#i had to draw this with my mouse it was a PAIN

[warmfuzzyanimal]

cowasaurolophus

[iwakuraz]

tried to make some transparent versions of a few sketchbook pages, already posted the last two pages before but shhh it doesn't matter just smile and wave

originals

[mocury-moto]

wow my artistic confidence just skyrocketed okay good to know

[kunasthiast]

pain scale

“so, on a scale of 1 to 10 – 1 being the lowest, obvs – how much did this hurt?” you pointed at your husband’s forehead tattoo. and honestly? It’s one of your favorites on the canvas of his greek god body.

still reading his book – the brothers karamazov (yes, he’s that guy) – sukuna answered with his signature arrogant tone, “tch, easy 2.”

“babe, are you sure?” you squinted at him. “or are just remembering the wrong pain?”   

“why wouldn’t I be? this is MY tattoo, brat,” sukuna scoffed, barely glancing up from his book. “and I’ve got a really high pain tolerance – unlike someone else.”

“you’re full of shit,” you puffed out your cheeks in protest, “well, I’ll prove you wrong one of these days.”

“yeah?” he snorted, finally putting the book down on his bedside table. Sliding his reading glasses (yes, he has reading glasses) to the top of his head, he turned to face you with a smug grin.

ignoring his smugness, you pointed at those thick, black bands wrapped around his wrists, “ok, so what about this one?” 

you actually loved this tattoo on him – it was giving that geometric-tribal-looking, bold vibe. but every time you ask him about its meaning, his answer was always the same: “I dunno, I just liked it on me”

he held out his wrists proudly, “easy 2.”

“this?!” you grabbed his right wrist like you were that offended on behalf of his skin with how low he is scaling the pain on his tattoos. “this is a 2?”

“yeah, with emphasis on easy,” he confirmed, crossing his arms like he’d just won a gold medal for being the toughest guy on earth.

“you’re insane,” you said as you stared at him like he’d grown two heads (more like arms), “are you even human?” 

“i told ya,” sukuna shrugged. “pain’s a choice, babe.”

“i know, but what the fuck? that’s like… right by your veins! youuur bones!”

“and?” he blinked at you, deadpan.

“you could’ve died?!”

“well, I’m still here, aren’t I?” he shot you that irritatingly smug grin. “now tell me… why are you suddenly so curious?”

“…nothing,” you muttered.

“oh c’mon,” sukuna was grinning wider now, scooting closer to your side of the bed, “what is it, baby? wanna tell daddy what you’re planning?”

“hmm…” you tapped your chin dramatically before leaning on his broad shoulders. “lemme think about it… nope.”

“you’re really gonna play this game?” he narrowed his eyes. 

you giggled and before you could escape, your husband tackled you onto the bed, pinning you beneath him as his warm laughter filled the room.

–––––----------------------------------------------------------------------

a few days later, you came home from a girls' day out with your best friend — tired, giddy, and sporting a suspiciously wrapped patch of second skin on your left wrist.

you tried to be sneaky, casually sliding your hand into your hoodie pocket the moment you stepped inside, but sukuna wasn’t stupid. he noticed you right away. he always does.

“what’s that?” he drawled from the couch, eyes narrowing.

“what’s what?” you shot back, feigning innocence.

“that.” his gaze flicked to your suspiciously hidden wrist.

“… nothing.”

“spit it out, babe,” he warned, closing and setting his book down on the couch — the brothers karamazov, because of course he was still reading that — and standing up.

before you could escape, sukuna had you cornered against the wall, tugging your wrist free like he was unwrapping a Christmas present.

“wait, wait, wait!” you squeaked like a little mouse, but it was too late. 

he peeled back your sleeve, revealing the fresh tattoo peeking out from under the second skin.

for a moment, sukuna just… stared. his face didn’t change, but his fingers ghosted over the fresh ink like he wasn’t sure if it was just a pen drawing or sticker or a real one. his thumb traced the crimson marking – it’s a mini replica of his forehead tattoo.

and you swore, there was a flicker of something in his eyes. surprise? softness? maybe a little bit of both!

then… he laughed. loud, smug, and way too pleased with himself.

“oh my god,” he barked between chuckles. “you really got it?”

“yeah,” you grumbled. “and don’t laugh — this shit hurt. don’t ‘easy 2’ me, that was a solid 8, maybe 9. felt like someone was carving my bones.”

“pfft,” sukuna scoffed. “it’s just a thousand ants biting you at once. that’s nothing.”

“oh, really?” you shot back. “then I hope you enjoy sleeping on the couch tonight.”

that wiped the smirk off his face for about three seconds before he grinned again — that obnoxious, smug grin that you really love and made you want to throw something at the same time.

“i told you I had a high pain tolerance,” he said smugly.

“you’re a liar,” you muttered. “there’s no way that was a 2.”

“well, now you’ve got my mark and a war story to tell,” sukuna teased, stepping closer. “guess that means you’re stuck with me forever now.”

“pfft,” you scoffed, folding your arms. “I was stuck with you before the tattoo, dumbass.”

“oh yeah?” his voice dropped lower as he leaned in. “then tell me... was it worth it?”

you opened your mouth for a snarky reply, but before you could speak, sukuna grabbed your wrist again — this time pressing his lips firmly to the fresh ink. his mouth lingered there, warm and deliberate, before he murmured:

“looks good on you.”

and damn it, even after 5 years of being married to this arrogant bastard, you’re still blushing.

[socialobligation]

needle & nerve | e. kirishima

he came in for a piercing. what he didn’t expect was the artist behind the gloves—sharp-eyed, quick-witted, and maybe his new favorite reason to come back. (987 words)

your shop sat just off the main street—half tattoo studio, half piercing parlor, with walls that held a little bit of grit and a whole lot of story. incense burned low in the corner, masking the sharp scent of disinfectant, and the constant hum of fluorescent lights buzzed beneath the soft thud of bass-heavy music filtering in from the back room. framed flash sheets covered the walls, inked with dragons, snakes, roses, and teeth. some were faded from sun, some fresh, some yours. all of them meant something to someone.

you leaned over the front desk, chin in your palm, scrolling idly through a list of upcoming appointments when the door chimed. you didn't look up right away—it wasn't rare to get walk-ins—but something about the shift in the room made your hand pause over the mouse.

he stepped inside like he wasn’t sure how loud to be. tall, square-shouldered, all muscle and nervous momentum. red hair pulled back in a headband that didn’t quite tame it, and eyes—bright, dark-lashed, darting around the space like they were trying to memorize it before it could change.

"uh—hi," he said. his voice cracked slightly on the first syllable, too loud for the low hum of the shop. "i’ve got an appointment?"

you looked up and found a boy who seemed more like a mountain in training. his cheeks flushed deeper when your gaze caught him.

"eyebrow at three?"

"yeah." he nodded, breath like it had been held since the sidewalk. "that’s me."

"cool. i’m your piercer today," you said, stepping out from behind the desk and gesturing toward the back. "i’m y/n."

he blinked, then smiled like he hadn’t expected introductions to be part of this. "eijiro. kirishima eijiro."

you gave him a nod and a smirk. "nice to meet you, eijiro. let’s make you bleed a little."

he trailed behind as you led him through the studio, past tattoo chairs draped in black leather and chrome trays lined with freshly sterilized tools. his eyes lingered on the art pinned above each station, pausing longer at a piece you'd done last week—three snakes coiled through the jaw of a skull.

"first piercing?" you asked, tugging on gloves.

"yeah." he scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "figured it was time. always thought about it but... i dunno. guess i needed a push."

"it’s a good pick," you said, voice easy, hands already arranging your tray. "subtle. sharp. very you."

he blinked, then smiled. "you don’t even know me."

"don’t need to. i read people."

he laughed, louder this time. "and what do i read like?"

"someone who talks a big game and still gets nervous walking into places like this."

he opened his mouth, then closed it with a grin. "fair enough."

you motioned to the chair. "you’ll feel a quick pinch and then a little pressure. it’s not that bad. just don’t flinch."

"i won’t. promise." he slid into the chair like it was a test. his hands settled in his lap, though you could see the way he kept flexing his fingers.

you moved around him with steady precision. sterilized clamp. single-use needle in its packaging. mirror nearby. you sprayed his brow with antiseptic and caught his flinch out of the corner of your eye—not from pain, but from cold.

he glanced at you. "you do tattoos too?"

"yep. mostly blackwork. fine line, sometimes flash. i draw all my own sheets."

"that snake piece on the way in—that was yours?"

you nodded. "you've got a good eye."

he flushed again, red creeping across his ears now. "guess i’m just a fan of good linework."

you leaned in close, brushing his hair from his temple. his skin was warm under your gloves. close like this, he smelled like clean laundry and just a little sweat, like maybe he’d psyched himself up before walking through the door.

"keep your head still. i’m gonna mark you."

you felt his breath hitch as you pressed the pen lightly to his skin. you could feel the tension in his shoulders—not fear, exactly. more like anticipation wound tight beneath muscle.

"you alright?"

he nodded. "just thinking."

"about what?"

"if this actually makes me cooler or if i’ll just look like i lost a bet."

you smiled. "only one way to find out."

you lined the clamp up gently. "deep breath in."

he inhaled, and you pierced through his skin.

a second passed. then two.

you pulled the needle through, swapped it for the jewelry, and clipped the hoop into place. he didn’t move, not even when you wiped away the smallest dot of blood.

"that’s it?" he blinked at you, like he expected to be bleeding out.

"that’s it."

he touched the edge of the new ring, careful, like it might still sting.

"damn. kinda expected to cry or something."

"give it five hours. you might regret it."

he laughed and stood, slowly, adjusting to the sudden lightness in his posture.

you peeled your gloves off with a soft snap, tossed them in the bin, and reached for the aftercare sheet. when you turned back around, he was holding something in his hand.

a post-it. yellow. handwriting a little slanted, a little rushed.

he stuck it to the counter next to the tip jar. his number written in black ink on the paper.

"in case i want the other side done," he said casually. "or, you know, maybe a snake tattoo. or maybe coffee."

you tilted your head, one eyebrow raised. "you just hand out your number to everyone you meet under bright lights and sharp metal?"

he grinned, sheepish and bold all at once. "only when they’re the prettiest person i’ve ever met."

he waved over his shoulder, and the bell above the door chimed as he left, hair catching the light like a flame, and you were still staring at the post-it note—still smiling—when the door eased shut behind him.

[pretty-little-mind33]

James Potter x plus-sized!fem!reader

Summary: When you overhear some of James's friends comment on your weight, James comforts you.

Genre: Fluff, hurt and comfort 🤧💗

Warnings: insecurities, bullying over someone's weight, reader's weight is heavily implied (obviously), crying, swearing, protective!James <3

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

You hear a snarl, "Did you see what she had for dinner?" Andy laughs loudly, "It isn't surprising she's fat, huh?"

Your heart sinks.

Benjamin hums in approval and adds, "I wonder what James even sees in her."

Their words echo around your head as you twist and turn your way around tables to find James again. He's laughing like a little boy when you see him, his smile so wide it's almost obnoxious as he rests his arm on top of your empty chair.

His cheeks look dusted pink from the wine he'd drank. He's so handsome, you think, and when you see the cake you had wanted earlier your cheeks become warm.

Quiet as a mouse, you slide into your chair and James turns to send you a grin. You send him a weak smile in return and then look down at the small plate in front of you. Raspberry Cheesecake. Your favorite. You look around. None of the other girlfriends have ordered any desserts.

You glance nervously at James again. He's chatting with his friends and he looks so happy. He's been so generous to you all evening, letting you pick anything on the menu because yes this was his teams' celebratory dinner, but as your boyfriend he wouldn't even think of letting you pay for yourself.

Guilt hits you hard. While his teammates girlfriends' had ordered lighter meals, you honestly didn't think much of it when you ordered a larger one. You didn't have the chance to have lunch, and those french fries sounded incredibly delicious.

You pick up your spoon and immediately, your lower lip trembles. Quickly, you sink your teeth into it and the pain soothes your sudden need to burst into embarrassed tears. When James's hand comes to your thigh, a gesture so mundane for him, you jump.

James turns his head and leans in closer to your ear, "What's wrong, darling?" he asks in a whisper, his thumb drawing circles on your skin. When you don't respond like you usually do by leaning in closer to him, he pulls away and looks at you seriously. His eyes bounce around all your features as if he's trying to understand if you're injured or upset.

"It's nothing," you mumble and look at your plate, "I'm just not hungry anymore."

James frowns. "Are you sure? I know this is your favorite," he winks with a teasing smile, recalling how happy you looked when you saw it on the menu.

You nod, freezing when you hear Andy and Benjamin walk back from the restroom. When they sit next to their girlfriends: their gorgeous, slim, girlfriends, you want to wither away as you suddenly feel like an elephant in the same maroon velvet dress you'd felt so pretty in earlier.

Immediately sensing your discomfort, James's smile disappears. He turns to his teammates and then glances at you as he takes your hand, squeezing it. "I'll get you a box, my love. And then I'll pay and we can go home, mmhm?" he says but you shake your head.

"No, you can finish your dinner, Jamie," you insist, your voice small. You don't want to ruin this for him.

James doesn't listen because soon, he's helping you out of your chair, your cheesecake in a box in his hand, as he says his goodbyes to his friends. You feel Andy and Benjamin staring as you leave and, on instinct, you let James walk further in front of you so you don't embarrass him.

However, James's arm links around your waist and moves you in closer to him the moment the fresh evening air hits your skin. You bump into his chest and feel the familiar warmth of his lips press against your temple as he inhales your scent.

"I love you," he says.

You don't answer, instead curling your arms around your stomach protectively. James drops his hand and asks, "Hey, are you cold, lovely?"

You stay quiet again, opting to chew on the inside of your cheek.

James takes your elbow and spins you around so you're facing him. You can't look him in the eyes as your arms hug around you. James gently moves you so you're boxed into the building and his arm as he bends his head to you a little.

"Hey, what's wrong? What happened? Talk to me," he holds your chin in his hand and makes you look at him. When he sees how glossy your eyes are, his heart breaks. "Oh, love," his voice is smooth and you can hear the sadness in his words.

At this, you can't help the tears that rapidly cascade down your cheeks. You try wiping them with your palm so he won't see them but it's no use because James has already taken you into his arms and you're practically sobbing into his chest now. You feel him inhale sharply as his hand strokes the back of your head, his fingers intertwining into your hair. He's cooing small, confused, praises into your ear as he holds you.

You can hear in his voice that he doesn't understand, "Baby, please, what happened?" he asks again and his heart shatters even more when he hears your hiccuped cry.

You shake your head into his chest.

I wonder what James even sees in her.

Benjamin's words won't leave your mind and the tears continue to fall.

"Is it something I did? Because if it is, I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry I'm making you cry."

You pull away hearing this, shaking your head more frantically as snot runs down your nose. "No James, it's not y-you." You whimper and James uses his free hand to thumb at the tears near your eyes.

"Then what happened?" he asks again.

You look away, suddenly embarrassed, "I- am I- I too fat for you?"

The question is immediately followed by a deafening silence as James's hand slides from your cheeks. You can see his eyes bounce around your face, searching for any sign that you're making a joke. He can't imagine you actually mean what you've just asked him.

"Y/n, why would you ask me that?!" James manages to ask. He sounds upset.

Your lip trembles and the tears resume, "Some of your friends," You start and James's eyes narrow, "I - I heard them make some comments about what I had for dinner and h-how you deserve someone prettier, slimmer and — "

"Who said that?" James interrupts you, his voice stern.

"I mean, they didn't say it in those exact words."

"Who was it, Y/n?" James repeats. He couldn't give any fucks what exactly his friend had said, all he needed to know was that whatever those assholes had said it made you cry, no sob, into his chest.

"It doesn't matter," you sniff, looking away from your boyfriend, "They're right. You deserve someone better than me, someone prettier. You're way out of my league. I have always known that," you force out a heartbroken laugh.

James's voice breaks. "How can you say that?"

He holds your cheek in his hand. Your cheeks warm up as your eyes widen, surprised by the passion and emotion in his movements as James plants a sloppy kiss on your forehead.

He sprinkles kisses all across your face. "Fuck, I love you. I don't want anyone else," His hand slides under your chin and tilts your head up just slightly so he can make sure you're looking at him again. "I'm the one who doesn't deserve to call someone as beautiful and kind as you, mine." He kisses your lips delicately.

You clutch at James's arm, voice shaky when you ask, "So you don't think I'm too fat,"

James shakes his head instantly and presses his forehead against yours, "Oh baby, no. You aren't. There is no such thing when love is involved. I love you like this and I'll love you whatever you decide to look like in the future."

You let him hold you, nuzzling into him as finally your tears start to calm. James's body is warm and it sends goosebumps up your skin. "I love you," you whisper, wanting to hear him say it too.

James doesn't hesitate, "I love you. I absolutely adore you," his lips find your cheek and he kisses you again. He pulls away and looks into your eyes. "Please don't cry like this again, you don't know how much it breaks my heart," his hand comes to push some hair away from your eyes. "Now, can you tell me who put those stupid ideas in your head so I know who I have to beat up?"

You can tell he's only half joking and you chuckle. "I promise it doesn't matter."

"Matters to me," He grumbles but doesn't push you to answer. He turns you around and pulls you in closer by your waist as he continues to walk you home.

Once you arrive at your apartment, you convince James to stay the night – or rather you ask since it didn't take much convincing at all.

As you sit on the couch, waiting for him to come so you can start your movie, James walks into the room with your cheesecake and a spoon. You look up, a small smile curling your lips.

"I said I wasn't hungry," you move over and let him sit next to you.

"Oh shush," James rolls his eyes and hands you the plate. He knows you too well for that excuse. You take the plate into your lap and then reach for the spoon.

James makes a tsk noise and holds it away from you. You pout. "Nuhuh, in this relationship we share," he says, grinning, and lowers his hand in front of you. With a click of metal, just like a magician, he reveals another spoon behind yours and you smirk.

"Prick," you mutter and snatch one of the spoons from him. Despite your insult, you adjust your position so James can easily access the cheesecake.

You turn away from him and take a mouthful as you exaggerate a moan and James scoots closer. He does the same and he also grins.

"Delicious," he says and looks at you. With his spoon, he gently taps your nose. "You have some here, love," he teases as if he isn't the one who just smudged cheesecake all over you.

You lean in and playfully rub your nose over his shirt, which earns a groan as James tries to push you away. "Hey! I like this shirt," he whines.

"You can wash it tomorrow, don't be a baby," you tease him. With a smirk, James takes the plate from you and moves it further from your reach. You frown. "And don't take the cheesecake hostage because you're angry with me."

You reach over to take another spoonful of the dessert, however James intercepts your actions as he swoops under your arm and kisses you.

You laugh into his mouth and feel James grin against your lips. He pulls away and he sounds more serious when he smiles and says, "Next time I want to celebrate just us, mm? Just like this," he kisses you again.

You smile. "That I can do. Now hand over the cheesecake now, or I swear I'll – " James interrupts you with yet another kiss, which earns him one of those giggles he loves so much.

[reallyhatethiswebsite]

prompt. loquacious devil gets his cake and eats it: telepathy during cunnilingus.

When he offered you a reward and you told him what you wanted, you didn't expect him to agree. So when he did, since you've been such a good little mouse after all, you couldn't contain your excitment, giddily scrambling onto the bed. The devil laughed at you, a little mean, observing you languidly.

"My, my. How eager you are to see me on my knees - metaphorically or not. Perhaps I should be concerned..."

"No," you said, aware of the line to tread around Raphael. He liked it when you begged, when you simpered, when you wanted him. He liked it when you were bold. He didn't like when you were audacious. When you dared to push above your station. "I just - your mouth on me...it's..."

"Oh?" An eyebrow raised on Raphael's handsome face, a sly smile spreading his pretty, thin lips. "Is it a fantasy of yours, pet? A naughty thought that has kept you warm at night when you're lonely in your bed?"

"Yes," you murmured. Fought not to combust with embarassment at the salacious way the devil smirked at you. He was delighted by this information, you knew. His tail swayed to and fro.

"Well," he purred, "far be it from me to deny you something you've longed for."

Like a huge red panther, Raphael crawled onto the bed after you. His feline smile never faded. His big wings flexed. His size dwarfed you. You watched him, your heart pounding with anticipation. Blood roared in your ears. You let your thighs fall open for the devil's broad frame, gasping in surprise when he clicked his fingers and your trousers and small-clothes disappeared. You stuffed your knuckles in your mouth and bit them. To have Raphael between your legs like this was as electric and arousing as you imagined, but in hindsight, potentially dangerous; a predatory gleam in his eye, sharp teeth so close to your softest, most vulnerable parts...he had less penchant for biting than his incubus, but you knew from experience the possibility definitely wasn't off the table. A testament to how doomed you were that the threat didn't frighten you.

(You had no idea.)

"What's this?" Raphael crooned. Tilted his head. Dragged one claw through the softness of your pubic curls to brush over your clit and between your mons. You took in a sharp breath, but Raphael simply pulled his finger away to show you it was coated in slick. He was deeply amused. "Wet already and I haven't even started yet...how utterly pathetic your desperation for me is. But fret not, my sweet, wanton little mouse. I can keep a secret."

Before you could say anything, he sucked his claw clean, humming as he did so. "Not bad. This won't be as much of a chore as I thought."

Raphael, squatting in the space between your knees, grabbed the meat of your thighs and widened their spread, stretching almost to the point of pain. You liked the discomfort. The threat of ten sharp points, ten cambion claws piercing your skin and drawing blood. The devil stared at your sex, so close each hot puff of his breath tingled, raising all the baby hairs on your arms and the back of your neck. He stared until you began to squirm.

"Raphael," you whispered.

The devil chuckled, a deep and throaty sound that, quite literally, went to your cunt. Without fanfare, his rough warm tongue lolled out and licked you from the base of your sex to the top of your clit in a single, harsh swipe. You whined, biting deep into your own knuckles. Your other hand longed to grip one of Raphael's mighty horns, but you knew that you weren't to touch him until he allowed it, so instead you twisted your fingers into the sheets beneath you. He squeezed your flesh in his big red hands tighter, claws scratching light welts. Again he licked, and again, and again, and again; hard, harder, sloppy, effortlessly rolling the meat of his tongue against your entrance, teased it with its separate forked tips, spreading your gooey slick around as he pleased. Your back arched, pushing your aching sex into his face. Encouraging him to enter you. Lick you inside and out.

"Yes, please please please..."

So greedy. I'm already rewarding you with my generous service, and yet you're still asking for more. Perhaps I've spoiled you too much.

You twitched. You heard the devil's voice clear as day, but his mouth was occupied. You opened your eyes (you didn't know when you had closed them) and glanced down. Though he was buried in your snatch, Raphael’s reptilian eyes, onyx and fire, were fixed on you. His gaze was searing. What a fucking sight. Your stomach dropped, and then it roiled with shock and desire. He was in your head, you realised. Sifting through your thoughts like sheets of paper, projecting his words directly into your consciousness. Of course he would find a way to keep talking despite having his mouth full of pussy.

Crass.

"It's...mmm, ahh, my mind..."

Wrong. You belong to me, don't forget. What's yours is mine.

That shouldn't have thrilled you as much as it did. You felt Raphael's amusement and satisfaction about that as though it were your own. Your body trembled, guts taut. He was sucking on your labia, flattening his tongue to rub on your slick flesh everywhere except where you wanted.

Suck my clit, you thought, please, I need you to suck my clit.

You couldn't control your thoughts, though, mind racing about how gorgeous, how handsome, how beautiful he looked all the time as though he'd been carved to life by hellish angels, how fucking incredible he was between your legs, how you could come just by watching him down there because he painted such an erotic portrait lapping at your pussy that you'd be masturbating to the memory for the rest of your life but it would never feel as good as it did now, oh please suck my clit...

Hells. It was a groan, gruff, a tad irritated, but you sensed the desire in him, the fire you were igniting in his blood as you stroked his ego. Your thoughts are so chaotic, so loud. I'm tempted to lobotomise you, my needy little pet, but then whose desperate, carnal fantasies about myself would I indulge in, if not yours?

Finally, at last, he took pity on you. Enveloped your swollen clit in the moist cavern of his mouth. Sucked hard. So hard his fangs scraped you. You squealed, you couldn't help it, your legs clamping around his head. He seemed to like that. His arousal, his true fiendish nature, began leaking into his projected thoughts.

So warm. So pliant. How good your sopping quim tastes. I can smell your sweet mortal blood pumping through your veins, you know. You would let me tear you open and drink straight from the still-beating source, wouldn't you? Yesss...such a good little creature you are...

You'd let him take you to pieces. You'd do it yourself if he asked. You rutted against his face, rolling your hips in desperate pursuit of the violent orgasm you could feel pulling at all the strings that made you a person. Strings held by this devil, the puppeteer of your ruin, and your salvation. You loved him. You adored him.

And now he knew. Shit.

This time you physically felt his dark, smug, infernal satisfaction like the scuttling legs of spiders across your brain. The cruel smile pulling his lips around your fat clit. How utterly you had ruined yourself. He had ruined you.

Oh, you poor thing. You can't keep a secret at all. He cooed to your very quivering soul. Slid his serpentine tongue up your entrance suddenly, a selfish invasion, groaning in dark delight when your insides clamped around it and you shrieked. Grabbed his horns reflexively. He let you, fragmented thoughts drifting by of you split on his cock and screaming as he writhed and rutted and emptied his balls, filled you and fucked you and bred you over and over and over. You were taking his tongue so well. You'd take everything else, too. So, so greedy. But that's alright. We're going to have such fun together...aren't we?

[knoepfl]

Title: In the Pale Moonlight

Characters: Astarion x Reader

Warnings:

Slight angst

Emotional vulnerability

Hints of possessiveness

Blood drinking (lightly implied)

Masterlist

Words: 1,150

The fire crackled softly in the camp, its embers glowing like faint stars in the night. Most of the party had already retreated to their tents, the quiet hum of sleep settling over the clearing. Only two figures remained awake—the vampire spawn and the one foolish enough to grow close to him.

Astarion sat with his usual grace, one leg crossed over the other, his silver hair catching the moonlight in delicate strands. In the soft glow, he looked almost ethereal—too beautiful for a creature forged from centuries of cruelty and pain. His crimson gaze flickered toward you, playful as ever, but beneath that smile was something harder to decipher.

"You should be resting, darling," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, the way a cat watches a mouse. "Or did you come out here for me?"

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "What if I did?"

Astarion’s grin widened—sharp, dangerous, and yet somehow genuine in a way that made your heart skip a beat. He had a way of making every word feel like both a joke and a promise.

"Then I’d say you have excellent taste," he purred, scooting closer with a fluid, feline movement. His hand reached out, brushing against yours for the briefest moment, sending a shiver up your spine. "Though I must wonder—what keeps you so captivated? My devastating charm, perhaps? Or is it the mystery that draws you in?"

You gave him a sidelong glance, trying to see past the layers of bravado he wore like armor. "You think I haven’t noticed the cracks beneath that charm?"

His smile faltered, just a flicker, and for a second you saw it—the exhaustion, the fear, the ache of someone who had spent too long pretending. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by that familiar smirk.

"Oh, you wound me," Astarion said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. "I thought I was doing such a good job at hiding my flaws."

You leaned in slightly, close enough to see the faint lines of strain around his eyes. "You don’t have to hide them from me, you know."

For a moment, Astarion stilled. The playful banter he wielded like a weapon faded into silence, leaving only the barest trace of something raw and uncertain between you.

"Careful, darling," he whispered, his voice low and almost… pleading. "It’s dangerous to care for someone like me."

You searched his gaze, seeing the layers of fear hidden beneath the mirth. He wanted to trust—desperately, perhaps—but he didn’t know how. Not after what Cazador had done to him, not after centuries of being treated like a tool, a possession.

"You don’t scare me," you whispered back, your hand brushing against his.

Astarion chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. "That’s what makes you dangerous, too."

He turned his hand over, letting your fingers interlace with his. For all his teasing, there was a fragile quality to the way he held your hand—like he wasn’t sure if he should hold on tighter or let go before it was too late.

The fire crackled softly between you, filling the space with warmth and light, though neither of you really needed it. The moon overhead bathed Astarion in pale silver, making him look like a dream—too beautiful, too tragic.

"You know," he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper, "I spent so long believing I could only survive by taking, by pretending, by being whoever someone needed me to be. And now…"

His gaze met yours, raw and exposed in a way you’d never seen before. "Now you come along, with your kind words and your foolish heart, and I don’t know what to do with you."

You smiled softly, squeezing his hand. "You could try being yourself."

A bitter laugh escaped him, but there was no malice in it. "And what if you don’t like who I am?"

"I already do," you whispered.

The weight of those words settled between you, heavy and undeniable. Astarion’s smile faded into something softer—something real. For the first time, he looked at you not as a game, not as a conquest, but as someone who saw him for what he was and didn’t flinch away.

"I hate how much I want you," he confessed, his voice rough and uneven. "It’s terrifying. But gods help me, I can’t stop."

The admission hung in the air between you, fragile and dangerous. You knew what it cost him to say it, how much trust it took for him to bare even a sliver of his heart. And in that moment, you knew you would never betray that trust.

He shifted closer, his hand tightening around yours as if grounding himself in the connection. "Stay with me," he whispered, almost too softly to hear.

You nodded, brushing a stray strand of silver hair from his face. "Always."

For the first time in what felt like centuries, Astarion allowed himself to relax—just a little. The fear was still there, the shadows of his past still lingering, but for tonight, he could pretend. He could let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as broken as he thought.

And with you by his side, perhaps he wouldn’t have to pretend for much longer.

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this softer, more vulnerable take on Astarion. If you’d like a follow-up or have any other requests, feel free to ask!

[qierxing]

To Ashes We Return

Commissioned by the lovely @@achromaticbibliophile Sequel to Love Duet

TW/CW: Forced confinement, Forced marriage, implied murder and death

Act 1: “Ring around the roses”

What surprised you about the land of the dead, is just how colorful it is.

Neon greens, eye searing reds, and popping blues and purples practically seeps from the decorations, banners, and buildings of the dead. The undead called out to others jovially, excited conversations rang out in the air, while they ran about to and fro. A skeletal cat even scampers past your legs in a hurry after a tiny mouse! And although you were not here of your own volition, it fascinated you how everything just seemed so alive.

Yet, in Riddle’s residence, it was the complete opposite.

Everything within its walls is gray: the wallpaper, the framed portraits that lined the walls, and even the flowers within vases that decorated the scattered tables. Like all the color had been sucked out entirely. When you looked out the tall arched windows, even the garden only had bone white roses blooming on hedges, trees, and plants. 

“My mother’s garden,” when you asked Riddle about it. “She enjoyed looking at roses very much.”

“Where is she?” you wondered out loud. In the time you spent down here (Seven knows how long), you have yet to see his mother. 

Your probing question was answered with a pained expression from Riddle and loud coughs from Trey and Cater. 

When you woke up, dazed and confused to a ceiling that was definitely not your own, Trey and Cater were the ones to show you around.

“Let me know if you need something.” Trey pats your head with a tilt of his own. “Riddle told all of us to make you feel comfortable the best we can.” Cater gives a hum of agreement, but before you can even say anything, they both melt away when your name is called. Riddle stands at attention at the end of the hall, steel grays affixed onto your form with an intensity that sends shivers down your form.

“Would you take a turn around the garden with me, (Name)?” Riddle’s request is not meant to be optional, and so you take his arm and follow reluctantly. 

Walking amongst the white roses feels rather depressing. You make it about several steps into the walk before boredom overtakes you, making you instinctively reach out to run your fingers over the skeletal petals. 

Crunch!

You draw back your hand rapidly. Riddle answers your surprised look with a nod. 

“They’re not real. Nothing organic can be grown in the land of the dead, after all.” The explanation leaves you both unsettled and rather sad. Perhaps that’s why the rest of the realm practically screamed with colors, because they could no longer see the world above with theirs.

The rest of the walk is quiet after that revelation, and Riddle leaves with a chaste kiss on your knuckles, murmuring something about preparations. You’re about to head back in, when curiosity comes back to nip at your heels. 

Making sure no one’s watching you, you pluck a white rose clean off a hedge and realize what that sound you heard was. The rose crumples into your hand and flattens under the pressure of your fingers flattening it out. The sterile white paper is wrinkled now, no longer resembling any kind of rose or flower. One by one, the papers fall like snowflakes to your feet as you rip more and more flowers off shrubbery. Like a child discovering a new toy, you could not stop yourself.

It’s on the last rose that you found something strange.

January 4th, 18XX

I’m glad the family business is prospering, but I don’t like the look in my parent’s eyes. There’s a greed I cannot fathom in them, and I fear it is blinding them to dangers beyond their comprehension.

The handwriting is in neat cursive, the words scrawled elegantly yet still legible to those who read it. It’s oddly…humble. You turn over the paper, but find nothing else. Curious…

“[First]?” You quickly shove the paper into your pocket and turn to see Cater who looks at the carnage you wrought upon the roses.

“You know cutie, I get that you’re frustrated but the poor things didn’t deserve that, don’tcha think?” He visibly cringes at the papers littering at your feet. “Riddle’s gonna pitch a fit if he sees this.”

“Sorry, couldn’t help myself,” you say sheepishly. You do feel bad causing trouble for him, especially when you knew he was the one helping clean up after situations. 

“Well, it’s all right cutie, if you help me out?” He winks at you, and you oblige hurriedly.

As you clean up the papers, you catch a glimpse of ink lines on a rose you had discarded earlier. 

Before Cater could notice the anomaly, you discreetly fold it and slide it into your pocket alongside the other paper.

Act 2: “Pockets full of Posy”

February 14th, 18XX

I don’t want to get married.

You furrow your eyebrows. There’s nothing else written on the paper. For a brief moment, you considered secret codes. The paper crinkles as you try to lift it up, and you give up on the idea. You don’t want to accidentally end up destroying an antique memory like this.

You shuffle through the papers, before giving up and folding them back into their original rose shape. Although the contents were intriguing, they were not helpful in your attempts to return back to the land of the living. And with the card soldiers always monitoring you in Riddle’s absence, it meant that you couldn’t even step outside his mansion without one of them tailing you.

But perhaps, there could be an advantage to this.

“Ace? Deuce?” you try cautiously. 

Nothing. Then–

“Boo~” hot breath puffs into your ear, making your heart stop.

“Can you not?!” you whip around and glare at Ace who only smirks back and slides with his arms behind his head in a lackadaisical manner. Deuce only sheepishly gives you a look of sympathy by his side.

“What can we do for you, [Name]?” Deuce asks, stifling a chuckle behind a cough.

You only narrow your eyes at them with an unimpressed look. 

“Can I go outside if you guys come with me?”

The two of them exchange looks. Ace’s eyebrow raises at you judgmentally.

“Sure. Just know you’re not allowed on the outskirts.” He drawls, clearly not enthused with being tasked to follow you around. 

“The outskirts?”

“Things get dicey over there,” Deuce explains. “Lots of instability. Plus it’s where–mmph!”

Ace slaps a hand over Deuce’s mouth before he can finish, glaring at him pointedly. Deuce realizes his mistake, coughs and removes Ace’s palm with an annoyed huff.

“Point being, it’s dangerous.” Ace finishes decidedly, clearly wanting the conversation to end there. 

“Oooookay?” You respond as blandly as possible, trying not to show your mind whirling at the implications of Deuce’s words.

The two thankfully seem satisfied at your response, and the three of you head out. As much as you love the duo, you thank the Seven they’re not the brightest of the card soldiers (you know the point and dash technique would not have worked with Trey or Cater), and you manage to separate yourself from their watch as easy as pie.

In contrast with the main area of the realm of the dead, the outskirts (at least, you hope it is the outskirts) of the land of the dead are desolate and monochrome. It stretches endlessly into the horizon, like an ocean of ash.

“You.” A stern voice immediately commands your attention, making your back straighten instinctively. 

The undead who addresses you is a dignified sort, wearing an old fashioned gown with a high collar and a suffocating looking bodice, elegant crimson velvet draping down into a bustle that trails behind her (you presume it’s a her). In stark contrast with the fabric, blood red roses were pinned to the skirts, making it look like a garden was blooming at her very feet. She looks exactly like an old noble from the history books. Her face is twisted into a hateful scowl, flesh only covering enough of her cheeks to show muscles twitching in agitation.

“What are you doing here?” She’s evidently not pleased to see you here, even if you’re not sure why. “Is it not enough that you condemned me and my son? Now you’re galavanting out like a harlot, I see!”

Her voice is rough like sandpaper, as if she had screamed herself hoarse. You blink rapidly as she lashes tirade after tirade upon your confused self. The words are venomous barbs, but they all bounce off your confused brain, as you’re not entirely sure this undead was sane. You’re about to interrupt her when someone else does that for you.

“Madame,” Trey’s low voice makes you shudder. 

You’ve never heard him sound this angry, and his thick brows are furrowed deeply into a disapproving frown, making his entire face look menacing. When he comes to stand in front of you protectively, the undead flinches too.

“Please stop this. They are not who you think they are, Madame,” Trey calmly responds, not a single change in his stern expression. “It was an honest mistake that they strayed here.”

She looks at you again, sharp eyes scanning you again before realizing something. Her face furrows into confusion.

“What is a living person doing in this realm?” Her eyes pierce through you, as if searching for someone she knew.

“That is not under my authority to disclose, Madame,” Trey responds cooly. But this does not quell the lady’s suspicions. She takes another long stare before a revelation comes to her rotting face.

Her eyes cut into Trey. “You are going to have that thing marry Riddle?!”

Trey doesn’t meet her glare. Instead, he turns around and begins to usher you away. You forget how much strength he has, when he’s able to still drag you even when you dig your feet into the ground. 

“Mark my words, they will never be able to make Riddle happy!” Bitter rage coats every word echoing after you two. Despite the fact her voice is hoarse that it comes out as a wheeze, you can still clearly hear the defiant statement. “Not in life, nor in death!”

Her last declaration makes the hair on your neck raise. What the hell–?

However, she doesn’t chase after the two of you. Silence accompanies the both of you as his arm wrapped around your shoulders moves you forward. The guilt you had for disobeying Riddle is overridden by the curiosity of what you just heard in the past few minutes. 

“Who was that?” You asked. Trey’s grip tightens, before loosening again.

“You don’t have to worry about her. She’s not going to be a problem.” He finally says.

“That’s not what I asked.” 

Trey shakes his head, making you purse your lips. It’s all too quickly that you’re shoved back into Ace and Deuce’s care (they scolded you thoroughly for duping them) and herded straight back into Riddle’s gloomy mansion and into your room where you were locked in. 

Another dead end. You groan. You don’t know how much time you had left before Riddle forced your hand. You’re about to flop straight back into the bed to rest when something catches your eye at the vanity.

A perfect white rose lays upon the wooden surface. When you unfold it, the ink is blotted by some kind of liquid, making it hard to read.

February 24th, 18XX

The ceremony date has been set.

Act 3: “Ashes, Ashes, we All Fall Down!”

They left you unattended in the dressing room. 

Not out of respect, but because if you did try to escape again, there would only be one exit: the door outside which is conveniently locked and guarded by other undead. 

Of course, you checked the room to see if there was anything else: hidden doors, secret passageways that could possibly lead you out of this hell. But they were thorough, and not even a single opening was let slip. 

You’re getting tired of this.

You glance over at the vanity. Perhaps if you can’t find a way out, then it might be best to explore other avenues. A glass shard might not be much to an undead, but it'll be a weapon of a kind.

Before you can smash the glass however, you spot a speck of white. Something is jammed into the vanity mirror’s bronze edge. When you investigate, you find it to be a crumpled paper. Another one of these? Taking care to not rip it as you extract it from the mirror, you open it up to find another journal page.

March 15th, 18XX

There’s no going back now. The townspeople are on my side. The Rosehearts have been a plague upon us ever since they came here. And although I feel sorry for the son, I don’t want to be trapped. May the Seven forgive my selfishness.

Rosehearts? Your mind clicks. Isn’t that Riddle’s surname?

Looking at the paper again, you realize there’s more written on the back. The once elegant penmanship is now near illegible, the writing so shaky that the ink blots in certain points where the writer pushed their pen too hard.

They’ve gone mad but the deed is done. We were lucky the poison worked quickly. The Rosehearts are no more. But I did not foresee that Riddle’s men would get caught up in the scheme…the card soldiers’ families are in an uproar, and I cannot blame them. I fear that whatever comes will end in a bloodbath within the town if something is not done.

With the Red Queen as my witness, I swear upon the (Last) name to make things right again. I will not let more blood be shed upon these lands.

The mention of your surname has you reeling. This was your relative? But who? And they knew Riddle? Your mind suddenly flashed back to the undead noble lady whose hoarse voice sounded like her throat had been scorched. 

“Is it not enough that you condemned me and my son?!” 

Her eyes, her disposition, her outfit, how could you not see it? She had looked at you and saw someone–someone that resembled you and had sent her here. Then could it be that–?

A knock interrupts your racing thoughts and you spin to see Ace and Deuce grinning at you.

“Looking good!” Ace whistles, making you bristle instinctively.

“The ceremony is about to start,” Deuce says nervously, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “Trey told us to escort you there.”

Your mind is rushing through the information you just processed that you barely register Ace and Deuce’s arms wrapped around yours securely (in case you ran away) and leading you out. In a morbid twist, they are the ones walking you down the aisle, an occasion that was meant to be happy, now filled with a sense of doom.

At the end of the aisle, Riddle, in his prim white suit, beams excitedly at your appearance.

“You look lovely, my dear,” he whispers in your ear. You only grimace in response.

“Dearly departed, we’re gathered here today–” the undead priest begins to intone with his scraggly voice. 

You check your peripherals. Undead is all you can see, filling the church seats and staring expectantly at you two. The aisle could be possible, but if people stopped you from the seats, you would be surrounded instantly. And Riddle’s groomsmen lined right in a perfect line behind the two of you. You doubt you would be able to make it past them as well.

“The groom and bride may exchange their vows.” You snap back to the present as Riddle practically glows with excitement. 

“With this hand, I will lift your sorrows,” Riddle begins earnestly. His right hand reaches out and you reluctantly take it. He leads you to the altar. Upon it sat several items: a lit iron candelabra, a bouquet of red roses, and lastly, a goblet made out of weathered gold. A suspicious looking purple liquid fills the inside, bubbling ominously. 

“Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine.” Riddle raises the candle in his left hand and lights it with the candelabra. “With this candle, I will light your way in darkness.”

Trey quickly appears at your side and shoves a candlestick into your own hands just in time with Riddle’s words. In one smooth movement, he lights the wick with his own. 

He turns to look at you, and for once, there is something warm and fuzzy in those cold gray eyes. Like a newborn baby just learning to see the world. It’s unsettling. He bites his lips, an imperfect expression upon his usually composed face. 

“My mother wanted the best for me.” Riddle confessed tightly. “But it didn’t mean she knew everything.”

“Stop this, Riddle,” you say in a low voice. The audience is murmuring. Riddle going off script with his vows is miraculous enough, but perhaps you can find one last sliver of rationale within him. 

But he ignores your quiet plea. “I’ve spent so long wondering why I couldn’t move on, if it was just an arranged loveless marriage.”

“Riddle–”

“And now, I know why!” He interrupts you, taking the bouquet of roses from the altar and dramatically offering them to you.

“I longed for love, and now, I have found the one for me.” His face makes you recoil. It’s filled with all the endearment and adoration one could have for their lover, and yet, it makes you sick. The shade of the red roses reminds you of blood and you have to hold back the bile rising in your throat.

“Riddle, you are dead,” each word is punctuated in a desperation to make him understand. “I am alive. Do you realize how crazy this–this delusion is?! I cannot marry you!” 

“Well, that is what this is for, is it not?” Your head whips to the priest who gestures carelessly to the gold goblet. The purple liquid bubbles at the priest’s words. You taste bile at the back of your throat. 

“No, you can’t–” A firm grip encircles your wrist. 

“With this ring, I ask you to be mine.” Cold metal slips onto your ring finger despite your struggle. 

Riddle gives you a slow smile as you wrench your hand back, but no matter what you do, the ring. Just. Won’t. Come off. You’re too preoccupied with trying to get the damn thing off when your arms are seized and held back. Trey and Cater murmur soft apologies as Riddle draws closer with the goblet and with growing horror, you realize just too late what he was going to do.

As the liquid is forced down your throat, it burns through your esophagus as it winds its way down like a poisonous snake. And as your blood slows and your heart stops, you see Riddle grin widely, rotten flesh just barely holding together.

“I love you, my dearest.”

[kierahn]

yandere police officer x wanted criminal male reader :D?

A GAME OF TAG. [ y ! police officer x m ! criminal reader ]

yandere ! police officer x criminal ! male reader

warnings:

suggestive content (16+)

agressive handling from yan! officer

request/ask here.

a rushed update since i haven't posted in a while :] i have a long weekend ahead, i might be able to catch up with writing some of the piled up requests in my inbox.

× silas cromwell. it was a known fact to everyone in town that he and you were long-term rivals; like the two opposing sides of a coin. you were his favorite criminal. but you ? you didn't really like him that much; all snugged and smug in his police uniform. you were not one to get along with his kind too well.

× this game of cat and mouse between you and silas had been going on for about 2 years now. the young officer would always find himself facing a dead end everytime he tried to uncover your real identity. it was a pain in the ass for silas to chase someone he didn't know much about around.

× it was a frustratingly long chase, but silas would always find himself grinning at the thought of emerging as the victor of this game of chase you had started. little by little, his obssession with you grew.

× and, finally, he claimed sweet victory. what was more sweeter than having the most notorious mastermind himself in his grasp ? after 2 years of restlessly pursuing you, he finally had you on the tip of his fingers.

× "so what do you intend to do now, dear officer ?" the criminal asks smugly, his hands cuffed behind him and a blindfold taking away his vision as he sat on his knees before the officer. a delicious sight for silas to take in. "hand me over to the 'authorities' ? let their so-called justice deal with me ? tell me," you continued to prod him for answers, your smug smile never fading. oh, how he would love to break through that confident facade of yours.

× "i believe you don't fully understand, y/n." silas draws out after snapping out of his thoughts, standing before your kneeled form. a cold hand placed itself under your chin, sending a shiver up your spine. "i'm the authority. i'll be the one delivering justice." his voice dropped to a hauntingly low tone, holding a hint of threat that made something inside of you click.

× all this time, you've been the one in charge of leading the chase between you two; the one who was always on top of the game you yourself started. but now silas had taken the control out of your hands.

× "it seems like you're finally starting to realize," silas' voice started to move around you, your lack of sight heightening your sense of hearing. "GH–!" a harsh blow to your stomach causes you to slouch over in pain, a pained groan escaping your lips.

× you violently coughed, the harsh kick causing your breath to stop for a second. you pant heavily, drool spilling from your lips. for a flimsy officer like him, silas really knew how to use his feet to make it hurt. "that was very foul move, officer–" a cough, then a mocking laugh. "kicking down a defenseless opponent is completely unnecessary."

× a tug to your hair and a large hand encasing your cheeks tightly into a bruising grip. your laid-back attitude was starting to get on his nerves. why weren't you cowering in fear before him like he had expected ? you weren't taking him seriously at all.

× "y/n l/n, you have some nerve." you could sense that silas was very, very close to you with how his hot breath kissed the tip of your nose. however, you remained unfazed. you didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing you all vulnerable.

× but he would get his satisfaction either way. he always gets his way. "maybe we can find a better use for that pretty mouth of yours." his grip on your cheeks slightly loosened, his thumb glazing over your lower lip.

× "consider this my reward for winning this childish game of tag."

[mraustistic]

@enchantedchocolatebars

Kid Philip Wittebane Meets Eclipsa Butterfly

Song of choice for the fic

Philip Wittebane. Devout, and absolutely certain he was going to be smited at any moment.

One second, he had been kneeling in prayer behind the chapel with a heavy heart and cold fingers after being slapped on the wrist nearly 50 times for writing with his left hand. The next, there’d been a sharp crackle in the air—like lightning trying to speak—and now he was… here.

Wherever “here” was.

The room was dimly lit by floating candles, none of which dripped wax. There were couches too fancy to sit on and a piano playing itself with suspicious whimsy. A teapot floated by. Everything smelled like lavender and….Chocolate?

Philip stood near the door, knees locked, heart racing.

“Hmm,” a woman said, sitting on the couch finally drawing attention to herself “Well aren’t you just a little drop of dramatic lighting.”

Philip flinched. The woman had strange hair, Teal-green, styled in classic vintage waves. A even stranger dress, A long, dark purple Victorian-style dress with a white ruffled bib collar. The collar has a crescent moon symbol on it.

He backed up a step. “W-Where am I?”

“My parlor,” she said casually, plucking a floating teacup from midair. “Lovely ambiance, questionable structural reality. You’re safe—probably.”

Philip swallowed hard. “I…I was praying. Then there was a light. And… now I’m here…. Where’s…where’s Caleb!? Where’s my brother..!? He was right next to me!” His voice cracked embarrassingly at the end.

“Oh, honey.” She set her cup down and studied him like a museum exhibit. “You’re brother is safe no doubt…No need to worry.”

He didn’t respond. His whole body was tense, like one wrong word would summon a demon.

Eclipsa took a step closer. “Want some cocoa?”

He stared at her. “Is it… cursed?”

“Only emotionally,” she said with a wink.

A mug floated toward him. It was purple, covered in bat-shaped glitter stickers, and filled with steaming cocoa topped with tiny pink glitter marshmallows.

Philip looked at it like it might explode.

“I’ll just… stand,” he muttered,as he hesitated before taking the cup. “Quietly.”

Eclipsa stretched out on the chair like a cat with a sigh. “You know, I was expecting chaos today. Maybe a political coup or a surprise mew-man uprising. But you?” She smiled. “You’re a little shivering church mouse. Kind of refreshing.”

He said nothing. Just stood there, staring at the glitter marshmallows like they might report him to the church.

Eclipsa’s tone softened a little. “Look, kid. I don’t eat children—anymore. You’re safe here.”

A shadowy creature slithered from the corner and gently draped a fuzzy black blanket around Philip’s shoulders. It smelled faintly of peppermint and lavender.

Philip flinched. Then didn’t move.

“I… I miss my brother,” he whispered.

Eclipsa looked at him for a long moment. Her expression shifted—just a little. “Yeah,” she said. “Family can be a real pain… until they’re gone. Then it’s worse.”

The room quieted. The candles flickered lower, casting long, slow shadows. The piano switched to something soft and melancholy. The marshmallows finally stopped squeaking.

Philip didn’t sit. But he didn’t run, either.

Philip hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.

Eclipsa had watched him from her velvet lounge, swirling her tea and debating whether he was petrified by magic, manners, or mild trauma. Probably all three. Honestly, she could relate.

He was still standing near the door like it might be a trap. The blanket the shadow beast had gifted him was slouched over his narrow shoulders. He looked like a child playing ghost at a Puritan funeral.

Finally, she stood and clapped her hands.

“Well, I suppose I can’t leave you sulking in the parlor all day,” she said with the upbeat tone of someone planning a questionable field trip. “Let’s go.”

Philip blinked. “Go… where?”

“Cultural enrichment,” she replied, smiling too brightly.

“I don’t want to be enriched.”

“Tough nougat.”

She opened her wand like umbrella and picked up Philip

Philip yelped and instinctively crossed himself.

“Oh relax,” Eclipsa sighed. “I am a very good flyer, I only crash 4 out 8 times”

“That’s not comforting!” he squeaked.

“Then lower your standards,” she said cheerfully. “Now come along. We’re going to the Monster Market. I want you to meet a goat-headed gentleman who sells psychic eggs.”

[the-bloodline-embrace]

"I can't believe you're soooooo far up in your own head that you're ignoring eeeeeverything in front of you! This is hilarious!"

"Hey doll! D'you happen to have a spare glove in that handy box of yours? Just one is fine!"

@the-bloodline-embrace

Aesop may have been caught organizing his box anyway as his eyes narrowed, lips that could not be seen pressed together in focus (he tended to make it a habit so he would not have to do it all at once or wind up with an untenable workload). Even so, he freezes, eyes widening upon hearing the voice behind him, as he slowly looks to confirm that which had quickly grown familiar.

"Ah... hello again. Y-you came at a good time, I was just making sure everything I had stored in here was properly stocked. Let me see..." As the embalmer opens up his kit fully to make sure he can see everything, running a finger down the collection to make sure he was looking in the right place, he reminds himself that he would practice getting used to these names, too. No matter how wrong it felt.

Finally, he fishes out a glove from one of the compartments, handing it over. "Here you go. I... hope this fits you well, Victor." The name slips out before he can stop himself. By the time he notices, he wants almost to fade away, to ask the man before him to forget what just happened. But all that comes out is a weak "...sorry."

[inks-writing-space]

Vowbroken- Elijah Mikaelson x f!Reader (Part 4)

My Masterlist <3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

3.1k words: Elijah and you fight until suddenly you both snap. In your moments of pleasure you two discover something that might help you both survive.

Warnings: smut (finally), kinky choking, Elijah losing control, silghtly degradation but even more praise, dom/sub dynamics, dom!Elijah, switch!reader

A/N: I had sooo much fun writing this chapter. Finally the smut chapter. No matter how much I enjoy writing this story smut will forever be my favourite thing to write.

~~~~~~~

You stood barefoot in the middle of the room, and tried to draw from the energy of nature. Your fingers were stained with dirt from the wall and desperation. The spell should have worked. You’d memorized every word, every twist of intention. But Anastasia, no, Eve, had somehow be able to devoid you of any magic somehow. You hated her for it. You couldn’t get yourself to call her your mother. Not yet. The pain was still to deep. You tried again.

Nothing happened.

Again.

You exhaled hard through your nose, stamping onto the floor. And in the middle of your frustration you heard his voice. You didn’t know when he had become so obnoxious but he probably always has been.

“Oh no,” Elijah drawled from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the smirk practically audible. “It didn’t work. And I was so sure that the onehundreth try would be THE one.“

You turned to him slowly, you jaw clenched, "Don’t," you hissed. You hate how he was mocking you the entire time. At least one of you was trying to get out of this hell. You were hungry and sleep deprived. The only food you ever got was two pieces bread per day and Elijah had always given you his part insisting that he didn’t need to eat.

“Don’t what?” he asked, pushing off the wall and strolling closer, slow and deliberate. “Mock you? I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s just… you do look adorable when you’re failing. Like a mouse trying to get out of a labyrinth.“

You groaned annoyed letting yourself fall to the floor. Elijah sighed and rolled his eyes as if you were just an inconvenience that he had to handle properly, "I appreciate the persistence, but it does get repetitive.“

"You don’t understand! My magic is only limited here! If I get out I can use it and free myself."

Elijah chuckled, "Yourself," he repeated, "So I‘m just collateral then?“

You huffed, "Sorry that I am not really focused on saving you. I‘d rather see you dead.

"You had your chance. You ran,“ Elijah said with a smug smile, “Why do you still hate me so much

You looked at him, "We are still enemies??,“ you huffed a little confused

"Mmh just enemies,“ Elijah drawled enjoying the words. Over time he had obviously gotten more frustrated and with that a lot more insufferable, "Tell me something little witch, do you push your tongue down every enemy‘s throat?,“ he asked raising his eyebrow his voice low and taunting.

Your breath caught for just a second, heat rising in your cheeks before you scoffed and looked away from him.

“Only the ones who annoy me enough,” you said, voice flat, but he saw the flicker in your eyes.

Elijah stepped closer, slow and deliberate like a predator who already knew the prey wasn’t running. “And here I thought I was special,” he murmured, mocking offensiveness. You looked at him. You had seen him angry, gentle, losing it. But never like that. Never before like this. As if he really wanted to teach you to not be a bitch to him.

“You’re not,” you lied.

He laughed, dark and low. “Then why did you moan when I bit you? Why did you let me feed of you? Why did you rut against me like an animal, love?“

Your stomach turned and your breath was stuck in your throat for a second. Your fingers clenched and you felt hot. He was right. Fuck he was so right.

“Shut up, Elijah.”

“Make me.”

You didn’t respond, your body hot and bothered. You knew you shouldn’t react to him. He had a habit of stopping the teasing once he was fed up enough. Instead, you crossed the space between you in three quick steps, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him back against the wall with a force that surprised even you. You hated how is smug grin only widened the second you kissed him. That bastard had waited only until you snapped. You didn’t understand he had pushed you away, but it seemed as if the frustration was rooted deep in both of you.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was heat and teeth, lips colliding like a challenge. His hands caught your waist, but he didn’t stop you like last time, no he let you take him, let you demand it, matching your energy with a low growl against your lips. You whimpered against him trying to pull him closer. He was such a good kisser it annoyed you deeply.

You rocked your hips against his for good measure and not expecting that he was so horny that that was all it took. In one swift motion, he turned you, pressing you to the wall now, his thigh slipping between yours, hands gripping your hips like he was holding himself back from breaking something. You tensed under his rough grasp and he losened his touch slightly but his gaze only became more intense

“You love this,” he whispered against your lips, voice rough. “You love kissing me, rutting against me and you love that it’s me making you this desperate.” You moaned grinding around him pulling him back into the kiss, „Me. Your enemy.“

His hand slid down slowly and deliberatly until finally the digits of his fingers brushed beneath your waistband. His touch ghosted over your heat but didn’t give you what you wanted, not yet.

“Say it,” he said, eyes burning into yours. “Beg for it, little witch. Or I’ll leave you dripping and unsatisfied.”

You groaned bucking your hips against his hand.

“Mmh little witch I can feel how you react to me,” Elijah whispered against your neck, his breath hot and taunting as his fingers finally slipped beneath your waistband, teasing you with just the lightest touch. “Like a little bitch.”

“I hate you,” you spat, the words trembling against his skin.

He chuckled, low and dark, the sound vibrating against your throat as his fingers dipped between your thighs. “Oh, I know,” he purred. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you are dripping.”

You gasped as two of his fingers slid through your slick folds, before pushing one inside his thumb connecting with your clit. "Say you hate me while you fuck yourself on my fingers,“ he growled into your ear

“I do,” you choked out, barely able to think, nails digging into his shoulders, while you tried to gain more friction, "I hate you.”

But your hips moved on their own, rocking against his hand like your body didn’t care what your mouth was saying.

Elijah smirked. “Hate’s such a pretty look on you,” he said, curling his fingers just right. A loud moan escaped you and your legs started the wall. Elijah gave you a loving slap, "Look at me.“

Your head hit the wall as you whimpered, pleasure building with every filthy word that left his mouth. And still, he didn’t stop.

“You’re dripping for your enemy,” he sneered, thumb circling that spot that made your knees buckle. “You want me to choke you while I finger you until you cry?“

He laughed as you moaned and his hand wrapped around your throat as his fingers fucking deeper coaxing that pleasure out of you.

Your head hit the wall again, a soft thud muffled by the sharp gasp that tore from your lips as Elijah’s fingers kept moving, working you open like he had all the time in the world to watch you fall apart.

“I said I hate you,” you hissed, trying to push at his chest, even though your body clung to the rhythm of his hand. “This doesn’t mean-"

“You don’t get to lie to me right now,” he growled, eyes locked to yours like they were the only thing tethering you to the ground. “Not with this soaked little cunt squeezing around my fingers.”

You whimpered as he moved his hand faster and your knees gave in his hand around your throat holding you up

“Elijah,” you moaned, "I still want to kill you,” you managed, even as your hips bucked against his hand.

He leaned in, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, placing a gentle kiss on you a stark contrast to his word. “You’d rather come on my fingers first.” His breath was ragged against your ear and you realised that you weren’t the only one falling apart.

You didn’t know what shocked you more, the softness of his lips after all that, or the way your body burned hotter at the contrast. His fingers never slowed. They moved harder into you, his thumb rubbing over your clit. He slipped a third finger inside you, coaxing your body toward the edge. You noticed how hard he was still controlling himself.

“Elijah, please,” you whispered, your words breaking, the word torn from your throat like it hurt to say. Your forhead fell against his shoulder while he squeezed your throat a little tighter. He stilled and you could basically hear the smirk on his lips forming.

“Say it again,” he commanded, voice like velvet over a blade.

“Elijah, fuck, please,“ you gasped, moaning loudly

He chuckled darkly, lips ghosting along your hair kissing you softly “And here I thought you hated me.”

His fingers moved again, faster fucking you with deliberate precision. His thumb pressed hard against your clit and you cried out loudly.

He smiled against your hair, . “Come for me like my good little girl,” he growled, his hand tightened a littleat your throat, “Or are you more of a slut, love?”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave crashing through you. You cried out lifting your head desperatly looking at Elijah who kissed your forehead softly while you tried to relax.

He held you up through it, whispering praise against your ear. "That’s it,” he murmured, possessive and low. “So fucking pretty when you give in.“

Your breath was still shaking when you pulled back, his fingers slipping from you slow and wet. Elijah watched you like you’d just come alive in front of him your lips parted, eyes burning, chest rising hard under your hands. But then you moved.

You grabbed his collar and pushed him back against the wall again, a flash of your usual fire returning to your eyes. He let you, and you loved that he did. You smirked at him. You reached between you and palmed him through his pants a shivere rolled down your spine, he was so fucking hard.

“I’m not the only one falling apart,” you whispered, voice still ragged but as smug as you could manage in this situation.

He growled, hands finding your waist again, but you were already undoing his belt, deliberately slow, your fingers teasing along his length like a threat. You saw his jaw clench and kiss him while you wrapped your hand around him

“Oh, you want to play now, little witch?” he asked, his voice lowly, but you could trace the hints of underlying desire.

“What’s wrong?” you purred, leaning close to kiss the edge of his jaw. “Thought you liked watching me fall apart. Don’t you want to see how pretty you look when I do it to you?” He hissed through his teeth as you stroked him over and over, you groaned as you felt him growing even harder.

“Tell me, Elijah,” you whispered against his ear, dragging your lips along his skin, “How fast do I have to ride you before you beg?” You kissed his jawline before you looked at him, "On the floor," you commanded. Your breath hitched as he looked at you while obeying your command. You were excited and ready.

He groaned low in his throat as you freed him from his pants, completely and slowly sank to straddle him. Your soaked core dragging along his length at a maddening pace. His hands gripped your thighs tight, the strain in his arms betraying how close he was to losing control. You appreciated the time he gave you to take control for a while although you knew how easily he could just take it back.

You sank down onto him in one slick motion, both of you gasping at the sudden fullness. You whimpered having to press your hands against his chest, as you felt how thick he was. He grabbed your hips lifting you lightly. You started to ride him fast and hard, trying to ignore his piercing gaze.

“Fuck's sake, look at you,” Elijah growled, hands gripping your hips tightly as you bounced on his cock as fast as you could, "Keep riding me." Your nails dug into his shoulders as you leaned in, lips brushing his ear again. “Told you… you’re not the only one who can ruin someone," you said breathlessly.

Elijah chuckled and you knew your short moment of power was over as his hands gripping your ass and slammed you down one final time before flipping you onto your back. You barely had time to gasp before he was inside you again, thrusting deep, while forcing you to keep eye contact with his hand on your jaw.

“Oh, you want to ride?” he growled, teeth grazing your throat. “You want to tease me like a little brat and think I won’t fuck you through this floor?”

"Please do, then I could use my magic," you joked. Elijah smirked before his hand wrapped around your throat again, pinning you there as he fucked into you.

“Look at you,” he snarled. “My cock’s so deep in you, and you’re still lying there cracking jokes. What would you have said a few weeks ago if anyone would have told you how good I was going to ruin you?”

You cried out beneath him, pleasure curling sharp and sweet, your legs wrapped tight around his waist. You felt him holding back, even as you tried to get him to come as you clenched around him. His hand went were you were joing rubbing circles on your clit.

You whimpered and looked at him, "Come with me," you pleaded. He shook his head kissing you almost softly, "I am not going to come at a place were I can't worship and clean you up properly," he whispered

"Please," you begged and you saw in his eyes that he would give into you.

He moved quicker and your body arched, a strangled cry tearing from your throat as Elijah’s cock moved with relentless, perfect rhythm. The pressure that had been winding tight inside you snapped and as your pussy clenched around him, you felt him releasing inside of you as well. You shattered around him with a scream that wasn’t just pleasure but relief.

And for a breathless moment, the world went completely quiet. Your eyes were closed, Elijah's face in your neck. There were no walls around you two anymore. The cold stone under your back disappeared and you felt your magic flowing back into your body. For a second you were completely content. Then you blinked hard.

As you opened your eyes the air was warm around you, you could see gold flying infront of your eyes. Under your back you could feel a matress and over both you and Elijah were Silk sheets drapped and brushed your skin. A window let in moonlight from outside. Trees swayed gently beyond the glass, making you feel safe. This place shimmered with the kind of magic that didn’t obey any laws of nature.

Elijah was still on top of you, and you whimpered as he pulled himself out looking around confused. His head lifted slowly. “What just happened?,” he asked, his voice deeper now, sounding a little weary as he tugged himself back into his pants. You were still out of breath and he helped you putting on your jeans again, running his knuckles over your cheek while he calmed you. "This is not our little prison," he said.

Your lips parted, breath still shaking. You looked around. “No... it’s not.”

You sat up slowly, your fingers curled into the sheets as you leaned against Elijah. You knew this place, but you had no idea that it still existed. Or not exactly like this at least. The room responded to your thoughts, shifting, breathing with you. The stars outside pulsed brighter as you calmed.

“Elijah,” you whispered, “I know were we are. After my coven's death and me realising that I need to kill you I started to train my magic. But to relax...I came here. That is the place were I was when my mother she couldn't find me for years."

He looked around, something almost reverent in his expression now. “You created this?”

You nodded. “I didn’t even realize I still could. I thought my mother...Eve, took everything. My magic, my power. But she didn’t take this," you looked around, "I haven't been here in ages."

Elijah stood up, hands still on your hips, studying you. “So this is your mind.And you dragged me in with you,“ his mouth quirked. “Were you that sad when I said we couldn't have real aftercare in that little windowless room?”

You huffed out a weak laugh, “I didn’t mean to. Although you do not seem to complain."

"I thought you were devoided of any magic," he said gently now looking around in the room. He walked towards the window looking outside.

You glanced around the room, it was a little different from the last time you had been here. The last time you were fourteen and there had been plushies everywhere and the walls were bright blue. Now they were completely red, and it looked like a real witch room, with candles everywheere and a grimoire. But some places were stille the same. The tree outside shimmered. The sheets fluttered. The stars moved. The moon is silver.

“She doesn’t own all of me,” you finally tried to find an explanation, “She might’ve taken my connection to nature. But this… this place is mine. It always was.”

Elijah’s thumb brushed your thigh. “Then imagine what else you’re still capable of.”

You swallowed thickly, looking down at him. “I don't know if I can do any more then this."

Elijah smiled and walked towards you, "You need to trust yourself more. Do you think you can help yourself out of the hell she created for you?"

You smirked and cradled yourself into the sheets enjoying the scent of the vanilla candles in the air. "Yes," you whispered and Elijah could see your magic sprinkling on the tips of your fingers.

A small, crooked smile formed on his lips. “There’s my little witch.”

[buginacup]

What was the hardest Beastie for you to design in general! There's so many fantastic designs I'm curious which one had you stumped if any at all. Also how on earth did you come up with so many funny little expressions! I feel like I see a new one everytime I play, they're fantastic! Thank you for your wonderful touch to this game, such lovely little guys!

What was the hardest Beastie for you to design in general?

One in particular comes to mind but it's still sort of a secret. I'll try to return to this when more people know about it so I can talk about it in particular!

There were plenty of other snags, though. In particular Crabaret was so so hard to pose. They don't have finished sprites yet, but Crabaret is unique in that their final sprites will not flip (always crab walking), instead they have two sets of poses for w/e direction they're facing.

Have you ever tried to imagine a crab pivoting on a "waist"? A crab doesn't have a waist! And I gave its torso such a naturalistic shape from every angle other than front why on god's GREEN EARTH DID I DO THIS TO MYSELF!

Around the time I was doing poses for this beastie I started experiencing some (still quite present!) nerve pain/numbness in my hands. For other designs (like Yueffowl) I've done vector art with my mouse to give my hands a break, but try as I did I couldn't do low-res art in a way that communicated the stupid ridiculously nuanced shape I gave this crab, so it was a slow process of sketching out the color-coded body part position in little bursts, using supplemental 3D modeling for stuff I had no means to draw;

Don't get me wrong I'm quite proud of Crabaret but good lord this one was months of on and off work.

How on earth did you come up with so many funny little expressions?

I can't take all the credits on the expressions! Nearly all of them were originally drawn by Greg, but at a resolution that looked really blurry at the size the faces wound up being. I get real fussy about pixel resolution in a way that Greg doesn't, so I asked if I could redraw them at the size they're currently used. Here's a side by side of some of the old/new faces.

As you can see a lot of their soul was already there! I mostly just pushed the shape language of them and sharpened them. Greg wanted them to still feel like his drawings and they definitely do!

[mariacallous]

This prediction is based on several decades of research that my colleagues and I have been undertaking at the University of Oxford to establish what makes people willing to fight and die for their groups. We use a variety of methods, including interviews, surveys, and psychological experiments to collect data from a wide range of groups, such as tribal warriors, armed insurgents, terrorists, conventional soldiers, religious fundamentalists, and violent football fans.

We have found that life-changing and group-defining experiences cause our personal and collective identities to become fused together. We call it “identity fusion.” Fused individuals will stop at nothing to advance the interests of their groups, and this applies not only to acts we would applaud as heroic—such as rescuing children from burning buildings or taking a bullet for one’s comrades—but also acts of suicide terrorism.

Fusion is commonly measured by showing people a small circle (representing you) and a big circle (representing your group) and placing pairs of such circles in a sequence so that they overlap to varying degrees: not at all, then just a little bit, then a bit more, and so on until the little circle is completely enclosed in the big circle. Then people are asked which pair of circles best captures their relationship with the group. People who choose the one in which the little circle is inside the big circle are said to be “fused.” Those are people who love their group so much that they will do almost anything to protect it.

This isn’t unique to humans. Some species of birds will feign a broken wing to draw a predator away from their fledglings. One species—the superb fairy wren of Australasia—lures predators away from their young by making darting movements and squeaky sounds to imitate the behavior of a delectable mouse. Humans too will typically go to great lengths to protect their genetic relatives, especially their children who (except for identical twins) share more of their genes than other family members. But—unusually in the animal kingdom—humans often go further still by putting themselves in harm’s way to protect groups of genetically unrelated members of the tribe. In ancient prehistory, such tribes were small enough that everyone knew everybody else. These local groups bonded through shared ordeals such as painful initiations, by hunting dangerous animals together, and by fighting bravely on the battlefield.

Nowadays, however, fusion is scaled up to vastly bigger groups, thanks to the ability of the world’s media—including social media—to fill our heads with images of horrendous suffering in faraway regional conflicts.

When I met with one of the former leaders of the terrorist organization Jemaah Islamiyah in Indonesia, he told me he first became radicalized in the 1980s after reading newspaper reports about the treatment of fellow Muslims by Russian soldiers in Afghanistan. Twenty years later, however, nearly a third of American extremists were radicalized via social media feeds, and by 2016 that proportion had risen to about three quarters. Smartphones and immersive reporting shrinks the world to such an extent that forms of shared suffering in face-to-face groups can now be largely recreated and spread to millions of people across thousands of miles at the click of a button.

Fusion based on shared suffering may be powerful, but is not sufficient by itself to motivate violent extremism. Our research suggests that three other ingredients are also necessary to produce the deadly cocktail: outgroup threat, demonization of the enemy, and the belief that peaceful alternatives are lacking. In regions such as Gaza, where the sufferings of civilians are regularly captured on video and shared around the world, it is only natural that rates of fusion among those watching on in horror will increase. If people believe that peaceful solutions are impossible, violent extremism will spiral.

Surprisingly, however, a remedy may lie in the fusion mechanism itself. Our research has shown that when Muslim and Jewish participants reflect on the sufferings of the outgroup in the Gaza conflict, this has strikingly positive effects on their attitudes toward each other, despite initial feelings of hostility. Investigations into the fusion mechanism also suggest that it can strengthen over time, when people reflect for weeks and months on their shared experiences of suffering. Consequently, there is still time to prevent my bleak prediction for 2025 from being realized.

Acknowledging shared suffering on both sides of human conflict is often a pathway to imagining peaceful solutions. But first we need to find better ways of ensuring that more people around the world are exposed to the sufferings of those on the other side of the conflicts they are personally most affected by. This may seem like an impossible task in a world where politics is becoming more divisive, foreign policy more parochial, and social media bubbles more impenetrable. However, recognizing the psychology that compels us toward violent or peaceful outcomes is the first step to a solution. How we manage that psychology in 2025 may profoundly influence the kind of world that future generations inherit.

[girliism]

girl dad!art who has to accept the fact that his little girl is now a teenager.

“mickey mouse pancakes again?” you walked into the kitchen dropping a kiss on art’s shoulder. “she likes them.” art mumbled. it was saturday, so art spent all morning making pancakes, eggs, sausages everything so you all could sit down and eat together.

“hi family, bye family.” your daughter walked pasted the two of you heading for the door, beach bag in hand. “um, where do think you’re going.” art turned around, hand resting on his cocked hip. “to the beach with katie, don’t worry about breakfast we’re gonna stop and get ihop.” your daughter explained going to reach for the doorknob. “wait, and who okayed this?” your daughter sighed closing the door turing to face the two of you. “mom did, she didn’t tell you?” art and your daughter turn to look at you matching blue eyes focused on you. your eyes flick between them. “i totally forgot that was this saturday love.” your daughter pouted a little. “i can still go right?” you gave her nod. your daughter made a sound of of excitement. “thanks! i’ll text you when we get there bye mom, see ya dad.” and with that she was out the door.

your turn in your chair to face art, he’s still staring at the front door. “see ya dad.” art scoffed “when did i become just dad, and saturdays are supposed be family day.” you got up from your chair to wrap your arms around him. “honey, most fifteen year old girls don’t always wanna spend saturday with their parents, she’s a teenager now, we’re kinda the last thing on her list at the moment.” you gave him pat on the chest for reassurance.

art was hearing none of it, he knew you were growing up but that doesn’t mean the two of you weren’t still close, in his eyes.

it was another saturday and art had the whole day planned out. “bean, if you would please hang up the phone.” art stood in the door way of his daughters room, the walls the that used to to be covered in butterfly stickers and stick figure drawings now replaced with posters of her favorite movies and artists. “yeah, it’s my dad, uh huh i’ll call you back.” she hung the phone asking what was it that he needed. “wanna spend the day with you today, you know daddy daughter outing.” your daughter made a face. “oh, i kinda had plans today.” she didn’t have plans, but laying in her bed sending tiktok’s back and forth with her friends sounded better than hanging out with her dad all day. “oh come on, humor me, at least for two hours.” she reluctantly agreed walking out the door behind art silently begging you to save her.

the car ride started off painful quite before art cleared his throat. “so, what’s going on in your life, any cute boys or you know girls you like.” she wanted to jump out the car. “oh god.” your daughter whispers, covering her face trying to hide from this conversation. “what, i wanna know what’s going on in life you know, make sure you’re being safe. guys, they…. they can be very convincing.” she immediately starts shaking her head. “no no no, dad stop please ok i’m not doing that with anyone and moms already given me the rundown.” art nods his head slowly. “good that’s good, you’re too young anyway.” the rest of the car ride after that was pleasant, she spent it telling him about the project she’s working on and how she’s thinking about joining cheer with lily.

“oh my god.” your daughter laughs a little getting out of the car seeing where art had brought them. “and you almost passed up on this.” art shook his head. he had brought them to the broad walk, a place she use to love and come to all the time. the sight of all the rides and deep fried food stands brings back memories of when art would take her here, carrying her on his shoulders as she placed her sticky hands in his hair. “oh, dad you have to go on the drop with me first.” what was supposed to be two hours turned into four as art got dragged around the broad walk. they went on every ride, ate from all the food stands (art may or may not have thrown up behind the porta potties.) before they ended the night on a bench eating cotton candy.

art watched his daughter cross from him, her features no longer covered by baby fat. “hey, bean thanks for spending the day with me.” his daughter just shrugged and smiled. “ehh, wasn’t that bad, you’re kinda fun to hang out with.” art chuckled. “it’s just, i know you’re growing up and i get you’re not always gonna want to come do things like this, so thanks for letting me pretend you’re still my little girl.” your daughter got up from her side of the table and sat next to art throwing her arm around his shoulder. “daddy, you don’t have to pretend, i’m always gonna be your little girl i’m just not a little girl, and yeah i’d much rather spend time with my friends but i guess i put you on the my schedule.” art sighs dramatically, kissing the side of her head. “where did all the time go? tell me you still like mickey mouse pancakes at least.” your daughter gasped as if the question offended her. “of course i still like them, are you crazy?”

the ride home was much better than the ride there. no awkward conversation just laughs and trading of the aux cord. “so, since we have established that i still love you how ‘bout we talk about what car i’m getting for my sixteenth.” your daughter gave art her sweetest smile. “ha! funny, how about you pass first then we’ll talk.” art said back knowing she had already failed twice

(🤗)