, and when it feels like home it be becomes that much more impossible to be away so much.” You finish his thought for him.

“Exactly.” A shared look of understanding flashes from your face to his. The sport may be different but you share a similar lifestyle.

Tapping your nails on the quartz counter to end the weighted silence, you seat yourself on one of the barstools placed beneath the kitchen island. 

“I cooked last time.” You explain after he makes no effort to move. 

Hesitantly he begins to pull utensils from shelves, looking severely out of place even in his own kitchen. There’s very little food in the large fridge, and less than 30 seconds into watching him try to slice a cucumber you decide to take over. His cuts are uneven, messy, and his fingers seem at high risk. 

“You don’t cook much do you.” 

“You’re judging! No judging!” He whines and laughs, rubbing his hands over his face. 

You join him behind the counter as you regain the same easy dance of cooking and conversation as in Australia. You learn that he always has chicken and salad before race day, he’s always wanted a kitten and you pick up on his habit of wringing his hands when he’s nervous or excited. By the time you finish cooking, you know more about him than you ever thought possible.

~~

Lando takes a running leap onto the couch like an overexcited puppy.   

“Where’s your bathroom?”

“Down that hallway to the right.” He points with a nod. Humming a thanks, you walk down the hallway he directed. The bathroom, not unlike the rest of the house, is almost completely white with only small silver features. The counter is scattered with what you assume to be an assortment of Lando’s colognes. 

You wander back into the living room to find Landos eyebrows scrunched and a twinkling light of amusement in his eyes as he looks down, features accentuated by the glow of a screen . The edges of your lips turn up in a slow smile at his childlike expression before you recognize the phone case as yours. Your heart skips a beat in advance of dropping into your suddenly cold stomach. 

Only after he raises his head to look at you do you realize you’ve been standing at the hallway entrance for long seconds. 

“Care to explain?” He twerks an eyebrow upwards and nods at your phone. Your rapidly beating heart doesn’t slow as you amble your way over to sit next to him on the couch, overly nervous for no exact reason.

When he flips the phone around to let you analyze the screen, The Notification Centre is overflowing with alerts. The first three pop ups that catch your eye are all courtesy of the F1 app. News Headlines and reports from qualifying sided with little pictures span the screen. 

“I don’t see what you find so entertaining. I never read those articles anyway.”

“Sometimes I do,” Lando ventures with a roll of his shoulders, “to know what people are mad at me for. That’s not what I was talking about though.”

You meet his ocean blue orbs as his deep pink lips stretch into a grin. what would it feel like to have them on your-

“You have my Instagram notifications on.” He stated proudly.

You lash out to snatch your phone from his grip, swiping to clear everything from your Lock Screen. 

Pointing your nose upwards dramatically, you reply with a sarcastic flourish. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lando just hums a sunshiney tune under his breath and stares at you with a bright smile, like you just solved global hunger. 

“I’m going to find a movie now and you’re going to braid my hair.” You salute him behind his back as he moves to let you begin to braid. 

“How does the little mermaid sound?”

“Amazing.” You giggle at his choice. 

Not 20 minutes into the movie, you feel Landos now braid-adorned head drop onto your shoulder. You expect to see him grinning cheekily up at you but when you look down his eyes are closed, and he’s taking little soft breaths. 99.9 percent of you wants to shake him until he wakes up but with his race tomorrow you decided you can let him get some sleep. 

You focus on the movie, but feeling your phone vibrating in your pocket breaks your concentration. You see four messages from Charles and cross your fingers he doesn’t somehow know you’re at Landos as you unlock your phone. 

You know Lando is awake again when you feel tingling breaths on your neck as he peeks over you shoulder to look at your phone. Even though the texts are all written in French, it isn’t hard to translate the angry meaning of the emojis and multiple uses of Landos name. You can see him frown in the reflection of your phone and his mouth twitches as if he can’t decide what to say.

“He’s going to hate me forever.” You complain.

“He will never hate you. He just needs to get the fact that you’re not only his anymore through his thick head.” Lando wiggles further back into the couch. “He will, on the other hand, hate me forever, which might cause some problems for my PR team.”

A breathy laugh escapes your mouth as you tip your head back to meet the couch cushion. 

“I don’t think I was his in the first place.” You scold Lando with a sarcastic undertone that he doesn’t seem to catch seeing how quickly he sits up to look at you.

“I didn’t mean it like that of course you weren’t his, you’re nobody’s I just mean,” his rambling pauses thoughtfully, “I think he kept you a secret for more reasons then he told you.”

You roll your eyes. “What are you talking about Lando?”

“I mean look at you. You’re absolutely gorgeous,body and soul. And you’re brilliant, and hilarious and independent, and I think you care a lot more than you let on. Charles knew that anyone who met you would never want to leave you alone, meaning he would lose more of you. So he kept you to himself.” 

Looking down at his lap, Landos flushed a deep rose colour that blooms from his neck to the tips of his ears. You can feel your face prickling with heat alike his. Those were not words that were exchanged by “just friends”. Your breaths sync as the room goes completely silent around you. 

“Thank you, Lando. That was beautiful. No one has said anything like that about me in a very, very long time,” you whisper, as his forehead swims closer and closer to yours in the thick air that filled the room as he spoke. 

“It’s true.”

“Lando.” You meant it as a warning but it comes out as more of a gentle whimper as you look up through your lashes to see his eyes, sapphire swirled with pastel teal and flecks of powder blue all in one. 

You watch his Addams apple bobs as he swallows and pulls away. 

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” 

You both return to watching the movie but the colors blur together and a grainy glaze slides over your eyes. The feeling of Lando being so close to you has a hazy veil over you. You’re still close enough you can feel his soft hoodie brushing against your arm.

“I should probably go soon. I have a really early flight tomorrow.”

“You could sleep here.”

He suggests it so easily, like you’d slept over at his place time and time again. 

“Lando, I barely know you and you barley know me.”

“I’d like to though.”

A hopeful smile makes your eyes crinkle as you look at him and Lando, who returns it, extends his legs to lie down on the couch. When he catches your pursed lips and the skepticism that roles off you in waves, he sighs. 

“One hour. It’s not that late and I’ll drive you back after.”

“Lando, I'm not good with things like this. I’ve always been someone who’s better alone. I didn’t have many friends growing up and track never helped with that much. And over time, I realized it’s better that way!”

“Because you won’t get hurt?”

“If you love someone or something, you’re giving them the ability to hurt you. I love sprinting with my entire soul, so that already one thing,” you shrug, “it’s just easier.”

“I get that. I truly do. But what I’ve learned is that if you don’t take the risk you could miss out on loving something that could make you happy.”

He catches your eyes and you can’t tear your gaze away from the jewels of his eyes. 

“Just an hour?” His dimples show as he gives you an endearing smile. 

~~~ 

You can feel bright sunlight on your eyelids and a warm entity encircling your body in a way that feels comfy and safe. The light only seems to grow until you inwardly moan and flip around in a fruitless attempt to escape the suns beams. Disoriented and tired, you split your eyes open the tiniest bit to allow the world to fade into view. 

The sun directly in your face once again, you shift again. A low groan rings from behind you and your memory returns in one fast SnapBack to reality. 

“Shit!”

the comforting warm blanket Lando groans again as you try to sit up. His hand is wrapped low and tight around your waist which must of happened sometime during the night. 

The night you weren’t supposed to spend at his house in the first place.

You hiss at him. “Lando! I have a flight this morning!”

He makes a noise of protest but releases his grip on you. 

You scramble around, swearing in multiple languages while trying to find your phone. Lando watches you, still not half awake, from the couch. When you find your phone face down on the floor, you turn it on to nine missed notifications from Charles and a clock reading 5:30 am. 

Heaving a sigh of partial relief you sit up straight and immediately notice the kinks in your back. You were going to pay for yesterday in more ways than one. 

“I still have two hours before I have to leave for the airport.” You state to no one in particular, your brain working a thousand miles a minute. 

“So things aren’t as bad as they seem. I’m still fucked mind you, just not as deeply. All my stuff is at my hotel still. Oh my-“ you pull at your hair as blood rushes to your head when you stand up. 

Lando pats the spot you were lying in only moments earlier. 

“Shit is going to get fucked either way Y/N. come back to bed.”

“Lando!”

“Just for 3 minutes? I’ll drive you to the airport after?” 

“Lando!!”

~~~~ 

After running around like a chicken with its head cut off, you make it to the airport seven minutes earlier then you wanted to. As you pull the luggage out of the boot of Landos car, you can see him fiddling with his hands again, pulling his rings on and off. 

Peeking his head over the dark tinted windows, he meets your eyes. 

“Thank you for having me for dinner. Even if you did trick me into spending the night at your place.” 

“Best sleep I’ve had in a while.” He smirks.

“Goodbye.” 

“Not goodbye.” 

You raise an arched eyebrow at him.

“I’ll see you soon.”

“You seem sure of that Mr. Norris.”

“I am.” He turns on his car and begins to inch away

You call after the slowly moving car. “Oh and Lando? Good luck tomorrow!” 

The morning sun glints off the top of his dark McLaren, the brake lights blinking red as he slows to peek his messy morning curls out the window. 

“I got my braid!”

[garglyswoof]

Fragile Things

ao3 For @kastleexchange Come What May Day 1, "What Could Be" The first thing they say to each other in Daredevil: Born Again. Please note i have no clue what canon is anymore, except (hopefully) in terms of characterization. She knows it can’t last, like it’s a truce the world has temporarily granted, fragile and held together by the most tenuous of things. A house of cards, really, and she eyes it warily, even as Matt’s let down his own guard now that Fisk isn’t around. No one has stepped up to the plate to organize criminal activity on the scale Fisk had managed, his empire ran haphazardly by lesser minds, as lesser threats.

So yes, Matt has let them in more, her and Foggy, now that his nightly excursions seem almost too easy. Not that they don’t leave him bruised and battered, but he seems less afraid of pulling his friends in when there’s not a criminal mastermind behind them, just poor attempts at the throne.

Still, she‘s tense that whole spring, into summer, then the fall, waiting and watching that house of cards. The Jack of Hearts looks a little bit like Foggy, who’d grown a goatee and then shaved it off in favor of just a mustache despite Karen needling him mercilessly for it.

“Karen, I’m going through my eras of TV Hunk. We’re in the Tom Selleck phase, do you know how many women swooned over his mustache? I will not be bound by societal changes.”

“Does Marci like it?”

He glances sidelong at her, pauses then lets out a defeated sigh. “Yes, or you know it would be gone in 30 seconds.”

“Ok I’ll work on her. Every time you come into the office I picture you sliding across the hood of a 70s muscle car like you’re in Magnum P.I. and I can’t take you seriously.”

“Reminds me of that time when Fr--” Foggy stops himself, but she knows.

“Yeah,” she says softly, her eyes flicking up to meet his gaze then leave it. “Yeah it does.”

It would be a lie to say she didn’t think about Frank, but Murdock, Nelson and Page had been a good distraction this last year. Setting up the firm, finding a new office in the Kitchen, and just playing serious legal catch-up to the two avocados at law were enough to keep thoughts of him to a dull roar (she’d bought them little namesakes, glass-blown ones with painted-on sunglasses and a mustache, from a stall at one of those weekend art festivals that were always popping up around the city).

Still, at night when she tosses her keys on the side table and the lonely weight of her quiet apartment settles into her bones, she thinks of him. Of how he couldn’t look at her in that damned hospital room, eyes darting, of how he pushed her away with his own stubborn, selfish aims. Yeah. Yeah, she’ll have a lot to say to him, if she could. 

But he’s been gone this past year, or maybe just terrorizing some other part of the country’s criminal organizations. Like she’d thought earlier, New York was missing some of its seedy underbelly these days. It’s why it worked, this house of cards.

It comes crashing down that Thursday night. 

It had been a good day, Matt heading into court in the afternoon, Foggy finally breaking the industrious quiet by announcing he’s always wanted a putting green in his office. 

Somehow that has evolved into a three-hole miniature golf course where the final hole is a ramp to Foggy’s blown-up face from an old political poster with the mouth cut out. Karen’s sides hurt from laughing as the city settles into the dark of evening. 

“Wow, you really suck at this,” Foggy laughs.

“I did not know I needed to practice -” she bursts into giggles -”putting a ball - oh god - p-putting a ball into your m-mouth”.

Foggy loses it too until a text buzzes both their phones. They both sober up from the laughter, each thinking the same thought as they reach for their mobiles. Matt’s been gone too long.

Sure enough, it’s a text from him, and Karen’s heart sinks from the vagueness of it.

Won’t be able to make it out tonight. You two have fun and see you in the a.m.

She looks up to see Foggy’s expression as he studies the words on the screen like an Ancient Text, the backlight and the now dim light in the office lending him a haggard expression. It's the first time she’s seen it in a year.

“He’ll be okay, Fogs.” She isn’t sure she believes it, but she says it anyway. She doesn’t think he believes it either, but he smiles all the same. She marvels, not for the first time, at how trauma is a form of time travel. Because despite the progress of this past year, her and Foggy both remember Matt, before, and they are right back there again in an instant.

Foggy’s expression almost breaks her heart as he nods and takes an absentminded last putt, the ball rolling up the braille legal book ramp and straight into the picture’s mouth.

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

Karen hasn’t changed a bit, despite all that’s happened, and she knows this is a bad idea but can’t stop herself all the same. She’d said goodbye to Foggy at the office doorway, mumbling something about cleaning up the casserole dish from one of their recent sliding scale (if you could call it that) clients. Foggy had been on the phone with Marci, but had paused - Karen’s heart aching with the kindness of him - for a moment, holding his hand over the speaker.

“You sure?” He'd mouthed before speaking in a whisper. “This isn’t about Matt, right?”

She’d shrugged her shoulders. She wasn’t going to lie about that, at least. “Maybe it is, but it’s okay. I just want to have some time to think, and scrubbing cheese off this casserole dish will sadly give me time.”

He’d left then, with one worried glance backwards. She’ll have to keep an eye on her phone tonight, she’s willing to bet he’ll at least text to check in on her. 

It had been the silences from Matt that had scared them the most. She isn’t doing that to Foggy.

Still, she’s pretty sure he wouldn’t approve of her rifling through Matt’s files, her notes, and the Bulletin trying to triangulate where the hell Daredevil is off to tonight. She figures it out when she sees the line in the local crime beat from last week, from a paper she hadn’t yet let herself start reading again until now. 

Ex-FBI Officer Charged with Death of Priest, FBI Officer Escapes From Prison

She drops the paper and scrambles to her desk, pulling out the drawer that holds her purse, shaking, and grabs her gun, her breath ragged in the quiet of the office, the gun almost sucking the light out of the room, matte black. She stares at it for a moment before raising it in both hands, her feet unconsciously shifting apart to ground her. She feels the trigger under her finger, safety still on, she knows, and she presses the trigger once, twice, three times, over and over until her face crumples and she slides to the floor. 

She doesn’t give herself much time to let the pain rule her, she never does. If Bullseye is back, then that’s what Matt is looking into, and she knows he’ll need help despite not wanting it. Not to mention she has a score to settle with that psycho. Her hand shakes as she locks the office up until she stares at her fingers, willing them to calmness.

The church still looms taller than her faith, which isn’t hard to manage, she thinks wryly. The night holds an early fall chill, a breeze off the river teasing the hairs at the nape of her neck where her hair is pulled into a low ponytail. Quiet rules the street with the church lit gently by low exterior lights as she eyes the windows and tries not to think about the past. She’s almost about to give up, thinking that she’s guessed wrong, when she sees the heavy front door shift. A figure darts through, too broad-shouldered to be Matt, she thinks, then the door shuts without a noise and she’s staring into a face lit lowly for just a second before the man ducks into the shadows. 

Frank. She’s frozen there, on the sidewalk, and she knows it’s the stupidest thing for her to do so she darts off the path onto the grass that edges the church’s lot. She’s not sure if he’s seen her, and can’t spot him anymore in the darkness, and she has a moment to think - god how on earth did he just disappear like that? before he’s in front of her, finger to his lips at her impending shriek of surprise, his face familiarly blood-spattered and sporting an almost goofy grin. It doesn’t make sense, any of it, and she stares at him in confusion as he tugs her hands into his, holding her out like he wants to look at her, take stock, that grin lowering like a sail as his eyes grow more intense and how can he be so casual and what is going on and -

“Ma’am,” he says, his tone teasing. 

She relaxes, because there can’t be any danger here if he’s acting like that, but then tensing back up because honestly, what the hell? 

He must see it in her face because he rumbles an apology. ‘M’sorry. Just…seeing you like that, reminded me of…” he trails off, dropping her hands to tug at his hood in mimicry of his beggar routine. That happened forever ago, but he still remembers. So does she. “And you’re still all heart, I don’t even need to ask.” 

Something about the way he says it, almost proprietarily, pisses her off. Her eyes flash in the shadows they’ve found themselves in, pulling deeper in as a car passes and breaks the silence with loud, low bass.  “Yeah, Frank? What clued you in there?” 

She wants him to say it. Doesn’t want to have to spell it out.

His head punches back slightly, taking the blow. He changes the subject, or maybe it’s still the same one. “I came back as soon as I heard. The church’s been clean so far, surprised though. Guy like that usually wants to win where he lost.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” Karen admits. “So what’s with the blood?”

He touches his face, as if reminding himself. “Research.” 

She almost laughs. 

“Where’s Red?” He rasps out.

“This was me trying to find him,” she says and watches his face soften out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m sorry, Karen.”

She waits, staring down at where the grass, wet from the day’s watering, sticks to her sneakers.

He clears his throat. “I wasn’t there for you when he came after you the first time. Fuckin' killed me to hear about it. Killed me to know you were hurt and scared and I wasn’t around to help.”

He’s not saying the right things, but they’re still good ones. She smiles a timid smile, glances up and lets him give her what he can. She’s got a year of therapy on one Frank Castle under her belt.  “It’s okay, Frank.”

She knows he wants to say more, say something about the hospital. She pulls him in for a hug, kisses his cheek in a spot bare of blood. Maybe she’s the one that isn’t ready this time. 

“It’s okay.”

She feels his lips on her neck, a brief chapped kiss, before he pulls back and stares into her eyes like he’s trying to solve her mystery.

“I just want to find Matt, Frank. Make sure he’s okay.” 

Maybe he hears it in her voice, the unspoken later, maybe he just senses the urgency.

“Alright then, let’s go.” He grabs her hand again, pulls his hood up with another. She’s so in shock that she doesn’t move until he starts tugging. He looks back at her, casually throws back, “You’re going to do it anyway. At least I can keep an eye on you this way.”

It both pisses her off and makes her smile. Her feelings are never black and white for Frank Castle, but it definitely seems like he’s accepted some things about her, at least. She squeezes his hand that dwarfs her own, callused and warm, and follows him away from the church, into the heart of the city.

[mcu-binge]

Love in Brooklyn pt 5

A couple of hours after finishing up at the bakery, I walked into my apartment, tossing my keys onto the counter and heading straight for the shower. The hot water was exactly what I needed to unwind after the day. My thoughts drifted back to Steve—his easy smile, the way he moved through the bakery like he belonged there, and that hug. Get a grip, Dani, I told myself. You barely know the guy.

As I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel, my phone buzzed on the counter. I glanced at the screen, seeing a text from my best friend, Sofia.

Sofia: Got invited to this PR party for an art gallery in Manhattan tonight. Wanna come with me? Free drinks, fancy people, and you could use a night out. Don’t make me go alone!

I smiled at the text, rolling my eyes. Sofia was always dragging me to events like this, but after a day in the bakery—and the unexpected encounter with Steve—I figured maybe a night out wasn’t such a bad idea.

Me: Alright, I’m in. What time are we going?

Sofia: *I’ll pick you up in an hour. Wear something hot. ;)

I laughed, setting my phone down. I quickly dressed, slipping into a sleek black dress that hugged my curves in all the right places, and paired it with my favorite heels. I kept my makeup simple but elegant, adding a bold red lip for a pop of color. I loosely curled my hair quickly seeing as I was running out of time. After a final check in the mirror, I grabbed my clutch and headed out to meet Sofia.

The art gallery was stunning, all modern lines and high ceilings, with abstract pieces displayed on the walls. It was the kind of place that made you feel like you should know something about art—even if you didn’t. Sofia and I arrived fashionably late, as usual, and we were immediately handed champagne flutes as we entered the party.

“Not bad, huh?” Sofia said, taking a sip of her drink and scanning the room. “Fancy art, fancy people… but more importantly, free booze.”

I laughed, clinking my glass against hers. “You always know how to find the best parties.”

We wandered through the gallery, admiring the artwork and enjoying the drinks. It was a fun, lighthearted atmosphere, and after a couple of glasses of champagne, I was starting to relax and really enjoy myself. That was, until I spotted someone familiar across the room.

Steve.

Standing across the room, in a corner near one of the larger paintings, was none other than Steve Rogers. He was dressed sharply in a tailored suit, chatting with a few people, but as if sensing my gaze, he turned and locked eyes with me.

Sofia followed my gaze and raised an eyebrow. “Who’s the hottie?”

I shook my head, still in disbelief. “You won’t believe this, but that’s Steve. The guy from the gym—and my bakery. The one I was telling you about.”

Her eyes widened, a grin spreading across her face. “You’re kidding me. Wait, did he follow you here?”

I laughed. “No, I don’t think so. At least, I hope not.”

Sofia smirked. “Well, go say hi. I’ll be over by the bar if you need me.”

I raised an eyebrow, smirking as I made my way over to him. "Are you stalking me now?" I teased, stopping just short of him.

Steve’s lips curved into a lopsided grin, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “Stalking? No, just enjoying a night out with a friend,” he replied, motioning toward the group he had been talking to.

I glanced over at the group, noticing a few familiar faces from the art world. “A friend, huh?”

He laughed softly. “I swear, it’s purely coincidental. What about you? Didn’t expect to see you here either.”

I shrugged, leaning a little closer to him, enjoying the banter. “A friend dragged me out. I couldn’t say no.”

“Well,” Steve said, his voice dropping just slightly, “I’m glad she did. You look…” He paused, his eyes trailing over my dress before meeting mine again. “Incredible.”

The compliment sent a small thrill through me, and I couldn’t help but smile. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Rogers.”

He chuckled, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer. “So, what do you think of the gallery?”

I took a sip of my drink, glancing around. “It’s beautiful. I don’t usually make it to events like this, but I’m glad I came.”

Steve nodded, his eyes still on me, the energy between us shifting from playful to something warmer. “Me too.”

For a while, we stood there, talking about everything and nothing at the same time. He told me more about his "friend" inside the gallery—someone who was helping curate the event—and I filled him in on the bakery, how my dad would probably still be trying to “test” him if he were around.

“So,” I said, leaning against the wall beside him, “are you going to take up baking full-time, or was that a one-day thing?”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “I think I’ll stick to being a part-time apprentice. I don’t want to steal your job or anything.”

"Thank you," I said with a wink.

“So, Dani, what brings you to a fancy art gallery on a Saturday night?”

“My friend Sofia dragged me out,” I said, nodding toward the bar where Sofia was now chatting with a group of people. “She got an invite, and I figured why not?”

“And here I was thinking you came just to see me,” Steve teased, his eyes twinkling.

I laughed, taking a sip of my champagne. “If I had known you were going to be here, maybe I would have.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Maybe,” I said coyly, enjoying the playful banter between us. There was something so easy about talking to him, like we’d known each other for much longer than just a few days.

Sofia had made herself busy with some PR world friends and I was happy to get to spend more time with Steve and champagne lots of it.

"Are you an art fan," I asked as he stared at an abstract painting.

"I wouldn't go as far as saying fan, but sometimes they have some good stuff." He answered honestly.

"I never understand them," I admit.

"Well apparently...." he drags "its about how it makes you feel." He finishes making me laugh.

"This makes me feeeeeeeel....dizzy." I giggle.

"I think thats the champagne." Steve laughs. I finish my glass and he takes the empty glass handing it over to a waiter who takes it.

As the party began to wind down and people started trickling out of the gallery, Steve glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late. Do you want me to walk you home?”

I laughed softly, glancing out the window at the sparkling Manhattan skyline. “I live in Brooklyn. That’s one long walk, even for you.”

He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that effortlessly charming way. “Fair enough. Let’s grab a cab then.”

We made our way outside, the cool night air a stark contrast to the warmth of the gallery. I shivered slightly, and without hesitation, Steve draped his jacket over my shoulders again. The gesture was automatic, like it was second nature to him to take care of people.

“Thanks,” I said softly, pulling the jacket tighter around myself.

“Of course,” he replied, looking down at me with that soft, genuine smile of his.

Steve stepped out to the edge of the street and flagged down a yellow cab. The car pulled up to the curb, and he opened the door for me with a small, teasing bow. “After you, Dani.”

I smirked at his old-fashioned gesture, but I liked it. It felt nice, different from the usual cocky bravado I was used to from other guys. I slid into the back seat of the cab, and he followed, settling in beside me.

The driver glanced back at us. “Where to?”

I gave him the address of my loft in Brooklyn, and we pulled away from the curb, merging into the late-night traffic of Manhattan.

The city lights flickered by as we drove across the bridge, the skyline fading in the rearview mirror. For the first few minutes, we sat in comfortable silence, the hum of the city buzzing faintly outside the cab windows. I glanced at Steve out of the corner of my eye, noticing how relaxed he looked, his gaze out the window as if he was taking it all in.

“So,” Steve finally broke the silence, turning to me, “I have to ask—did you have fun tonight?”

I laughed, the sound escaping before I could stop it. “I’m more of a simple girl, but I actually had a good time. The art was nice, but the company was better.” I glanced at him meaningfully, enjoying the way his expression softened just a little.

“Glad to hear it,” he replied, his tone just as playful. “I was worried I’d scared you off with all this fancy Manhattan stuff.”

“Please,” I waved a hand dismissively. “It takes more than that to scare me.”

Steve chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “Good to know. You seem like someone who can handle just about anything.”

The cab passed over the bridge, leaving the city behind, and the familiar streets of Brooklyn came into view. The conversation flowed easily between us, the teasing banter turning into something softer, more genuine. There was something about Steve—something that made me want to open up to him, even though we’d only known each other for a short time.

“So, you really don’t get tired of the whole ‘Captain America’ thing?” I asked, half-joking but genuinely curious. “People must look at you like some kind of superhero everywhere you go.”

Steve gave me a lopsided grin. “It comes with the territory, I guess. But honestly? It’s not as glamorous as people think. Most days, I’m just trying to keep up with everything.”

“Yeah?” I tilted my head, intrigued. “Like what?”

He shrugged, his gaze turning contemplative as he stared out the window. “Just… life. The world’s different now than it was when I first got into all this. And sometimes, it feels like I’m playing catch-up. Trying to figure out where I fit.”

There was a hint of vulnerability in his voice, something I hadn’t expected. I wasn’t used to hearing people talk like that—but it made him feel more real, more human.

“I get that,” I said quietly, resting my head against the back of the seat. “Life changes fast. Sometimes it feels like everything’s shifting, and you’re just trying to keep up with it.”

Steve glanced over at me, his expression softening. “Exactly. And then you meet someone, or find something that makes it all feel… less chaotic. Like it makes sense.”

I wasn’t sure if he was talking about me, but the way his eyes held mine made my heart skip a beat. I swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment.

Before I could respond, the cab pulled up in front of my building, breaking the spell between us. The driver turned around. “That’ll be 60 even.”

Steve immediately reached for his wallet, pulling out a hundred and handing it to the driver before I could protest. “Keep the change.”

“Hey, I could’ve paid for that,” I said, giving him a playful glare as we both climbed out of the cab.

He smirked, shutting the door behind him. “You can get the next one.”

I rolled my eyes but smiled as we walked toward the entrance of my building. The streets were quiet, the soft hum of Brooklyn at night creating a peaceful atmosphere. When we reached the front door of my apartment, I hesitated, turning to face him.

“Thanks for bringing me home,” I said softly, feeling a little awkward now that we were at the end of the night. “I had a good time.”

Steve smiled, his hands sliding into his pockets . “I did too. Maybe we could do it again sometime?”

My heart fluttered at the suggestion. I nodded, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

For a moment, we just stood there, the quiet between us filled with something unspoken. Steve stepped a little closer, his hand brushing against mine as if testing the waters.

“I should probably head back,” he said softly, his voice low.

I nodded, feeling the moment slip away. “Yeah, of course.”

But neither of us moved, and before I knew what I was doing, I leaned up, brushing a soft kiss against his cheek. Steve blinked in surprise, a slow smile spreading across his face as I pulled back.

“Goodnight, Rogers,” I said, stepping back toward the door.

“Goodnight, Dani,” he replied, his voice warm.

With one last smile, I turned and headed inside, my heart racing as I closed the door behind me. I leaned against it for a moment, trying to catch my breath. I couldn’t deny the chemistry between us, the way he made me feel… I barely knew him. Yet, somehow, that didn’t seem to matter.

As I headed up to my loft, I couldn’t help but wonder where this unexpected connection with Steve might lead.

[godesssiri]

Champaign Tastes on a Bottled Water Budget (because let’s face it, even beer isn’t cheap anymore) Thrift Tips

People are over living in white boxes. We now want richness and texture and colors and interest. Traditional design styles with lots of molding and detail and antiques are very in. People are making a living selling antiques online. Décor bloggers aspire to being able to bring back a container from European flea markets. People want to make their homes look like you have generational wealth.  But how do you have a home full of beautiful old things when you’ve got no money? Thrifting.

1. Always always check the art. Remember if you love the art but hate the frame you can always put it in a new frame, or makeover the current one. And vice versa, if you love the frame but hate what’s in it then it’s the simplest thing in the world to swap it out for something else, another piece of thrifted art, a print from Etsy or one of the many other places artists sell digital copies of their work, a color photocopy from a library book. And frames are very easy to make over, sometimes just changing the matting or painting a frame a different color or adding a little rub n buff makes a world of difference.

2. Rub n Buff or similar waxes are your friend for getting a gorgeous, antiqued look. The thrift stores are full of pieces that have great shape but they’re too modern looking for what you’re trying to achieve. But rub gold on the high points or a dark wax into the crevasses and suddenly they look completely different. I’ve got a ceramic parrot that looked very 80s when I got my hands on it but when I covered it with gold (leaving the original dark colors in the crevasses) he immediately looked like an antique. Just spray-painting something gold doesn’t have the same effect, using a wax creates depth.

3. Darken it up. Most old things are darker than new things. Darker furniture, fabrics, accessories, add depth and richness. If something is already dark, then when you thrift it then great. If it’s not then that’s what dye, paint, and stain are for.

4. Old souvenir pieces. I’ve got a load of old pieces that people have bought back from Greece and Rome, from Egypt, from China. They make my home look like it belongs to someone who has been on a Grand Tour. A lot of them are copies of ancient pieces which means they look timeless. They’re cheap tchotchkes that people have bought at gift shops but mix them in with old books and candle holders and natural pieces like chunks or crystal or large seashells, and they look classy and interesting.

5. Old books. Do you have any idea how many old books get thrown out by thrift stores? Like genuine antiques that get sent to landfill? Most thrift stores don’t want to deal with old books because they smell and harbor dust mites and are out of date and often look tatty. You may even be able to get a bunch for free if you sweet talk the volunteers. If you’re worried about dust mites, then pop them in the freezer for a few days. I know there are those who look down on people who use books just as décor, but if you using it as décor saves it from a landfill or a junk journaler and preserves it for a future generation then isn’t that a good thing?

6. Glass display items. Putting things behind glass makes them look lux and precious even if it’s some cheap trinket or even a bunch of dried leaves or other completely free natural items. Look for domes, plain clear vases you can turn upside down and glue a knob on top, display boxes holding ugly stuff that you can rip the ugly stuff out and re-purpose.

7. Antique reproductions. There’s been many points in history since humans started to mass manufacture stuff, that we have looked to the past a re-created what our forbears made by hand. There’s so much that ends up in thrift stores that looks old even if it’s no more than a few decades old. Cleverly mixing this stuff in to your décor can help you achieve the look of a home furnished with antiques at a fraction of the price.

8. Search ‘Old’ ‘Antique’ and ‘Vintage’ on FB Marketplace. Don’t get more specific than that, just literally type those terms into the search bar, set a distance you’re willing to travel, and scroll. People are always selling stuff that they don’t quite know what the heck it is, but they know it’s old. Yeah you’re gonna see a lot of trash but it’s worth it to find the treasures.

9. Candle holders and candles. I’m actually pretty meh about candles, I get why other people like them but scented candles mess with my allergies and I don’t get any joy out of candlelight – but if you feel the opposite to me, I do understand and encourage that. Candles are wonderful décor objects if you’re going to light them or not. Always check the section where your thrift store keeps candles, there’s often some really good ones. And candle holders come in so many different forms that you will always find beautiful and interesting ones. A figural brass candle holder will make my heart go pitty-pat. You don’t just have to use them for candles either, I have a gorgeously detailed pewter candle holder that I use as a display stand for a large mother-of-pearl shell, and my pair of huge Victorian cherubs currently have clear quartz crystals sticking out of them.

10. Actual antiques. I have hundreds of antiques big and small. I just tried to remember how many of them had been bought at actual antique stores and I think the total is 5. Real genuine antiques turn up in thrift stores All The Time. Sometimes the thrift store realizes what they’ve got and will price it up, more than you’d usually pay at the thrift but still way less than it’s really worth. Sometimes they don’t know/don’t care, they just want to turn over stock so they price it at whatever will get it out the door. You CAN furnish your home with antiques entirely from thrift stores. It just takes time and patience.

[n0tamused]

Looking for Art Advice

Not really my usual post, but I am looking for some advice regarding my art since I've found myself really not liking my art lately.

Now, go easy on me here, this is something I am, admittedly, a bit sensitive about but I really do want to make more solid improvements to where I am happy with my artwork as well. Now, for any artist out there that can give me some good advice, feel free to pop it in the comments or hop into the inbox, whatever you prefer. <3 I'll put some examples here or my more recent works

These are all pieces done over the course of the last few months, the top ones being the most recent. I'm pretty happy with the way I did prove in anatomy, but I find it hard to do shading at times, and especially hard when it comes to rendering skin. I started to paint to try and fix it and progress has been done but it's just so slow RAAAh

Second thing I'm finding a bone to pick with, with myself, is that I'm a bit in a struggle with finding an art style I'm most comfortable with. One one hand I really want to do these more realistic faces and such, but that can be really hard or it sometimes doesn't match the rest of the character, and on the other hand I really like this Genshin/Honkai-ish style. I'm a bit hard on myself in this area, I suppose that's due to me being a victim of "if you can't draw realistic you're not an artist" bs lol. Overall I do love many styles and I'd love to know to draw in so many of them but that's a bit unrealistic 😭

But anyway, whatever advice you may have for me, I'll welcome it with open arms and try to take whatever I can for it so I can improve. Thank you for your time <3

Here's some more examples, sketches edition

[grogusmum]

Class of 1974 Taking Chances Part 3: All In

Javier Peña X F!Reader

RATED: EXPLICIT 18+

WORD COUNT: 1800ish

WARNINGS: oral sex (f receiving) some swearing, As always, see something? Say something. Pop into my DMs and let me know so I can add anything I overlooked.

SERIES SUMMARY: Javier graduated from high school in 74', it's 1989. On a sort of whim he decides to go to his class reunion and sees his old flame, you.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Javi arrives in Vermont and is ready to take the plunge.

Part 2

Javier turns onto a dirt road, passing three large mailboxes, the faded red one has your last name and a little handprint in sky blue on it. A rippling hayfield and what has to be an ancient beech tree complete with a tire swing are to his left and an old stone wall with raspberry canes growing through it on his right. Javier can’t help but think he's entered a Norman Rockwell painting, and wonders if he's up for that, if he can fit into that. A DEA agent, who bent the rules into pretzels "to get the bad guy".

He has to take this chance; he knows he will regret it if he gets cold feet. Like last time with you and then with Loreena.

Driving past the tree, the road bends to the left and a farmhouse with an attached barn, common in New England, comes into view. A kid in overalls is in the dooryard with a black dog. He turns and calls into the house.

Then there you are, t-shirt, jeans, and tall Wellington boots, a pair of work gloves in your hand, and all trepidation washes away. Javier gets fully out of his fastback and swings the door closed. His hands settled on his belt. He looks down at his shoes and then tilts his head up a tick, his eyes raised to meet yours, eyebrows up in question.

Is this okay?

"Javi?" You ask, astonished, a smile nevertheless spreading across your face. Then you break into a run, gloves forgotten in the grass as you all but crash into him. His arms immediately wrap tightly around you; your feet leave the ground for a moment.

"You're here," you confirm, "you're h- I - wait, is everything okay?"

Your last conversations have been hard ones, Vermont and Texas are just so far, it feels more than just distance when it's not temporary. You feel it’s unfair to ask him to come to Vermont, to give up on his work and be so far from his father, and Javier knows you have a whole life here, making a living as a farmer, no easy feat these days, not to mention with a kid to raise.

"I thought we agreed long distance wasn't cutting it."

"It wasn't," Javier cups your cheek, his eyes roving your features with adoration.

"But I thought we- we decided... what's changed?"

"Me," Javier looks you full in the face, his chestnut eyes trained softly on yours. "I've changed, and I want you, wherever you are."

The corners of your eyes prickle, and you shake your head slowly in awe. Taking his face in your hands, his beautiful face, and slot your lips to his. You're glad he's got a good hold on you because your legs may never work properly again. When you finally come up for air, Javier takes his aviators off and looks at you, his eyes glassy too.

“Come on inside, let's have some lunch,” you take one of his fingers and give it a gentle tug as you lead him in the house. You give him a lopsided smile over your shoulder, and he huffs a laugh, again and again he wonders how he ever let go of you.

On the porch, you give your son, Benjamin a nod to come into the house he and Murphy the Dog, comply together.

Javier first smells the savory soup that must be on the stove. There's music playing from a radio. He takes in the house, from the outside it’s a picture of Americana, inside it's far more eclectic. The plaster walls above the wood wainscoting are painted in colors, rooms of sky blue, barn red, sage green… the floors are hodgepodge some are stained a warm honey color, while others have been painted, old folk art hook area rugs warming them up. Your love of theater, music, movies, and books is evident, from the marquee posters, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and instruments, not just an upright piano that looks like it came from a school but a guitar, ukelele, some instruments he doesnt recognize, and some kind of brightly colored hand drum beside a basket of equally colorful small percussion instruments. Then Javier remembers you saying in the winter you run a sort of music playgroup for little kids to help pay the bills.

Your kitchen is sunny yellow, large with a high tin ceiling with fans hanging down. It feels like the center of the house, it’s heart. Not only a large round scrubbed wood table with plentiful mismatched chairs, but an overstuffed armchair by a pillow covered window seat that looks like an adult could sleep on. The music is coming from a radio/turntable console that has to be from the 40’s or 50’s.

It's all exactly you, and he can’t believe this is the first time he is seeing it. Part of the reason things weren’t working probably; the plan was to save on travel by “meeting in the middle” when you could get together. Then the rest was letters and phone calls, but that at 38¢ a minute... they were not long. He needed to see your life, and you needed to see his. But he didn’t want to show you that. Sure, he gave you the broad strokes, not really wanting to get into details. Another reason… what’s that, strike two? He can't mess up the next pitch.

“You look like you see a ball and chain in the corner,” you murmur, trying to disguise anxiety with sass.

“Nope, just realizing I should have come here months ago, babydoll.”

You smile, relief in your eyes.

“This is Benji,” you say pulling your son to a side hug. Murphy starts smelling Javier, closely. “And 'nosy Joe' here is Murphy.”

“Hi Benji. Your mom’s told me a lot about you, I’m Javi.” Javier pulls back his hips protectively and gives the Labrador a hand to smell. Chuckling, he murmers, “Murphy, huh?”

“Ben,” you say, with a nod at Murphy.

“Yeah sorry, come on Murph get out of there,” your son pulls Murphy away, “Sorry.”

After grilled cheese with soup and chatting with Benji about school (it’s okay) and baseball (I can’t believe we came in third! My favorite is Boggs), Benji asks if Javi brought his gun. (Earning a stern Benjamin Oliver! from you and a wink and a nod from Javi), and you encourage Benji to show Javier the farm while you clean up.

"Sure!" The boy bounds through the house, "come on!"

Javier kisses your forehead and follows.

"You work on a ranch?"

"Mmhm, it's my father's, it's big"

"Ours is small, just a few goats, sheep, chickens... we have two horses. Mom told me you have a cattle farm"

"Yep, cows and horses to wrangle them."

"Knock, knock."

Javier is quite for a beat from the abrupt switch, then smiles-

"Who's there?"

"Impatient cow."

"Impatient cow wh-"

"MOOOOO" Benji cuts across, and Javier gives him a satisfying burst of surprised laughter. He ruffles the boy's head-

"That's a good one, Ben. I needed a good knock knock joke."

Javi brings his overnight bag upstairs. Your room is a soft coral. The bed is tall, with a whitewash spindle headboard and a crazy quilt spread, complete with a calico cat at the end of it, who looks at Javi nonplussed.

“There is a bathroom off of my room, right through the closet- yeah, old houses,” you shrug.

After putting his bag on the cedar chest at the end of the bed, Javi reels you in for a kiss.

“So did I hear Benji go outside?”

You laugh, kissing him.

“Yeah, he went over to the neighbors, I told him we needed to talk about some stuff.”

“Talking’s good. But mmm, I can think of other ways to-“

Javi's hand cradles the back of your neck as he comes in for another deeper kiss. You hum a little at the taste of his lips and his mustache's rasp. You bring your pelvis in to meet his, which is taken as a green light. With the smooth grace of someone practiced, Javi brings your shirt over your head with hardly a break in his feast on your mouth, jaw, and neck. You unbutton his shirt hastily, and not as smoothly – it's been a while, and you aren't nearly as skilled. But you are gifted a soft groaning, ‘fuck’ when you dip your head to his now bare chest, and let your teeth graze one of his nipples. Javier backs you toward the bed. When you're spread out, legs dangling off the edge, he unbuttons your jeans, peeling them off you like a present he is looking to savor, as you watch on your elbows. Your bra and underpants remain. You sit up and pull at his buckle. Javier watches you, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you work his buckle open and off, then unbuttoning his jeans. He remembers his shoes and toes them off quickly, not wanting to lose momentum. Looking at you mostly bare, soft curves, silver stretch marks from carrying Benji, just gorgeous. His head shakes almost imperceptibly, thinking about the first time you “met part way” when you weren’t in a dark cramped car, when he could see you properly for the first time in fifteen years-

“Bonita, babydoll, you’re so beautiful… the years I missed-“

“We’ve got plenty of time, Javi, plenty.”

“I wish-“

“Me too. But we are here now.”

“We’re here now.”

You tug his pants down and pull him onto you, bringing him back to the present.

Javier tucks his narrow hips between your thighs, his elbows holding his torso over you, he searches your face-

“I never stopped loving you.”

“Me neither,” your hand goes into his hair, giving a soft tug at the curls on the nape of his neck, Javier gives a growl and kisses you hard on the lips, its teeth and tongue, nips and licks. When you give an involuntary buck, his smirk is dangerous. He licks his bottom lip and his eyes track down your body, his eyebrows quirk like he’s deciding something. Suddenly he’s off you.

“Jav, what are y-" your confused query becomes a gasp.

Javier puts his mouth on your clothed mound.

“Shit,” you breathe.

Javier’s nose nudges at your clit, making your legs quiver, then he takes the elastic of your undies in his teeth and he draws them down slowly, his fingers looping the sides to help them along.

Your chest rises and falls quickly with anticipation, as you look at the ceiling. His breath fanning over your center tells you right where he is, and then the flat of his tongue draws a stripe from your entrance to your clit.

“Nectar of the gods, babydoll,” Javier moans and makes a meal of you.

Your head is heavy on his chest as you doze, which is no longer tight, and your quiet snores are like music, a comforting song. The afternoon sunshine streams in the open window. He watches the curtains flutter and dust motes dance in the disturbed air, as he hears birds, he doesn’t know. He is in uncharted territory and he has no plans to fuck it up. You are his compass, and years of what not to do is his map.

Before falling to sleep, he showed you his skeletons, you know what he’s done.

You will talk more. About about him, and his work. About what life might look like up here for him, like a warning. You'll stumble over the term 'stepdad', not wanting to presume… but you need to know for Benji, if he really wants this. And he does want it-

All of it.

THANK YOU FOR READING 💚

You can find more of my work here and if you would care to be tagged for this or any of my writing fill out my taglist form

[orangeinecstasy]

inhaler bf thoughts please please please please🙏

an: AAAHHH YES IVE BEEN WAITING TO DO THIS!!! had to do ryan first because i love him so much.

ryan bf thoughts ฺ｡*:･

quality time!! he will 100% just pop over to your place so that he can be around you. he doesn’t care if you’re just sitting on the couch as long as he’s with you

move dates! can totally see him wanting to try out different theaters and maybe even a drive in. also you totally make him watch the 1996 romeo and juliet OMG AND WHIPLASH!

#1 passenger princess. he doesn’t care that you’re the one that can drive he loves it

spa days were you guys do face masks

soooo many pictures of you on his phone. we all know and love his random aesthetic instagram stories and you’d be all over them

park dates

late night music sessions where he constantly asks your opinion on lyrics or how something sounds

songs dedicated to you at shows - would put out when i’m with you from the vault just to play it for you

constantly sending you songs that remind him of you

definitely have some sort of couples item like a matching necklace or ring. but it’s something simple like a silver chain or a small band. nothing too crazy that screams i’m matching with my partner

going back to the romeo and juliet part - definitely did a couples costume based off of their party outfit

definitely soft launched the relationship. he just wants to feel like yours and his and not another third parties

definitely wants to be the little spoon after a long day. you make him feel safe and happy and he wants to be fully engulfed in that comfort

reading together

wearing each other's clothes. because he's a short king you both can totally swap clothes super easy

sending him edits you find of him on TikTok - i KNOW he thinks they're super funny and secretly LOVESSS them

calls you before every show when you're not there

museum dates-- i feel like he would want to go to an art museum most of the time, but you would drag him to a science one at least for one of the dates

baking together-- he always tries to eat the cookie dough and you always tell him he'll get sick

painting your nails together

can 100% see him wearing a ring of yours on a chain around his neck. maybe your claddagh to be a bit cheeky

when he's sitting next to you he definitely will drum on you thigh or tap his fingers against to some rhythm that's stuck in his mind

dancing in the kitchen together late at night

such a big words of affirmation guy

music store dates where you guys try out interments and pick up a few new records

so so so many coffee shop dates

wine tasting in italy

an: the other three guys bf thoughts are already in the works. i wasn't sure if i should be a nsfw section for inhaler's but lmk if you guys would be interested in that!

[eleanor-bradstreet]

Chiaroscuro - Part 3 (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Vampire AU Rated/warnings: G - none Word count: 2.6k Art by @bridgertontess

Part 2 Part 4 Masterpost

Fortunately, your job didn’t currently require much interaction with people. Since organizing the museum’s latest nighttime exhibition, you had fallen into a lull of cataloging works in the basement storage rooms and catching up on paperwork. It was a mercy, because if you had been forced to make smalltalk with coworkers you would have inevitably snapped and blubbered out all of the fear and anxiety and rage that was held just at bay behind your fake smile. But there was no one to prod you for your life updates today. Just you and the artworks in the softly lit facilities under the exhibition halls. Ballerinas and olive trees and moon-faced youths, going on about their antiquated business as you carefully inspected and sorted them with gloved hands. They invited your company without requiring any interaction, which made them the best companions of all.

You knew your shift was over when the music began to waft down from above, classical string covers of modern pop songs. This had been your idea. It seemed to match the goal of the events you had planned for the museum, drawing the cool young crowds of the city into proximity with the old works of the greats. Everything, even boring old Neoclassicism, became sexier at night especially when coupled with cocktails and a decent playlist. By charging the yuppies an inflated ticket price in exchange for a tipple and Van Gogh projections dancing across the walls, your events had been a boon to the museum and became a point of pride for yourself.

You could have gone home but decided that sitting alone with your thoughts wouldn’t lead to anything productive. Not when you were still so raw. You were already out, you might as well make the most of it and survey how your event was being received. If nothing else it was time you could spend with the paintings, all of those works that you loved and had memorized over your years of curation. You didn’t have much time left to enjoy them, a knowledge that filled you with equal parts panic and despair. You needed to start absorbing them as best you could, creating a new gallery in your mind that you hoped you would be able to navigate as deftly as the physical one where you had built your career.

Swiping a cocktail from a tray you moved through the exhibition halls, normally so brightly lit but now starkly shadowed, with the grandeur of the gilded frames leering out against fuchsia, purple and blue uplighting. The same colors as your hyacinths, you reminded yourself. Attendance was high with clusters of visitors to be found in every corner and hallway, balancing wine glasses and meandering in chic office wear. You felt a weight dragging in your core as you started to mourn the experiences you already knew you would lose. Then you recognized a silhouette, someone standing alone by a large landscape. It was Ben.

This wasn’t entirely a shock. In fact, you had seen him at several of your nighttime exhibitions before. Everything you knew about him was starting to piece together. A man of fine tastes, wealthy and invested in poetry, wine and art. You had never approached him when you saw him at your previous events and weren’t even sure if he knew you worked at the museum. Each time he was present he was surrounded by people. He seemed to exude a kind of magnetism, with visitors gravitating to hear his insights and banter. You never got close enough to hear the full conversation but could tell he was both captivating and witty given how keenly everyone listened to him and how often they laughed. How a man walked around with such qualities and looked the way he did without someone (or several people) on his arm, was a mystery to you. But tonight for the first time, you saw him by himself.

It was almost as if fate had put him directly in your path, granting you an easy opportunity to thank him for his act of kindness earlier that day. Circumstances had been cruel to you lately so you wouldn’t question this happy turn. You walked over, noting how perfectly the shadows cut against his jaw and brow. He was dangerously handsome and you chastised yourself again for not trying to get to know him sooner.

“Ben!” Your faux smile came a little easier as you greeted him.

He turned, blue-grey eyes lighting with recognition. “Hello!” His crooked grin made something inside you ache.

“It’s good to see you here.”

“Well, I’m grateful the museum has these events so the rest of us can get a little culture when we can’t fit it into daylight hours.” 

You felt yourself blushing, pleased that he appreciated something you had designed though he couldn’t have known it was you. You hoped the lighting would hide your reaction. “Thank you for the wine,” you blurted out. “That really was too generous of you.”

“It seemed you could have used it more than me.” His shoulders angled toward you as he honed in, focused on you alone. You felt the whole room quiet as you became the object of his attention. Now you understood how he seemed to carry his own gravity. Just meeting his gaze made it hard to breathe. Something witty might help you from drowning.

“It appears we have similar taste in both wine and art.” You raised your brows and gestured to the large Turner canvas that you stood beside.

He followed your eyes, admired the landscape once again, then smirked at you. “Please, I cannot compete with your sense of taste. Not when you work here.”

So he did know. Your look of surprise spurred him on.

“Word gets around the building,” he shrugged. “And I’ve seen you here.”

You couldn’t fathom that he had always been within such close reach, seeing you across rooms the same way you had seen him, and it had taken you this damn long to say something. Now, when you had less than nothing to offer and no time to enjoy it, of course this was when you started speaking to the most beautiful man you had ever met. “I’ve seen you too,” you gave him a small smile. “You like the night exhibits.”

He continued looking at the landscape, shrugging again. “It’s when I have free time.” Before you could ask him what he did for a living and finally solve the enduring mystery, he continued. “So, are you the curator for the whole museum, or…”

“Nineteenth century Anglo-European art. Still a broad swath.” You nodded around at the wing you stood in, the showcase of your years of meticulous planning, negotiating and staging. An expression of yourself. A small legacy that you hoped others would enjoy even when you were no longer able to.

“Any favorites?” His eyes glinted as he crossed his arms, eager to test you. You knew he understood art, a rare skill among the public. You could already sense what a lovely companion he would make, someone engaging to debate and analyze pieces with.

You were compelled to state the obvious, flicking your eyes back to the painting beside you. “Well, Turner.”

He nodded in agreement. “Of course.”

You began to lead him through the hall, weaving around guests, steering him toward your favorite sections of the wing. You stopped in a corner and nodded at the spread of frames before you.  “Leighton.”

Ben’s brow turned up in consternation and he stuck out his bottom lip in an adorable little frown. “I heard he was a bit of a prick.”

You had never read that in all your years of study but he said it with so much conviction, it made you chuckle. He smiled wryly at your reaction. Oh, he was cheeky.

Continuing your tour you brought him to your most beloved section, a quiet, off-set room that had grown to feel like your second home. You had lost countless hours sitting on its lone bench planning the arrangement and lighting of the pieces within, trying to ensure that visitors felt as transported by the array of rich landscapes and still lifes as you did. 

“And Bridgerton,” you said with reverence, spreading your arms to showcase the dedicated space. “Did you know, we have his entire collection here?”

Something in Ben’s eyes grew incredibly soft, everything about his demeanor warmed. He must have been a fan too, though he wasn’t looking at any of the paintings. He was looking directly at you. “I did know that.”

You smiled, sensing a connection forming, something that may give you a reason to keep speaking to this man who was so clearly out of your league. “He fascinates me the most, I think.”

Ben cocked his head. “Why is that?”

“Because so little is known about him,” you sighed. “It’s rather tragic. He had this beautiful body of work and then when he was still young, he just sort of disappeared. No one knows what happened to him. His family said he went abroad. They published the diary he left behind but it just ends abruptly one day.” 

You slowly walked the perimeter of the room as you narrated, taking in the pieces. They had always felt like a puzzle to you, like the clues to Bridgerton’s disappearance could be found in their layers and hues if you simply looked hard enough, or arranged them in a particular pattern. Of course you hadn’t discovered anything, but the preservation of the work felt vital. Perhaps you had always felt so protective of this collection above all others because it showcased the vibrance of a life that was so suddenly and unceremoniously flung into darkness. You were the custodian of all that was left of the man whose talent you so admired. 

Ben moved with you, one step behind. “You’ve read his diary?”

You nodded. “He seems to have been a very insightful man. Something of a poet too. Very talented. But better at landscapes than self portraits. All we have is a messy little sketch from his diary.”

Ben’s face twisted adorably in befuddlement. If he was allowed to call Leighton a prick, you certainly were going to be honest with your opinions too. Smiling, you guided him over to a piece you had hung in a place of prominence.

“This is my favorite landscape of his, Dreams in Kent. Look at the use of color.” You floated a finger over the lines of the hilly horizon, dotted with points of blues, purples and whites, sprays of wildflowers in the rich, windswept grass.

Ben folded his arms and furrowed his brow, clearly unswayed by your enthusiasm. “Looks like he had a hard time getting the lines right. The perspective is a bit off.”

“I think the skew is intentional. It lends dreaminess.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe the poor bastard just didn’t measure well.”

“You have an eye for details.” Your voice probably came out too breathy but you couldn’t help it. You were marveling at him. He turned and flashed his devastating smirk again. He seemed like the embodiment of everything that was lacking in your life: warmth and good humor, honesty and playfulness. Just looking at him had always made your throat tighten but being this close, getting to know his kind nature and how much you had in common just when it was too late to enjoy, it made you want to scream. Tears began to roll down your cheeks and you turned away, moving to sit on the bench.

“Are you alright?” His voice was full of concern as he sat down beside you. You were grateful there were no other visitors in the room. You hardly felt embarrassed in front of him anymore, not since he saw you blubbering in the lift just the day before. You knew you were safe to confess your problems to him.

“Sorry, it’s…” You fought your shuddering breaths. “This is why I needed the wine.” You laughed weakly, staving off the full hysterics threatening beneath the surface. “I got bad news yesterday. My vision. Exceptional as you can already see.” You gestured to the thick lenses you wore. “I’m losing it.” With a deep inhale, you looked up and scanned the art around you. “I won’t be able to see any of this anymore. I’ll have to leave this job. My life will just…” A solitary sob cut you off. Your face was hot, both with tears and your failing attempts to clamp down your sorrow. “I’m going to fade away. Just like Bridgerton, I suppose. Though I don’t know, we can at least hope he got a happy ending.”

Ben settled a hand on your shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Life can be incredibly cruel.” Coming from anyone else’s lips this would have sounded like an empty platitude, but he left you with no doubt of his sincerity.

“And ironic,” you scoffed, indulging in your anger. “Of all the things to take from someone in the visual arts.”

After a beat, he spoke again. “Do you have any interest in pottery? Something tactile?” You turned and saw his sarcastic grin, which he dropped immediately. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me, I shouldn’t be making fun…”

The laughter rose out of you like a wave of relief. Finding yourself in such a terrible position, it felt impossible not to acknowledge the absurdity of it all. “No,” you shook your head, “thank you, I needed that.” The smile returned and your burden felt a little lighter. You were grateful for the levity. You began wiping the tears from your cheeks. “Look at me, sitting here crying like a fool.”

“You would only be a fool if you didn’t let me have my Patrick Swayze moment and help you with your pottery.” Squeezing your shoulder, he playfully bumped against your side.

“If I recall, he destroyed what she was working on.” You quipped back.

“Oh, you know I have more respect for artwork than that. You could trust me.”

You met his eyes, impossibly earnest and mischievous simultaneously. His hand was heavy on your shoulder, his body nearly pressed against yours. You didn’t know if he was just pitying his poor, strange neighbor or legitimately flirting with you but you embraced it either way. At the very least, perhaps you had found a friend. 

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping low. “If I know anything, it’s that things are almost always a matter of perspective. At a certain point, life can start to seem like a series of losses and nothing more. But those losses thrust us into circumstances where we are forced to discover new things to take their place. There is always something left to hold onto, usually something unexpected.”

You let his words sink in, understanding the magic he seemed to cast upon the museum crowds. If this was how he consoled a neighbor, you couldn’t imagine how insightful he would be when seriously discussing art. You wanted to kiss him, feeling a nearly irresistible pull toward his lips, but held back. Not only was that entirely inappropriate in your workplace but you didn’t want to misinterpret what he was offering you. You didn’t want to ruin the chance for a friendship that might endure through everything that laid ahead. So you smirked, making a joke as a friend would. 

“Perspective, hmm? Maybe you could have taught Bridgerton a thing or two.”

His eyes lit up and he turned back to the landscape with a broad smile. “Perhaps I could have.”

Tagging: @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @colettebronte @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @mysticwitchcraftco @suspendingtime @faye-tale

[writefightandflightclub]

Bored now: (Nathan Bateman x GN!reader blurb)

Author’s note: dug out this short blurb. It’s been languishing in my drafts for a while because it felt a bit flimsy / like it didn’t go anywhere, but hey, instead of me deleting it you may as well have it! :P (And thanks to anon for requesting “anything” with Nathan, as you have caused this is to be rescued from oblivion - for better or worse, lol.)

Genre: blurb, hooking-up.

Word count: no idea because I can’t select all the text on a phone with this cursed app so what am I even to do? But it’s short.

Warnings: blood mentions / biting (warning for dub-con on the biting), no smut but some making-out, alcohol mentions. TYPOS, I can only assume.

You can see it all laid out, like a flash forward in time, as Nathan takes a swig of red wine and eyes you darkly over the brim of his glass.

You can see everything, ahead of time.

Can see all of the mind games he’s going to play with you. The manipulation. The posturing. Playing you like you’re a chess game; and eventually, getting you to break. To succumb to him.

Sounds slow. Sounds drawn out. Sounds boring.

Who’s got the time for that?

You sidle up to the painting adorning the far wall and Nathan looks smug. Everything about tonight is supposed to impress you - that much is obvious. The helicopter. The house. The bottle of ermitage cuvee cathelin that could have paid your rent for three months; until that cork was popped.

And most of all: him.

His helicopter; house; wine; brain; arms; art, and so on and so on.

Whatever.

You exhale and lean closer to the painting. Inspecting it. Allowing a deep notch to bed itself into your brow.

“What?” Nathan asks impatiently, as you fail to respond as predicted.

“Nothing,” you say casually, taking a tight swig of the wine you aren’t even enjoying. “Just figured being a billionaire and all… I mean, what? You couldn’t have sprung for a genuine Pollock?”

Nathan’s face drops, and you know then he at least places some stock in your knowledge as a dealer. The thought satisfies you. In fact, it’s the only thing which has satisfied you all evening.

“It’s a fake, Nathan. Sorry to tell you.” You let a broad smile gradually creep over your face, unmasking your jest, but you enjoy the fact that you’d reeled him, even if only for a split second.

It’s not a fake. It’s the real fucking deal. Of course it is.

Nathan “Potential Sugar Daddy” Bateman has things you can only dream of. You work with pieces like this every day, but you could never entertain the possibility of owning one. (Aside that one time some dude had tipped you with a Degas. Wasn’t really your taste though - the guy or the painting.)

“I assure you, honey. Everything in this house is genuine.”

“Right. Except for you.” You quirk an eyebrow at him, watching his beard animates as his jaw writhe beneath it.

Aww. He’s frustrated.

This isn’t going like he expected. You’re not saying what he wants you to say. Doing what he wants you to do.

But… isn’t that the point? Doesn’t Nathan Bateman favour a challenge? Maybe not, who knows. Maybe he likes things which come easy.

You’re surprised, honestly, by how rigid he is. For someone at the head of a company famed for being innovative and agile, you actually feel like you have the jump on him.

Or, maybe that is exactly how he wants you to feel right now, who knows? You don’t much care, in fact.

Nathan eyes you again, a smirk playing on his plush mouth now. God knows what has amused him. Anyway, he drains his glass in one and moves closer to you as you survey the painting. As you look at anything but him.

He nods down to your idle glass. “You don’t like the wine?”

You look at him then down at your drink, swilling the red liquid around. “It’s fine. But the fact that every mouthful is a week’s rent makes it a little hard to swallow, I guess.”

“Would you be more comfortable with some tap water?” His tone drips with sarcasm. You watch as he takes your glass from your hand, his fingers brushing yours as he grips the stem, and your stomach flips over from the contact. He’s hot, at least. That much is certainly genuine.

“Actually, yeah. Can I?”

Nathan doesn’t even try to hide the fact your inconvenient response pisses him off. Instead, he turns on his heel and waltzes out of there, pausing in the doorway and looking at you as if you’re a dumb dog who didn’t follow. “Come with,” he says impatiently, and you wonder if this wouldn’t all be easier for him with one of his rumoured robots. You’re not one for call and response, usually.

Still, in the absence of any better option, you follow him to the kitchen - checking out his ass as you go, of course -and you watch him from the other side of the island, your arms folded as he opens up the fridge to pour you a glass of the filtered stuff.

You hate to say it but… you’re bored as fuck.

You’re in a billionaire’s house and you’re fucking bored. You’ve been here four hours and you don’t know anything about the man you couldn’t have found out from reading Forbes and trawling through his Wiki. Plus, you still -very much so- have all of your clothes on. Boo.

Well, maybe there is something more you can find out about him, before the night is over.

He wants to play games?

Sounds like an awful lot of delayed gratification; which really isn’t your style.

Fuck it.

You cross the space, moving to pin his sculpted, sturdy body to the fridge, and, even as he’s still reacting, you plant a seductively slow, lingering kiss on his lips.

You pull back for a moment, tugging his lower lip between your teeth. “What do you say, Nathan?” You purr. “Wanna skip to the fun part?”

Nathan has no smart retort. In fact, he simply looks at you admonishingly from beneath his lenses. Aww. It’s kinda cute that he thinks he can intimidate you.

“What?” you chastise, sliding your palms down his warm chest, inching towards his waistband. “Are you going to say ‘no’?”

He doesn’t say no, even as you hang back for a moment, awaiting his express consent. You find it, as his mouth moves to cover yours in moments, his supple, fine-wine tongue shoving over yours. Fuck. That’s gotta be the most expensive kiss you’ve ever had. And, as his hands move down your body, grabbing up handfuls of you, you bite his lip. You bite his lip hard enough to draw beading crimson - just because you can. Just because it’s fun.

Nathan yelps, his hand coming to his mouth in shock, coating his fingers with a delicious smear of merlot red.

“Oops,” you say, unrepentantly, with a devilish smirk, and you watch as Nathan’s eyes grow entirely saturated with a deep, dark hunger.

“You’ll pay for that,” he promises, beginning to unbutton your shirt. Tearing it eagerly off of your shoulders before shoving you up against the counter.

Cute that he thinks so. But you’re pretty sure you have the upper hand here.

Still, at least you’re no longer bored.

Finally, you think as his beard grazes down the column of your throat, the wet slide of his tongue caressing the contours of you. Things are finally starting to get interesting.