#in drawing angles/lines/curves using one line

[teecupangel]

Desmond dies, ends up in the past but becomes a crewmate from among us! Just thinking of space bean! Desmond hiding in the assassin's hood gives me life (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍)..... orrr he's secretly an imposter who doesn't know he's one who then stabbed a templar because he felt like it

I kinda wanna draw Desmond doing an Assassination as an amongus but I didn't have any more time left for today sooooo...

Have this amongus!Desmond with a mini-amongus!Altaïr.

The idea is that the mini-amongus will keep following Desmond and would keep changing into any of his ancestors as 'it' has taken Desmond's Bleeding Effect so Desmond is 100% sane.

Only...

He's technically an imposter as he's not from the Among Us universe and can kill anyone using his hidden blade that just appears out of nowhere.

The Among Us crew members are all employees of Abstergo, the ship is meant to colonize a peaceful planet and Desmond is venting and killing to save an innocent civilization from the incoming missionaries of colonization and capitalism.

[writingjourney]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭

Your betrothal period feels entirely too long. You and Benedict make the most of the wait, especially once you spend your days together at Aubrey Hall. Or: Five times you and Benedict have to restrain yourselves before your wedding and one time you don’t.

pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

content: 6.5k words, regency romance, secret meetings, stolen kisses, smut (morning sex, v fingering, p in v), 18+ MDNI

Masterpost – Ao3 Link

───── ⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆ ─────

1 Closet

“Ben–”

“Shhhhh.”

His mouth closes around your nipple, breasts spilled over your stay that he tugged at desperately mere seconds ago. You tip your head back, fingers tangled in messy brown curls. His tongue draws a soft moan from your lips, the kind you could not hold back if you tried.

Benedict removes himself with a pop and looks up, innocent eyes over pink, kiss-swollen lips. “They are going to hear us!”

His scandalised tone is what lures the giggle from you.

Benedict, alarmed but no less amused, brings a hand up to seal your treacherous lips. “Shhhh!”

An incredulous smile spreads across his face and you tug at his lapels, intent on kissing it away. His weight has you pressed against the shelf behind you, the hard edge biting into your lower back. You moan into his mouth with the combined vigour of pleasure and pain.

Benedict breaks the kiss with some effort, brow furrowed in distress. “Do you want us to get caught?”

“It is too tight in here I rather think,” you bemoan and urge him to switch places with you. He has the height to his advantage. “Besides, we are already betrothed.”

“Betrothed, yes, but not wed.”

You ignore his complaint as you fix your state of undress, then wrap your arms around his neck to remedy the offending distance. A second of hesitation passes before he leans back in and resumes to bruise your lips. You wonder, sometimes, if the passion you share is of concerning strength.

As air becomes scarce he breaks away to attend to your exposed skin. His lips press to the round of your bosom, your clavicle, then softly venture forth to your sensitive neck. He lingers as long as he can get away with, then pauses by your ear. “How long have we been in here?”

“I should think a few more minutes will go unnoticed…” you whisper.

Benedict hums, the sound deep and warm against the shell of your ear. You rake your fingers through his hair and he bites your earlobe in turn. You are moderately concerned for your jewellery but then his nose tickles the inside of your ear. Another giggle escapes you as the tingle runs through your body and leaves you shivering in its wake.

Once again his hand moves to cover your mouth as his eyebrows rise in alarm. The warning look under his enviably long lashes is a sight you have grown rather fond of. The thrill of these stolen moments makes them all the more memorable, rare as they are.

You smile against his fingers before pressing an apologetic kiss to his palm. “I shall endeavour to be quiet from now on.”

His gaze softens with a twitch of his mouth. “One of these days Anthony will have my head…” he whispers before leaning in to kiss you yet again.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

2 Music

The music is unmistakably yours. The practiced tunes lure him from the sweltering heat of the gardens into the cooler corridors of Aubrey Hall where they arrived just yesterday morning. Anthony insisted on hosting the wedding here, of course, and how could Benedict not rejoice at finding himself under the same room as you at last?

He stops, leans against the frame of the open door to the drawing room and drinks you in. The piano is angled away from the open windows, your back turned to him. Bare skin shimmers in the sunlight, diffused by sheer white curtains that stream dreamily in the mild breeze. He follows the line of your shoulders where they rise and fall as your hands dance across the keys, then up the curve of your spine where your neck is exposed under pinned-up hair. The music seems to carry the ease with which you hold yourself.

He notes that your maid is not with you, a sign that the staff is kept busy with wedding preparations. Or perhaps you sent her away as you are prone to do, craving solitude – and opportunities to meet him. Benedict finds himself chasing these moments in which he gets to have you to himself like they’re his sanctuary, so precious that he has to pile them up with care like gemstones in the shrine of his love for you. One day soon he will be able to display them more openly. For now he has to grasp them as they appear.

You only hear him when his steps have reached so close that not even the rugs can muffle them anymore. A few weeks ago you might have been startled by him appearing out of nowhere but by now it is rather natural that he should find you when you are alone. It seems he has a sense for it.

When you look up he is already urging you to scoot over. The double piano bench is rather narrow but you think he might be closing in more than necessary. You’re acutely aware of the press of his thigh against yours.

“Do not let me disturb you, dearest,” he says in the dulcet tone you know means mischief.

“Is your goal not to disturb me, Mr Bridgerton?”

“My goal,” he whispers, leaning in conspiratorially, “is to be closer to the music.”

His breath on your neck does nothing to enhance your ability to focus. The first few notes are not quite rhythmic as a shiver runs through your limbs and down your fingertips. You soon find your footing, however, and the song comes to life in the form of a moderately slow but all the more magical sonata of your own composition. Sheet music is quite expensive and your collection rather limited. To add some variety you recently began to write your own, significantly inspired by Benedict and his artworks.

“Beautiful,” he whispers to himself and you smile as you transition into a faster section of the song that reminds you of fairies frolicking in a meadow, drunk on honeydew and starlight.

However, you soon realise that he did not talk about the music. His hand dances along your back, fingertips drumming over your spine until they come to rest on the swell of your hip on the other side. It is the closest thing to an embrace, his arm a comforting support behind your back. His proximity, if thrilling, does not deter you. Your hands remember exactly what they must do – over a decade of tutoring has left its marks.

Your confidence is short-lived. His hair tickles your ear as he leans in, a soft press of his lips to your shoulder, devoted, sensuous and… lingering. Your fingers slip but for a moment. It is enough to draw the wrong tunes from the instrument, a cacophonous quake that has you wincing in surprise.

“You must stay focused,” Benedict warns, lips still warm on your skin, “or everyone shall hear that you are… rather distracted.”

“How fortunate that I am known for my stable countenance.”

“Hm, yes, that is what they say about you, my darling, “ he whispers. “If only they saw you as I do, falling apart at the mere idea of a kiss.”

You close your eyes and recollect yourself, trying desperately to ignore how he feels against you. Despite his warning he shows no signs of stopping, not even as you resume your play. The next kiss hits the crook of your neck. You feel his nose against your jaw as he inhales your scent, rose oil and soap. For a moment his warm exhale against your throat overshadows the fact that is fingers curl at your hip, a not so innocent squeeze that you feel somewhere between your legs.

You’re aware that both of your families are just outside in the gardens, that the open windows and the steady breeze carry your tunes far out on the premises. Muscle memory serves you and you finish the hardest part of the song without more than one or two off-key notes. Benedict has been silent, lips lingering just below your ear. Just as you move on to the conclusion his mouth gets more insistent, sucking gently at your delicate skin as he gets carried away.

”Benedict,“ you warn. Crooked tunes are one thing, a vivid red kiss mark another.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, pressing tiny kisses along your neck now. “I cannot help it.”

You finish the song with a relieved exhale, wondering if a musical number has ever felt so painfully long before. Benedict has lost his patience, it seems. His free hand comes to rest on your sternum as though he needs to feel the agitated rise and fall of your chest. You only have a moment to relish in the soft feel of his palm on your bosom before he curls his fingers over your jaw and forces your head to turn to him. His kiss is dizzying, starved. He tastes of the strawberries he must have had outside just earlier.

You allow him to kiss you breathless before you remove yourself. He tries to chase after you, as he is wont to do, but a finger on his swollen lips has him halting. His expression rivals that of Newton when he is in want of a treat.

“We must go back outside before they find us,” you say. “It is already suspicious enough that I played off-key the moment you stepped inside.”

“I blame you for being such a flawless musician.”

“I blame you for being such an irresistible distraction. Now come on, my darling, I am suddenly in want of some sweet strawberries.”

He sighs woefully and you cannot help but kiss the pout from his face.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

3 Painting

You see the corgi’s bottom disappear around the corner. The Viscountess runs after him to retrieve the pall mall ball he stole from the lawn, her mallet swinging from her side as the heated game between her, Anthony, Colin and some of your own relatives is interrupted. The laughter of little children accompanies your every step as you and Eloise take a turn about the house, exerting your legs for a stroll after the small luncheon you had earlier.

Perhaps mere intuition. You glance up to one of the windows upstairs just as it gets pushed open. The rolled up white sleeve and bare forearm disappear from view and you have to resort to using your parasol to hide the direction of your gaze as it lingers long after. A purposely given sign or mere coincidence, you are eager to find out.

“Excuse me, Eloise, I would like to… cool down inside for a moment,” you lie. “I am running quite hot in the sun.”

“Ah, yes, cool down,” she murmurs. “I am sure it is not at all because you cannot bear to spend even a minute without my insolent brother.”

She waves you off, her words mere teasing. You have no doubt she is rather glad to return to her books instead of parading around with you.

Thanks to the many diversions offered in the gardens you manage to slip back inside mostly unnoticed. Aubrey Hall, as grand as it is, is still more of a maze to you than a house and you wander around for longer than expected. A waste of your time with Benedict, certainly, but the manor more than makes up for it in beauty and family history at every turn.

When you reach the right corridor, you note that one of the doors stands ajar. With the window open you can feel the soft breeze carrying you towards the room, the mildly chemical smell of paint assuring you that you are correct.

Benedict is busy. He is seated on a wooden stool, wearing nothing but his ruffled white shirt, the collar open wide to reveal most of his chest, suspenders sitting somewhat tight on his shoulders as he moves his brush across the canvas like it’s his sole purpose in life. Your stomach warms at the sight.

Everything he does inspires love, the way he holds the brush, the way his face is scrunched up in concentration, lips slightly parted and tongue wetting the corners of his mouth. When he spots you by the door his expression morphs into the crooked smile that never fails to have your heart aflutter.

“Do not let me disturb you, dearest,” you echo and he cocks his head to the side.

“Is your goal not to disturb me, Mrs Bridgerton?”

“Not my name quite yet,” you correct. “Though I do rather like the sound of it.”

“Hm. So do I.”

He picks up more paint with his brush and you approach the easel, watching him work. The subject is a still life, for lack of better choices you assume. The fruit in the small basket has seen better days, though he omits the putrid details in his painting.

“I should have you sit for me,” he comments, noticing your doubtful gaze. “That way I might not get as much painting done but at least I would have something worthwhile to look at.”

“If we were to be left alone in a room for hours I doubt you would get any painting done.”

He chuckles, depositing some more of the red paint on the cheek of an apple. “Are they all distracted outside, then?”

“Mhm, your brother is busy ruining my family at pall mall,” you say. “He should give them a chance at winning or they might call off the engagement after all.”

“Are they quite ambitious?”

“Not as much as your brother and the Viscountess, I daresay.”

He sets his palette down to give you his undivided attention but before he can stand and seize control you’ve already wrapped your arms around his neck from behind. Without his waistcoat there is hardly a barrier between you now, the thin shirt allowing you to properly feel his shape underneath as you press against his back. Your lips find his cheek, your hands the opening of fabric at his shirt and you can’t help but pull at your gloves, desperate to feel his skin. The moment your warm palms connect with his chest the brush slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor.

“You must stay focus, remember?” you tease.

“What if I don’t want to?” he whispers, suddenly breathless.

“Then you can focus on me instead.”

He does. You crave more room so you slowly run your fingers up his suspenders and let them slip from his shoulders, one by one, until you can open his shirt even wider. You admire his bare torso, the freckles that litter his body like stars in a pale night sky, soft hair and even softer skin.

The kisses you press to his neck and shoulder are nothing short of reverent, the muse admiring the artist. Benedict gives you full access, one hand gently resting on your wrist and the other in his lap. Braver now, you run your thumb over his nipple and the deep moan he releases is nothing if not obscene. You smile to yourself, repeating the movement to which he reacts by letting his head fall back against your shoulder. His hand reaches for his knee in a tight grip.

“You are certain everyone is occupied outside?” he asks, voice strained.

“It seemed so,” you reply. “Though, if you keep making these noises, they will hear you through the open window and knowing your brother he will sense my presence up here.”

“Hm perhaps Anthony will challenge me to a duel if he finds us.”

“Don’t even joke about that. Besides, he would have to challenge me to a duel since I am currently dishonouring you.”

“And whatever would you duel in? Who can vex me more?”

“Do I vex you, dear?”

“You do, s-so much. Ah.”

“And how so?”

“Do you really have to ask, you little temptress? How am I expected to wait another week?”

His patience has run thin. Before you can react he has swivelled around. Two broad hands grab at your hips and he pulls you into his lap with a fluent turn of his upper body. The stool wobbles precariously under your combined weight but somehow, miraculously, Benedict manages to balance it out. His thumb feels wet when he swipes it over your cheekbone, drawing you in for a proper kiss.

Benedict has a tendency of getting carried away when you’re alone. You slow him down with a tug at his unruly hair. His tongue swipes across your lips and you allow him to lick against yours for but a moment. Somewhere in the back of your mind, prudence and common sense battle with the unhinged desire that his touch provokes at all times. You pull away with a regretful sigh.

“Do not think I am handling this any better than you,” you whisper.

His lust-filled expression has you doubting your own sanity. You are close to losing your composure at the way his lips curl in discontent when a childlike squeal outside reminds you that you are in fact not the only two people in the world. Benedict reluctantly eases his grip on you and you manage a safe distance.

“I shall let you get back to your painting,” you say. “I expect someone will be looking for me soon.”

“I will join you outside in a moment.”

You smile and make for the door before your senses leave you yet again. The corridor feels violently empty without his presence but you are not yet around the nearest corner when you are met with the broad frame of another Bridgerton. Anthony spots you with an expression that borders on disapproval but carries the same hint of perpetual fondness he cannot shake ever since marrying his wife.

“Has your… game ended, my lord?” you ask, trying to appear innocent.

“Hm, I see yours has as well. You should… wash your face.” He gestures to your cheek with a raised brow, brisk steps carrying him past you. “And I shall have a word with my dear brother.”

When you bring your fingers to your face you are met with the wet texture of undried oil paint, apple-red. You notice another stain by your hip soon after, fingerprint-shaped no less. Even though you will have to change into a different dress now you can’t bring yourself to regret your impromptu visit, not when Benedict’s taste still lingers on your lips. The shouting from the other room stays out so you assume his brother found mercy on him as well. No duel today after all.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

4 Picnic

The weather is most pleasant as you traverse the vivid green meadows with Benedict by your side, hand placed securely in the crook of his arm. It was decided that two days before the wedding the whole party would embark on a picnic to enjoy the outdoors. The chosen destination is a nearby lake and while the servants set up the location you are all taking an extensive walk across the countryside to see more of the surrounding lands of the Bridgerton’s ancestral home.

The walk is short in distance but with both of your family’s making the trip it is a rather time-consuming endeavour. Your relatives have decided to inspect every single tree and field on the way, complimenting the Viscount and his mother on the beautiful piece of land his family calls their home. The smaller children are meanwhile distracted by pebbles, sticks and the odd insect that crosses their path, particularly intrigued by the colourful butterflies that flutter excitedly over a plethora of blossoming weeds and flowers and refuse to be caught by their eager little hands.

You and Benedict use the time to focus on each other. You have fallen back just enough to speak freely and you count the amount of love-sick smiles you receive every time he lures a giggle from you. He is adorable when he’s with others, more adorable still when he is with you.

By the time you reach the lake you are at twelve smiles. The set-up is too lovely and serene, a shame to be disrupted by two dozen people swarming to it for refreshments. In the shade of high broadleafs and so close to the water the heat is much more bearable.

“Benedict, fetch your betrothed a lemonade, will you?”

You find Violet, as you are now allowed to call her, with her hand reaching for your gloved elbow. Benedict and her exchange looks that speak of their intimate knowledge of the other’s thoughts, his challenging and hers that of a mother who has to remind her son of his manners. You fight off a smile as he excuses himself. He never likes to leave you alone with his family.

“Will you sit with me, dear?” Violet asks. “It is rather difficult to catch either of you alone these days.”

“Forgive me, I know we are toying the line of propriety by spending so much time together already–”

“Oh, nonsense! I am sure neither Anthony nor your family mind. In fact we are rather excited to see you getting along so well.” She leads you to one of the blankets by the side of the picnic arrangements, littered with pillows of sky-blue embroidery that invite you to rest. “You must know that a love match is all I ever wanted for dear Benedict.”

You do your best to find a graceful sitting position on the uneven terrain, keeping your latest encounter with Anthony to yourself. “I daresay it is rare to find a love that is so genuine.”

She smiles at you, a motherly smile that is all the proof you need that you have long since been accepted into the family. “I am inclined to agree, my dear. It is rare indeed.”

For a moment you sit in comfortable silence as the breeze sweeps through the clearing, leafy-green canopy swaying and rustling to the rhythm of the cooling wind. You spot several ducks gliding across the lake, some more sitting in the gras by the shore. It is idyllic. If a life with Benedict means spending more time in this part of the country you know you will spend many a happy summer with him.

When you focus back on the party you notice your betrothed approaching the scene with a somewhat hesitant smile, still adorable in its crookedness. A reassuring look is exchanged and he slowly lowers himself to your level, hands occupied with refreshments.

“I shall take my leave,” Violet says. “I hear Daphne and sweet Augie require my presence.”

You are certain that they are alright on their own but you will not miss an opportunity to be alone with Benedict if she offers it so willingly. Once she is out of sight Benedict hands you the lemonade. The first sip is just what you need after the walk.

“And… since you are so fond of strawberries,” he says, “I secured you the last few before the children get their hands on them.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

He smiles genuinely now and you lean a bit closer. A comfortable silence settles between you, even though the party more than makes up for it in noise. The strawberries are sweet as they only come in June, picked ripe and fat with juice, staining your gloves red at your fingertips. You care not. Not when Benedict secured them for you, not when his eyes are fixed on your mouth with every bite you take as though he envies them every sinking of your teeth.

You offer him one but instead of taking it he leans in and presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, sucking the juice from your lips.

“Ben–” you warn.

“Shhh.”

Another kiss before he pulls away. You glance around nervously but everyone seems too occupied to notice. On the blanket you place your hand next to his and toy with the ring on his pinkie, hooking your finger in his bigger one. Benedict looks at the strawberry still in your hand, then back to your eyes, a honey-sweet smile gracing his lips.

“Perhaps I would like one after all,” he says, “now that I know how delicious they are.”

He is a tease but you lift the fruit anyway, holding it up to his mouth. He takes his time to take a bite, eyes intensely glued to yours. Perhaps you are too far gone to care, perhaps it’s the way he commands all of your attention with a mere look, but the world around you blurs into nothingness. It is unfair, you think, how every freckle and dimple you discover on his face makes him even more beautiful.

As he swallows you finally notice a few pairs of eyes on you. Heated cheeks have you sitting back, covering the worst with a press of the back of your hand. But before you can compromise yourself any further one of the children squeals in terror and the whole party shifts their focus to sweet Augie who has got too close to one of the ducks. The bird has spread its wings to run to safety, quacking in sudden irritation. The other ducks follow swiftly and soon the whole swarm flutters back to the lake in a whirlwind of feathers and chatter.

You use the distraction to grin at Benedict. His eyes are fixated on you as though the turmoil around you is of no significance to him, a soft, affectionate expression no doubt prompted by your flush. You dare to lean in once more, kissing the sweet strawberry juice form his lips. He looks down to your intertwined fingers, removing his in favour of fully grasping your hand.

You cannot bring yourself to care what it looks like to anyone else as you both let yourself fall back into the pillows, watching the fluffy white clouds travelling across the sky.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

5 Night

A sudden bang like thunder has you shooting bolt upright in bed. You are momentarily confused, the room not as familiar as your own quite yet. Bright moonlight, blue sheets, sheer curtains. Aubrey Hall.

It is the night before the wedding.

You can’t remember falling asleep, only the anxiety that kept you up all evening. Another, quieter bang and you realise that it is your door. Not a knock though. It sounds like someone is using their entire body to get it to open.

You think the whole house must have woken up but beside the ruckus at the entrance to your bedroom everything is eerily quiet. You’re entirely too trusting. Perhaps bringing a makeshift weapon would have been helpful but you approach the door in just your nightgown, barefoot, empty hands. Intruders would attempt to be quiet, would they not?

You are met with Benedict tumbling straight into you. His body is heavy with the lack of his own coordination to support it and you struggle to hold him upright. He recovers before you can fall, stemming a hand against the doorframe.

“Whatever are you doing here?” you yell-whisper, sleep still clinging to you in such a way that it seems absurd and almost dreamlike to find him in your room.

Benedict giggles. He does not laugh, he giggles. “I am here to see you, of course.”

His lull is evident and reality clicks into place. “I believe you are quite drunk!”

“I believe I am quite in love,” he corrects. “And is that not the same thing?”

Suddenly you feel very bare in your sheer, lace-trimmed nightgown with your hair undone and face still crusted with sleep. Benedict is hardly noticing your state, half-leaning on your shoulder, half-leaning in the doorframe. He smells of liquor and smoke.

“Where are you coming from?” you ask, trying to steady him with your hands. He is falling against you again, though you suppose he is doing it to be closer now and not for lack of balance.

“Spent the night with my bro‘ers,” he explains. “A ugh… tradition.”

“Getting drunk the night before our wedding? You are going to feel awful tomorrow!”

“I am not that drunk,” he argues, though his pupils appear wide in the relative darkness of the room. “Just enough to… calm the nerves. Now, do I get my goodnight kiss, pretty please?”

“You are too drunk for a kiss,” you argue, even though his exaggerated pout is rather convincing.

“I am not that drunk, love, I swear.”

“Too drunk to know that you should not be here. Have you lost your mind?”

Another pout, this time, unfairly so, combined with that pleading tone you can never resist. “I had to see you. Make sure you’re… still here.”

His words confuse you more than they enlighten you and you know that the noise combined with your talking might wake someone else any moment now. You cannot draw attention to the rather compromising position you find yourself in, no matter how soon the wedding takes place – if only to save face in front of your relatives.

He may not be too drunk to walk but his unsteadiness is concerning you enough to make an impromptu decision. “Let me take you to bed.”

He giggles again, clearly misunderstanding, and rubs his nose against your cheek. You stop, returning the clumsy embrace you find yourself in. He continues to nuzzle, inhaling deeply in a way that tickles your neck in all the sensitive spots and his hands wrap so tightly around you that he squeezes the very air from your lungs. Your heart swells. Being in his arms unties every tense knot in your body. It is the home you never knew you were missing.

“Oh Benedict,” you whisper, “whatever have you done to me?”

“To bed, hm?”

You gently push him off of you. “Yes, but not mine.”

He grunts but his complaints stay silent as you usher him back into the hallway. You can tell he is more coordinated now but when he uses you as his crutch you allow it anyway. To your dismay, you realise that it is going to take you forever to get to his room. His pace is sluggish, multiple times you have to shush him and he refuses to walk without touching you in some shape or form.

By the time you finally arrive at his bedroom, you are not sure if you’re sleepwalking or actually awake, the sudden rush of excitement upon waking up now slowly catching up with you. It is sheer luck that you enter without anyone taking notice. Benedict exhales a loud yawn that rivals the roar of a lion. You use the opportunity to undress him.

Perhaps it is for the greater good that you do not get further than his waistcoat. He rather suddenly drops himself onto his bed and drags you right with him. The impact has you tumbling across his body, landing in the soft sheets and pillows that are as yet untouched. Benedict pulls you close, eyes half-lidded and heavy. His hands roam your body but it is not sexual at all. He follows your curves as though it is the natural thing to do and with only your nightgown covering your skin his hands feel closer, warmer than ever. You raise a hand to brush back his curly hair, tracing the tired lines of his face, connecting each freckle like the stars in a constellation of your own making.

You think he must be falling asleep, lulled by your gentle caress, but then he suddenly furrows his brow. His eyes find yours as though he suddenly remembered something important.

“You won’t say no, will you?” he asks. “Leave me standing by the altar a fool?”

You smooth out the crease on his forehead. “Are you truly afraid that I would?”

“You must admit… this all rather feels like a dream.” His hand stops at the dip of your waist, resting in the natural valley underneath your ribcage. “A part of me is still waiting for the painful morning after when I wake up and realise that none of it was real.”

“It is real, so very real, Benedict.” You smile, reassuring him. “Though I daresay it is natural to be nervous the night before your wedding. Is this why you came to my room?”

He ignores you, fingers denting your flesh in insistence. “Tell me that you will say yes. Promise me.”

“Of course I will. I promise. There is nothing I want more than to marry you.”

He seems satisfied, eyes falling closed again. His lashes tickle his reddened cheeks. They feel hot underneath your thumb as you smooth it over his skin and you hope he won’t feel too exhausted tomorrow. Even now he is so very beautiful, so lovely, so yours.

“Don’t be scared, please,” you whisper, and then, because it feels right, “I love you.”

His eyes blink back open, the words, so explicit, a novum between the two of you. Your reward is the crooked smile you so adore and he presses his forehead to yours. “I love you.”

You decide that he earned his good night kiss now. It is soft, unexcited, but it lingers and he does his best to kiss back. You note a bitter hint to his taste but it does not bother you. When you break away Benedict is practically asleep and by the time you finally control your love-sick smile you can hear his quiet snores.

You slip from his bed on the empty side and bring your hands to your lips, touching them as though you just kissed him for the very first time. The way back to your room feels like a dream in itself. But you know, you are so perfectly sure, that you will wake up to the happiest day of your life.

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

+1 Wed

Mornings start with a soft press of his lips to your shoulder.

No matter which position you find yourself waking up in, it is always the first thing you feel. The kiss is so soft that it tickles and you can never pretend that you are asleep for much longer. Benedict won’t let you because the first kiss is always followed by another and another and another. So many kisses that you can’t hold back your giggles, not when he reaches the ticklish spot by your ear.

You think it is the very reason he does it.

A heavy freckled arm wraps around your front, dragging you across the mattress until you are met with the solid chest of your husband. He is warm against your back, familiar, welcome.

Benedict hums, a hand closing around your breast and squeezing. His lips return to your neck but they are less soft now. If you do not pay attention you have to walk around with your silk scarf again. Paying attention, however, is hampered by his other hand sneaking down your belly and dipping between your legs.

“Good morning,” he whispers, “my beautiful wife.”

“Good morning,” you echo, still quite hazy with sleep.

The bright light streaming in through the curtained windows tells you it is rather late already. However, your eyes flutter closed the moment his fingers slide between your folds. He rubs you gently, waking up your body with the tingles of carefully built pleasure. You can feel his hips shifting forward as well, his cock growing hard against the small of your back, and suddenly getting up is the last thing on your mind.

By now you are customarily late for breakfast.

For the past few days he has done nothing but explore the previously unknown land that is your body, map out its hills and valleys and find the sweetest spots to linger. No matter how much information you thought you had clandestinely gathered, nothing truly prepared you for what it means to love someone, to lean into your passions so freely. But then perhaps Benedict makes it easy.

You gasp when his finger probes further down, slipping into you effortlessly. He adds a second digit soon after. Even so he remains unhurried, taking his time to gift you the sweetest strokes, the gradual build-up of warmth and desire you now know is the most rewarding. The rhythm of your bodies is slow like a dance to one of your ballads but soon your moans grow louder and you roll your hips into his hand with impatience. Your peak draws near and his other hand knowingly rolls your nipple between his fingers, lips pressed firmly to your neck. The touch is enough to take you to the release you so crave. You keen and shiver in his arms as it tears through you, one hand grasping at his biceps and the other buried in the sheets.

“Ben–” you whisper and he chuckles at your breathless voice.

It is evident that he enjoys showing you how good he can make you feel. That it pleases him to worship you whenever an opportunity arises. Mornings in bed are drawn-out, nights short and sleepless, slow hours during the day filled with spying for empty rooms and available surfaces. You wonder if you could extend your honeymoon indefinitely, to spend your days like this forever.

Benedict gives you a mere moment to breathe before his hand releases your breast and cradles your cheek instead. He gently turns your head, thumb pressed to the tender underside of your jaw, and then his lips descent with an impatient hunger. You bury your hand in his soft hair, one of your favourite things to do, and he groans when you tug at his strands. His body has become familiar to you as well, your own map of him ever-expanding.

Slow as your mornings begin, they quickly turn sensual and needy. His other hand grabs your thigh and opens you for him, spreading you apart. You can feel his cock hard against your wet cunt, an anticipatory whimper leaving your throat. Benedict slowly pushes into you, making sure to avoid any discomfort you might feel before he finds a more satisfying pace. Your limbs are still tangled in the sheets, every movement bringing forth a symphony of rustling of fabric and the rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin.

Kisses deepen, lips swell and your bodies move in practiced sync. You feel the warm tingles spreading into every corner of your insides, his softer moans and your higher ones drowning out the world around you until all you know is him. You are still tender and when you come the pleasure feels like liquid fire in your veins. You hiccup as he picks up his pace with you still tight around him, prolonging the sensation. Then he rather suddenly stills, smothering a deep moan with an uncoordinated kiss. You feel his release warm inside of you and smile.

As the world comes back into view, you begin to stroke his hair and lace your fingers with his. He laughs, satisfied, then kisses you again with less insistence. His arm once again wraps around your middle, pulling you close while his lips stay firmly planted on yours. His chest is damp and your own body feels hot as well. You’re grateful for cool sheets and silken pillows.

“I don’t think we should rise today,” you decide, eyeing the window.

“Mhm, I don’t think we should either.”

───── ⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆ ─────

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed – kudos, comments, reblogs etc are as always much appreciated ♡

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[m4rv3l-girl]

Hii pls for the love of God, can you,pake a part 2 of baby fever bucky? And part 3 and 4 cause damn 🥵🥵

I had to do it, I got asked many, many times ( @baw1066 @identity2212)…. So..

Happens to the Best of Us - Part 2

Part 1

Warnings: Pure filth. Breeding kink. Fingering. P in v sex.

“Say please, Doll.”

This pulled a sharp whine from your throat, a pulse beginning to form between your legs. “Hm..please, James..”

And that just about did it, Bucky’s name. His real name. That sent a spark down his spine and he could no longer hold his teasing demeanor, eager to lose control and breed Y/N. He could see your eyes flickering desperately down his body, starting at his neck and eventually landing on the bulge in his jeans.

“G’head, Kitten. Take what you want.” He muttered.

Your hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, eager to touch his skin, gasping at the feeling of his stomach, your fingers trace the lines of his chest and abs. Bucky groaned, his cock was practically throbbing now with the need to fill you up.

“Gonna’ make you a mommy.” He lifted your shirt gently yet hastily over your head, revealing your full, soft breasts. After staring in utter adoration for an almost comical amount of time, he cupped them in his hands, his metal thumb brushing over one of your nipples, making them harden into tight peaks.

Letting out a soft moan that lingered in your breath, your head fell backwards. "Buck...please, want your babies in me..."

He quickly acted to dull the pounding ache in your body, capturing your other nipple in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. The hot muscle eased over your taut skin expertly. Your body curved up, hips instinctively grinding against the tough, structured fabric of his jeans. You could feel the moisture nigh-on dripping between your legs, you were aching to be satisfied by his touch. To be filled with his kids.

Bucky slipped his hand under your skirt with conviction, his cool, metal fingers finding the wet heat of your core. He hummed deeply. Slipping a finger inside into you with practiced skill, his thumb and palm messily rubbed your clit, making you grunt with pleasure.

"You're so wet, Y/N," he murmured against the hollow of your collarbone. "Really want my cock, huh? You’re just made to have my babies." Kissing lightly, his lips had a revenant quality as they danced across your chest.

You nodded enthusiastically - breath coming in short gasps. "Yes. Need it. Please..."

James slipped another Vibranium finger inside you, stretching you deliciously and preparing you for his cock. He could feel your muscles retracting around his fingers, your body both tight and begging for more. His mouth explored the expanse of your shoulder, his tongue sliding out and slipping along the arch where your arm joins your neck, continuing to finger you with delicate vigour.

Your body was positively burning, your senses overwhelmed with pleasure. You could feel an orgasm building, a swirling cloud of tension floating south as you got closer and closer to the edge.

"Come for me, Y/N," Bucky whispered, his voice hoarse with a loose clutch on control. "Let me see you come undone, Kitty. It’ll make the seed take better."

With a cry, your body convulsed under the weight of ecstasy, your orgasm ripping through you like a pleasant combustion. Bucky captured your cry in his mouth, his fingers still curling up inside you, drawing out your pleasure.

When you finally rocked down from your release, Bucky lifted you up by the hips and stuffed a pillow under them to angle you upwards. His body covered yours completely. He kissed you deeply and lovingly, his cock throbbing with need as he rubbed it against your pussy.

"I want to feel you inside me," You whispered, darkened eyes locked with his. "I want to feel you breed me, Baby."

Bucky moaned. Not a grunt or a groan, but a true, pleasured moan. His cock was straining painfully by that point. He looked down with nothing but infatuation and lined himself up at your entrance, hands shaking in anticipation. Your hearts were pounding in sync, both sternums moving rapidly.

With one long breath he pushed his hips forward and slipped inside you, his body shuddering at the feel of your slick walls surrounding him raw, with no barrier between you. Your tight body welcomed him in and gripped him tight, causing both pairs of eyes to roll.

“So perfect, Darling…So pretty,” He began to move, his hips thrusting against hers, his cock sliding in and out of her. “M-Fuck..”

"Oh, God, yes," Moaning, your nails dragging down the marred flesh of his back. "Fuck me, James. Fuck me hard."

He obliged, his thrusts becoming faster and harder. You could feel his hips stuttering and faltering after catching your soft spots over and over, his thighs clenching as he approached the edge. He slipped a hand between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit again and stroking it in time with his thrusts.

"Come with me, Y/N," he growled, no longer thinking coherently. "Come with me, baby. I’m ’bout to come inside you-"

With a sob, you felt yourself transcend time and space. Toes curling, back arching, throat bobbing. The air was radiating heat as mingled fluids pooled on the bed.

“Fuck- Yes…Y/N…Gonna’ knock you up, Baby-“

Bucky cried out when your pussy contracted around his cock, your body milking him as he came, his cock convulsing as he filled you with his seed.

You lay there for a moment without breath, bodies entwined, gasps coming in ragged intervals. Bucky rolled off of you, his body spent, but his heart full of love. He pulled you into his arms immediately, your bodies fitting together perfectly.

"I love you, Y/N," he whispered, his voice soft. "I love you so much."

You looked up at him, your eyes filled with love. "I love you too, Bucky. More than anything."

You whine from overstimulation feeling his real hand draw a stripe from your naval to your entrance which was seeping with his release. But before you could reach down to stop him, he tutted. “It’s okay, Doll,” before spreading the liquid stuffing it into you with two fingers, keeping his cum inside you.

“Need to make sure it takes.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Soooo……what did you think? 🤔

Part 3 is out now!

[lokisgoodgirl]

Successional Pleasure: The Rite (II)

A Masterlist for The Rite is here A link to my regular Masterlist is here Summary: (2) Loki arranges a meeting, and you're offered the opportunity of a lifetime (w/c 4.8k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Thirsting for unattainable royals. Language. Heavy petting. Ridiculous Asgardian HC lore. Smuttish.

This morning the palace criers announced mandatory palace court attendance for all of Asgard.

Word travels fast, you muse as another person shoves into your shoulder; especially when the Odinsons will be in full ceremonial dress.

A swell ripples through the crowd, pulsing forward. Only one row of people stand in front of you, and the guards lining the jostling mass are becoming impatient.

You always make an effort for these events; everyone does. However bland and self-aggrandising the subject matter (and with the Allfather, when is it not?) – one never knows who’ll attention you’ll draw. But this time, it’s different.

This time, as you fixed your hair and let your solitary maid tighten the laces of your dress – there was only one person you wanted to impress. Him. Because this time, for the first time, he may actually notice you.

But that’s madness, you think as you try and focus. His lovers are legendary. He has his pick of…anyone. Literal deities.

But then, the memory of Prince Loki’s glistening chest emerging from the palace baths with wet hair plastered over his brow as he grunted through his orgasm erupts in your mind. That’s a memory not easily forgotten. In fact, it’s very easily encouraged. And each time you think of it, more layers appear.

In the extended, delusional version, he crosses the pool, the lapping water licking around his proud cock snug to his stomach as he wages a path to cage you by the stone edge and—

Trumpets blare. “They’re here,” a woman beside you squeals. Her hand flies to yours, clawing with unhinged excitement. The guards straighten, spears thudding against marble in ceremonial greeting.

He probably does that shit all the time; wanking in the palace baths with people he doesn’t know. He won’t see you amongst thousands of faces. That’s madness. But when it came to Loki Odinson, didn’t that make it more likely? Nerves tighten your stomach. The glint of their ostentatious headwear is the first sign of approach; two small figures against the expanse of the ancient doors floor to ceiling of the hall. Cheers thunders like a burst dam through a canyon as they move in sync down the wide aisle, each set of guards they pass thunking their staff in salute. Each thud made your pussy clench. And finally, you catch sight of his face.

It's the picture of haughty expectation at the wild crowds losing their minds as he passes. Every slice and draw of his bone structure is set like marble. He’s above it all; stunning decorative armour that would be absolutely no use in battle accenting broad shoulders at sharp angles. Impeccable posture, as ever. Today, the prince wears full leathers beneath – ridiculously fitted trousers which melded seamlessly to a forest green tunic stitched in golden trim.

To complete the act of war that’s his outfit, a stiff collar cut to the curve of his jawline sweeps up to his earlobes; a solitary curl of ebony hair lying against the leather, freed from his helmet. Thor wears the same red and garish gold he always does, beaming greedily at the crowds.

Your eyes roam over Loki’s sweeping entrance and you smile to yourself that the last time you’d seen him – he’d been naked. The woman beside you begins to breathe heavily as they draw closer. You have no idea, you smirk.

Loki’s cape billows with theatrical elegance down the open aisle, and you wonder briefly if his magic has something to do with it. Thor’s certainly doesn’t flutter around his ankles with the same effortless gravitas. Thor’s doesn’t undulate with every stride, timed with the military precision of its master’s thighs.

The guard in front of you lifts his spear, ready to thrust it to the marble floor. You hold your breath, biting your lip, their glory radiating with each falling step. And then, time seems to stop. Because then, Loki, Prince of Asgard, looks at you. His eyes flicker to the side, narrowing softly in your direction. A low dimple in his cheek flashes, only for a moment. And then - -thunk

The metal clang makes you jump out your skin, and by the time you get your bearings, the princes have moved on. They each face the platform, sinking on one knee with bowed heads while Odin pats down the cheers. He begins to rumble on, something about war, or tradition or blah blah.

The dark prince’s jawline is a work of art as he kneels in performatively rapt attention. With each swallow, his cheekbones flash. The golden helmet highlights the harsh lines of his face, lids dropping every few minutes as he struggles not to roll his eyes. You smile.

“Oh that’s good,” the woman beside you hums. You frown at her, concentration broken. It was her turn to frown. She shakes her head, gazing back to Odin. “Thor reached a treaty with Muspelheim.”

The next hour passes slowly, and for once, you’re grateful. When Odin stops, it’s the Crown Prince’s turn to regale the audience of thousands with his diplomatic success. Only half-listening, you use the time to your advantage, perving on Loki kneeling on the polished floor with those long, pale fingers clasped around one knee. When the dark prince stands, the rest of the high-nobles do the same. He whips his cape back, allowing the crowd a gratuitous view of his muscular ass and thighs flexing beneath tight leather while he unfurls. Loki’s imperious eyes scan the heaving crowd with an air of disdain. The look rolls like a sea wind, cold and unforgiving until you feel its weight land on you.

You’re pinned by that stare as plainly as though it’s his hands; his body. Goosebumps ripple beneath your dress. I see you, he mouths silently, subtly, before his gaze falls on his brother once more.

The royal family wave a final time before slipping to the doors at the back of the Great Hall. Loki’s attention hadn’t fallen upon you again, but the waiting. The anticipation; it was exhausting.

Around you, the bustle of a thousand conversations grows to a roar. The front rows of the crowd begin to file out and follow the same path the royal family had taken through the golden doors. High-court, only. Friends and family, that sort of thing. A huge curtain hangs behind the throne, buffeting gently from some unseen breeze. It’s a rich amber with threads of green and red and blue, shimmering patterns that no mortal fingers could accomplish woven over centuries, millennia even.

Gods, noted warriors and chancellors all dutifully bow to the empty throne before circling around the platform and disappearing behind the curtain. On their way to a feast, no doubt.

A set of bird-like fingers wrap around your wrist. With a yank you pull it away, whipping round to see the expectant face of a young boy.

“Get out of here,” you snarl. Pickpockets are rife at these sorts of things. The boy stares. Puberty hadn’t darkened a shadow on his skin, and despite his age, he was un-phased by the abruptness.

“You are requested,” he says, bored eyes searching your face. People jostle by your shoulders in annoyance. “By who?” you scoff. They’d try anything these days.

The boy tugs your hand. “Requested,” he says again as though it explains everything, turning and pulling you earnestly towards the line of guards. With a single glance at an insignia on his tunic, they part for him.

You traipse behind him at pace, clutching long skirts in one fist while eyes in the crowd follow you down the marble aisle against the sea of people and behind the mysterious curtain. “Name?” a voice grunts.

You look from the back of the boy’s head to the bulky figure in front of you. He’s dressed in robes of scarlet, the hint of a dagger’s hilt beneath a thick belt. A wiry red beard hangs down his chest, resting on a buckle of black steel. “I know you not…” he sneers slowly. “No names,” the boy snaps. He barely came up to the gatekeeper’s stomach. “She’s been requested.” The gatekeeper’s face crumples and his eyes dart to the emblem on the boy’s chest before standing aside, holding his tongue.

The youth gestures with his head to follow him, and you do…. down a short corridor flooded with buttery light. Delicate jangling of lutes and laughter ring to ornate cloisters, a glittering view of Asgard below the balcony-walkway taking your breath away. “Hurry,” the boy snips without a backwards look. “Master is not a patient man.”

He claps his small hands three times and a set of golden doors at the end of the cloister swing open. Thor comes into view mid-conversation, still wearing his ceremonial armour, a goblet spilling over the sides clutched in one hand as he gesticulates wildly. There’s a rumble of polite laughter. Your hand shoots out, grabbing the boy’s shoulder.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you mutter. He shoots a scathing glance over his shoulder, casting a salty look down to your feet and back again. “You have been—”

“—requested,” you finish petulantly. “Yeah, I know.”

Your ribs thrum as you walk through the doors, pulled by invisible hands. There can only be one person who harbours the desire to have you at this exclusive gathering. And even that’s beyond insanity. Has he mistaken you for someone else? The boy, that is. He’s a barely more than a child. You were about to ask where you should go, when you realise he’s gone. Casting a frantic look around the room it’s evident that familiar groups have already formed, jokes cracking in waves; picking at piles of nuts and fruit and meats. Frigga herself stands by an ornate silver trolley, ladling wine into a goblet while Lofn whispers in her ear. Your knees buckle slightly. There he is.

A small figure works through folds of silk and armoured angles to the back of the room. You follow him, before halting abruptly, steadying yourself against a table. The boy’s come to a stop in front of a shadowed figure, exchanging a conspiratorial nod. Loki Odinson claps him on the back, raising a goblet to his lips. He rests against a pillar, choosing to stay apart from the revels. Watching. Waiting. His eyes meet yours as he sips; dark and dangerous over a rim of gold. One brow twitches upwards in, you presume, greeting. Sweaty palms run slip the front of your dress and you fight the sudden urge to run. It’s pale blue, the finest you own. Which isn’t saying much. The same colour as his eyes, you realise.

The Prince lowers the goblet, cocking his head. He’s still adorned with the ensemble his part in the day’s festivities required save one, the helmet. Dark curls spill freely over the shoulders of the cape fastened to guards beneath, intricate folds of fabric worked to perfection.

He raises a hand, forefinger beckoning twice in subtle succession before lowering it again. Just like the baths, you think with a shameful thrill. Your gaze darts to faces you’ve only seen in paintings around the court as you glide over, trying to look like you belong - but no one bats an eye. Loki unhooks one foot from behind the other, nudging himself off the column. Leather boots gape teasingly around his calves. You wonder, if you beg like a common trollop, if he would fuck you wearing those boots. Only those boots—

“You’re not wearing green,” the Prince drawls. You open your mouth and close it again, irritatingly mute while his blue irises smoulder. “Usually they wear green.” You press your lips together, collecting yourself. “Who?” “Those trying to bed me,” Loki says.

“I’m not trying to—” The prince waves a dismissive hand. “—Catch my attention, then.”

You feel your cheeks heat under scrutiny, a very obvious swallow working its way down your throat. “I don’t know what you mean your Highness,” you say. “You summoned me.”

“Indeed, I did. So I imagine I must have a very good reason,” the Prince murmurs. He brings the pad of a fingertip to his lower lip, brushing it across the skin as you stand in silent bemusement. “Loki! Did you send for a jester? What fun!” You inhale sharply as Fandral slides into view beside your shoulder. His hair is on point this evening, a lush wave cresting over his forehead and swept to the side as his eyes trail to your feet and back to your face. “Oh, my mistake. Just someone getting a little a carried away with the rouge, it seems.” Your stomach tightens. “I’m leaving, your Highness,” you say with a lacklustre bow and a bitter taste in your mouth. “But you do not have my permission,” Loki growls quietly. His feet come into view on the floor and you raise your head, inhaling the sweet breath from his lungs clouding your lips. “More wine, Loki?” Fandral asks brightly, already pouring into Loki’s goblet. The prince’s eyes don’t leave yours, but his mouth hardens.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” he asks through gritted teeth. Fandral looks at you with mock-surprise. “Oh yes, most recent conquest is it? Come for a peek behind the gilded curtain before you’re sent back to the depths of banality? I thought he’d run out of new faces.” He winks; it makes your stomach churn.   “She’s not a conquest,” Loki says, hovering the goblet by his lips. “Not one of mine, anyway.”

Your eyes dart to his and catch them narrow slightly. Fandral looks genuinely confused. “Well, what then? Why is she here? Who is she?”

Suddenly there’s a loud crash to the side. Thor stumbles against the table laden with wine-soaked pears and pastries and mounds of tartlets, knocking a pile of cold meats to the ground. He wobbles after them, kneeling on the floor and beginning to pick them off the stones as if they were jewels. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” Loki mutters, and you feel the gentle pressure of a hand on your waist. “Walk with me,” he urges in your ear and a shudder rolls down your spine.

“Loki?” Fandral calls as the figures around you start to blur and the Prince manoeuvres you through the crowd like a feather. “Loki, I must speak to you about the…matter, I’ll…later. Yes, later. Quite.” A wall of fresh air skates over your skin. You hadn’t realised how warm it was inside. The two of you come to a stop at the wall of the balcony, nails skimming against polished marble. Loki clears his throat.

“I apologise for Fandral he’s…” Loki looks up from beneath his lashes, a performative sheepishness softening his face, “well, himself.” You stifle a laugh, focusing on the edge of the moonlit waterfalls in the distance. Silence hangs between you, made louder by the jumbled festivities inside. “Why am I here, Prince Loki?” you whisper, not daring to look at him. “If it’s about what happened in the baths, I won’t tell a soul I swear—” “—It’s not.” Irritation begins to brew in your stomach. “Well then Fandral has a point. Why am I here? I’m no one.” “Exactly.” A prickle of heat rises up your neck, stinging your ears. “Am I a joke to you, your Highness?”

Loki’s eyes flashing in moonlight, but he says nothing. It stings.

“You bring me here to make a fool out of me in front of your friends? In front of Frigga? Frigga.” “I needed to see if any of them knew you.” Loki’s voice is eerily calm, his gaze as unflinching as a cliff jutting into night. “And clearly, they do not. Fandral would recognise you if they did; that little fishwife knows absolutely everything.” “Why would they know me? And what does it matter?” “It matters a great deal. To me, at least. And to you, perhaps.” You push a strand of hair back from your forehead, hating that its damp. The skin feels hot. Hot and flustered and clammy with embarrassment and…shit, arousal. Can he tell?

Black strings of lax curl blow gently around Loki’s jawline, pale lips stained with wine. “Tell me, my Lady…have you heard of the Rite of Successional Pleasure?” he asks, and suddenly all other noise vanishes from your ears save the hum of his voice.

Loki’s eyes run down the blue chiffon of your robe, wondering if he could peel it off and cast it skating across the stone with a solitary swipe of his hand. Allowing you a moment to collect yourself, he decides that yes, he could. “Surely just a legend, my Prince…” you answer demurely, busying your hands and staring off into the distance as an unmistakable waft of heat courses from your bare neckline. He licks his lips, feeling a smirk curl the corners.

“Aren’t we all?” he purrs. Their eyes meet. “I assure you it is very real. A relic, to be sure. But real enough. And I require a partner to enact this Rite, else my succession to Asgard’s throne will not be entrenched in law. I have waited too long as it is, as I keep being reminded.”

“That’s very…interesting,” you say.

Loki straightens. He hadn’t taken you for a dullard, but he does appreciate the delayed gratification of enthusiasm at the proposal. Loki can hear your heart thud faster; he wonders how much of that blood is flushing to your sex beneath the gown billowing about your ankles. You glance at him and quickly look away. It makes Loki’s stomach twist. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps events in the bath-house were simply…opportunity. Or worse, fear. You clear your throat. “What is it, exactly? The Rite of Successional…” “—Pleasure,” Loki finishes abruptly. He rolls his shoulders back, steadying the flurry of unwelcome nerves in his chest.

“One of my family’s farcical traditions. When Asgard’s twin moons are in perfect equilibrium within the heavens, once every half millennia – eligible members of the royal family suitable for rule must, in order to be considered for finite succession, perform the Rite.” “Which is?”

Loki’s eyes fall down the curve of your neck, hovering on your moist lips. He’d thought of nothing else in the days since the bath-house; those lips sucked between his teeth, stretching around his cock; swollen and wet and…

“Pleasure.” It comes out sterner than intended. “To be given, only. A king must not just be skilled in diplomacy, in combat, in war and sacrifice, but in giving pleasure,” he says, imitating the cadence of his father’s voice with a caricatural wave of his hand. “How else can Asgard’s citizens know we are to be trusted, to be benevolent, if is not documented in the annals?”

“You can’t be serious,” you say. “I thought it was a joke, like the other things.” “Contrary to belief, I can be very serious indeed, little owl,” Loki replies with a smile. It fades. The weight of the pet name plucked from nowhere hangs in the air like smoke as you fidget with a fold of your dress. Gods, how he hates that it’s blue. “I still don’t see what it has to do with me,” you posture meekly. Loki tenses, words hissing between his teeth. “Bifrost’s blood, woman. I’m asking you to be my partner for the Rite. Must I carve it in stone?”

The widen of your eyes makes his stomach flutter and you attempt a clumsy curtsey which makes Thor’s staggered collapse among the strewn meats look elegant. “I…I don’t know what to…I—” Suddenly, you look up. “Is it witnessed?” “Of course.” Horror blossoms in your eyes. “Oh…it’s very tasteful,” Loki says, inspecting his nails. “Much more so than the Ceremony of the Sacred Seed, I assure you. It relies more on…aural methods. For the most part.”

“I’ve never been invited to that,” you reply absently, and Loki notes that your fingers have curled around his wrist armour, steadying yourself. “When is the…the moon thing?” “Five nights from now,” he says, and your jaw drops. “I understand I’ve left it rather late, but I really am in rather a bind.” The irony of him practically begging this unknown woman of the court to bring her the greatest ecstasy she’s ever know wasn’t lost on Loki, but for the moment at least…he decides to restrain his natural urge to remind her of that fact.

“Your reputation will only be enhanced, I assure you,” he adds. “It’s a great honour. And I am, if I may say, quite renowned for my skill in that department.” “Why me?” she asked. And there it was. He grimaced. “Don’t lie to me,” she added bravely, and his grimace deepened. “The Rite will only be valid if the recipient has never known the touch of a god. Or, more specifically their…essence. Our essences must never have touched each other. The punishment is severe; there are tomes and everything; rules…how I loathe them,” he says, offering a weak smile. Realisation blossoms in your eyes. “And…I’m afraid my roster has been rather full these past centuries.” A small laugh erupts from your throat that makes it incredibly difficult not to shut you up with his mouth. “Surely you can’t have fucked everyone in the high-court?”

Loki bit back a laugh of his own. “Rather brazen, aren’t you?” he says, narrowing his eyes. “Regrettably, my options in that circle are limited to Fandral. And I’m afraid I cannot bring myself to give him the satisfaction he most desperately desires; it’s far too much fun tormenting him.” You raise an eyebrow and Loki scoffs, smoothing a curl back. “Oh, don’t act so surprised. I know what they must say about me.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, your Highness,” you say with a conspiratorial smile.

“Liar,” Loki replies softly. The sparkle of your mischief fades, and he finds he immediately misses it. “So, I’m…a last resort, then?” “Somewhat, yes.” You bristle, goosebumps rising along your bare arms in the evening chill. Loki watches them flare, fighting the urge to soothe them with his fingertips. Another eruption of his brother’s drunken laughter bounces from the archways.

“What happened in the baths,” she says, eyeing him warily. “Wouldn’t that count? Wouldn’t your…uh, essence have…travelled?”

A small noise scratches from Loki’s throat. “Far too diluted. Fortunately…we were rather far apart.” She moves a step closer, looking up at him beneath her lashes. Her scent makes his mouth water. “And besides, if memory serves you made rather a hasty exit.” “If I agree to this, what’s in it for me?” you ask with a coolness he isn’t expecting. He frowns. “Aside from the obvious?” You shoot him a scathing glare. “You’ll be an honoured guest of Asgard’s highest echelons until the ceremony; luxurious quarters, the finest garments…yours to keep, naturally. A feast in your honour, the honour of my escort, a place in Asgard’s history, and of course…my eternal thanks.” He waits until you turn fractionally towards him before deploying a calculated wink. Your expression is stamped with suspicion, and yet he sees the intrigue nestled beneath the veneer of resistance. He’s not surprised when you shuffle closer, glancing over your shoulder. “Is there um…practice, involved?” Loki feels his brows shoot up. “Practice? Norns haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? Our…”

He whips his cape as he spins, eyeing over his shoulder, catching the glint of Fandral’s flaxen hair hovering by the feasting table. “Our evidence of arousal cannot be in contact before the Rite…not a single drop, lest the entire ceremony be declared null and my honour as a successor questioned.” “Right,” you say stiffly. “Of course.” He can feel the heat of embarrassment radiating from your skin.

You need her, fool. Loki clears his throat with a dry rattle. “But we may…get to know each other. That is expected, at least. If you agree, of course.” You turn to him, eyes shimmering in moonlight. Loki wonders again how he could possibly have missed such a rare jewel in the drab sameness of Asgard’s court. He straightens as your finger runs over the metal at his wrist, trailing up the hem of his cape. “Are you allowed to kiss me?” you ask. A thick swallow works down his throat, his trousers tightening as you add, “What do the rules say about that?” Suddenly it feels as though he could be three-hundred again, unfamiliar nerves sizzling in his belly like fire. “I…there is no impediment to that particular act, no.” “Don’t you think it would be wise to…make sure we’re compatible before you make such a momentous decision?” A flush creeps up Loki’s neck above the high collar of his tunic as the clink of goblets and laughter continue inside the archway and he’s thankful for darkness. A muscle in his jawline twitches, fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides. There it was again, that audacity. So wilful, and yet…

In a flash his fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging you back with him into shadow. He slips a hand around your back, cushioning your spine as you meet rough stone with a gasp. Your sultry eyes look up at him with manufactured innocence.

“Let’s spare ourselves the virginal theatrics,” he hums, drawing his nose up the line of your cheekbone. The shiver that racks your body makes the toes in his boots curl. “You will be my partner for this sacred Rite?” You catch his lips with the brush of an autumn breeze, grazing against the words. The scent of you overwhelms him; a deep forest tang with overtures of a fragrant sweetness he can’t place.

He groans into the kiss, hungrier with every work of his mouth against the reach of your tongue. Loki’s hands slide up the swell of your breasts, each moan shivering from your throat into his making him want to explode.

As your fingers card through his hair, he realises the other hand is working down the harsh wall of tunic, sliding down his abdomen, hungry for the engorged lust strapped to his hip. There is a barrier, he thinks wildly, tempering his fear. There is a barrier. You squeeze. “Norns, woman…” he growls between gritted teeth, steadying a forearm against the wall behind your head as his gnawing kisses work down your neck. Stone veins spread in crunching crackles under the pressure. “Loki,” you gasp beneath him, bucking into the press of his armour into your endless curves. The realisation he can’t sate it hits with sudden, unwelcome clarity.

“Far too familiar,” he chides against your ear with a feigned derision that makes another moan snake from your throat. Loki’s cock throbs harder. “I remain your Prince, and you will address me as such.” You crush his lips with a kiss full of such desire Loki thinks he might shatter. His cock rubs against your stomach, harsh friction sending jolts of pleasure lancing through his body and suddenly, you break from him with a pant. “Do you want to know my name now, my Prince?”

His saliva rings your mouth; lips swollen and puffed. He nods twice, keeping his chin low on the second as his eyes flutter closed as you lean to his ear, whispering the word. Now that he knows it, he can’t imagine it being anything else.

“…and I’m no one’s last resort, not even a god,” you say, meeting his eyes. Loki steps back, jaw hardening as you smooth down the front of your dress. “I didn’t mean to imply—” “—Well, you did. So, if this still seems like a good idea in the morning, I expect to see you again under less…crowded circumstances.” Loki bit back the urge to protest, but as much as he was loathe to admit it…she had a point. Preparations for the Rite were usually conducted over months, and as he widened his stance, clasping his hands behind his back, a familiar coiffured sheaf of golden hair glinted and disappeared with suspicious urgency. “Unless you’d rather partake with Fandral?”

Loki’s stomach flips but he swallows down the urge to answer. “You’re familiar with my apprentice?” he asks. You nod. “He shall come for you at noon tomorrow.” A small smile flickers at your glistening lips. “Very well, your Highness,” you say, sinking into a curtsey that makes Loki’s cock ache before rising and gliding towards the open archway. He rolls his lips together, fighting the urge to follow you – but he’s already shown his hand too heavily tonight.

As you pass through the arch, Thor wobbles in the other direction, casting a quizzical glance backwards. “There you are, brother,” he slurs, slumping onto the balcony. His arm makes a heavy gesture towards the party, swinging wildly. “She is the one?” Loki bristles. “Yes, brother.”

“Finally. Norns preserve us, I thought you’d never make it. You know she is not suitable for the ceremony if she has been...sampled, already?” he asks as both eyebrows rise. Loki scoffs and throws his brother an incredulous stare. “I know that,” he snarls. “What do you take me for, some kind of rube?” Thor sighs, picking a slice of cured boar from his breastplate and dangling into his mouth. “Let’s hope you can satisfy her, then – in every way. For all our sakes.” Loki’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “If you can scrape past the requirements, we both know I shall have no issue.” “Mmm,” his brother hums. “If it wasn’t for the other matter her response will be measured on.”

“It’s all in hand, brother,” he lies, ignoring the thump of his heart, watching the bob of your head as you wind between intoxicated council members towards the door. “Five moons is more than enough time for that.” And beside him, Thor snorts.

Chapter Three: Measurement The Masterlist for the Rite is here Tags in comments (≧ヮ≦) 💕

[nikoco11]

wavin at you. so question: how’d you get so good at drawing bodies? i’m pretty decent at them but you can draw bodies from just so many angles and in so many perspectives and that’s always hard from me. do you use references? how do you break the body down to be able to do those perspectives so well?

waving back at u hello!! tagging in ur other questions here so i can knock out as much as i can at once ^_^

i use lots of references! i used to use them by drawing over the silhouettes of poses i found on pinterest.

i don’t have any easy tricks or shortcuts to proportions unfortunately :’D i picked it up from observation just by doing this for so long.

it’s a fun way to learn, but can be restraining in terms of stiffness and also making u really dependent on seeing a reference before u can think of how to draw a certain pose.

now, i focus on what lines a body follows rather than the silhouette. i try to keep every section of the body to no more than 1-3 lines when first sketching.

doesn’t matter if the lines are accurate, just be bold w them!!!!!

this is a lot easier to me than breaking the body down into shapes, and it keeps everything more fluid.

it’s on these lines where i choose to exaggerate as well!!!

my fav exaggerations to do are flipping between curve/straight/curve/straight.

for example: on the left leg, i made the curve of the calf more pronounced while stiffening the straight line of the shin.

or on the skirt, i simplified the edges to single straight lines and the hem to one long curve :D

this comes back to my 1-3 lines habit, where i try to simplify everything as much as i can, but also it comes down simply to observation and practice…..which is unfortunately the worst answer ever but it’s true LOL my sketchbooks are packed right now, but i have many many pages of completely fucking up and drawing a leg one thousand times too long. the best thing to do is to draw quickly and boldly, even if it’s wrong 100 times, than to sit down and take forever trying to get it correct on the first try.

pen and marker sketching will force u to do this LOL. it helps to find pens and markers that are fun to use, especially for scribbling, bc then u will look forward to drawing more even if it turns out bad!!!

[cupcakeslushie]

Hey! Your use of line weights is really amazing. Dk you have any suggestions or things you usually think about when doing your line work?

So knowing where you want your light source to be will usually help a great deal in deciding your line weight for you. But I also give much more depth to the spots that bend, overlap or objects that fall behind others.

My pressure curve also helps a lot in my line weight. I tend to have a heavy hand, so if you have a lighter touch this might need adjusting, but a steep curve allows for a lot of variation in your brush thickness. Make sure maximum and minimum size of your brush settings (I use the mono line brush) are set all the way to highest and lowest so you really get the entire range based off your pressure. From there it’s just practicing.

An exercise that really helps me warm up is the one shown below. Draw lines and circles and vary your pressure. You can try doing it so they’re all the same to practice consistency, or you can move around to practice pressure from different angles.

[pcktknife]

hello! I love your art! I wanted to ask because I’m trying to get better at drawing black characters: do you have any tips on drawing lips? I’ve noticed you’re very good with expressive mouths w/ lips. Thank you very much!

i mean generally the steven universe (for lack of a better title) method works. mouth -> top line -> bottom line. coloring the lips and adding a lil shine are just extra steps.

lips follow the shape/direction the mouth goes. dont do donut lips. usually top lip is darker than the bottom one. for the lip lines i use both angles/straightish lines and curves. lips vary in shape n size. and thats all i got

[shotoh]

❝ SO… ASS, T!TS, OR THIGHS? ❞ feat. itoshi sae

— what’s his preference?

cw + tw. 18+, smut, minors dni, fem!reader, dom!sae, all characters are aged up to over their 20s, sae’s ogling you (respectfully and as your boyfriend), backshots, oral (f!receiving), pet names (sweetheart, love), lowkey exhibitionism, spanking, hinted creampie, brief religious imagery idk i’m putting this here just in case

notes. kaneshiro did not know the demons he unleashed when he decided to tell us sae has an ass fetish...

ass.

sae’s a very straightforward man who knows exactly what he likes and dislikes. and to put it bluntly, he loves your ass. the man has a canon ass fetish and we’re going to respect his tastes to the t.

that isn’t to say he doesn’t have an appreciation for your other assets (i’m sorry) though. he always ensures that every part of you is loved and revered, whether by buying you clothing that emphasizes your beauty in all the right areas or exchanging subtle (and/or not so subtle) touches, ghosting his hand or straight up palming your lovely curves.

but if there’s ever a chance you catch itoshi sae slipping, it’s because of your gorgeous ass.

regardless if he’s able to admit it or not, sae is the reason why you two can’t work out at public gyms anymore. 1.) because he gets recognized way too easily as a world renown professional athlete. and 2.) because he can never stop ogling your ass as you’re working out. and, for an added bonus: 3.) because of what ends up happening after you catch him doing so.

there have been countless times, you’ve found yourself in a squat or pose which focuses on your glutes. while in those positions, your ass looks incredible, and sae is always there to let you know even if he never says so out loud. you’d be hands and knees on your mat, ready to do a few sets of leg kickbacks, and the midfielder will be a couple machines away, sweat clinging to his workout gear as he reaches for the water bottle next to his feet.

when he takes a swig from his hydro, his ocean blue eyes are evidently at an angle. if you draw his line of vision, you’ll discover he’s watching you go through your exercises. it’s almost a ritual for him, to observe and admire the way your butt is accentuated with every stretch, your muscles flexing along your well-developed curves as your seamless shorts cling to you like a second skin. all this is done out of utmost respect, of course. at least that’s what sae likes to think.

you’re not at all oblivious to his wandering eyes, and sometimes you like teasing your audience, angling yourself in a way that allows him a clearer view of your movements. after you finish going through the motions, you stand up from the mat and stretch before turning over to send him a cheeky little wink. to add more oil to the fire, you bring your hand behind you and lift your cheeks, before releasing them to let them bounce before his eyes.

it’s downright hypnotic and sinful, but sae can’t help but indulge in the devil as he swings his towel over his shoulder. then, he immediately drags you in the showers with him to watch your ass bounce some more, pistoning his hips against you and splitting you on his cock under the running waters.

“what did you think was gonna happen when you pulled a stunt like that, sweetheart? such a naughty girl,” he grunts, muttering curses about how well you’re taking him while his eyes are glued on the flesh ricocheting off his thrusts. honestly, he has some nerve reprimanding you when he’s the one who started it with his obvious gawking, but if it means you’ll be blissfully filled with his cum and creaming all over his cock, you don’t have any complaints.

eventually, sae has his own private gym installed in his residence. which is what he honestly should have done in the beginning given all the money he has, but his trips to overseas matches doesn’t grant him many opportunities to use it.

that aside, your prior antics don’t really change, except the two of you are much more shameless since you don’t have to worry about stray eyes or cameras everywhere. usually, you find yourself only a few sets into your routine before sae is bending you over the equipment while pulling your leggings down to your ankles. yet somehow he’s not tearing a hole through them, to your astonishment.

he has some class at least, but that means little when the midfielder prys your asscheeks apart with firm hands, fixated on how your glistening pussy twitches and your flesh overlaps between his fingers. “what do you want, sweetheart?” he asks in a deceptively gentle tone given his grip that makes you feel so exposed.

you crane your head, features flustered and hot. “cock, sae.”

“where?” his stoic expression acts ignorant even when he already knows what you’re about to say.

“inside me!” you cry and you’re met with a quick spank that stings your ass.

“manners,” he reminds you, piercing teal eyes glowing at the mild red imprint he left behind.

your voice is quieter but shaky, “i-inside my pussy, please… i’ll behave...”

“that’s all i wanted to hear, my love.” he rewards you with his lips over the faint mark on your skin, tenderly soothing the pain while worshiping you all the same before he moves away to line himself to your hole. he enters slowly, loving how your tight, yummy walls take him as his length gradually disappears. your nails dig into the leather beneath you, and you rasp a sensual cry as his cock deliciously kisses all the right spots inside you over and over again.

copyright 2023 shotoh, all rights reserved. i do not allow my creations to be published or translated anywhere else so please do not repost this or share my content on tiktok.

[zayne-li]

5 Fun Facts About the Prostate!

I finally finished it. I'm not going to beta read it bc this thing has been causing me so much pain lmao.

Zayne gets pegged. That's it. That's the fic. Enjoy. NSFW, MDNI

3.8k words

It's one of those few times when I have Zayne on my lap, instead of the other way around when I finally get the courage to ask about something I've been thinking about... For a while. 

His hands are braced on the back of the couch on either side of me, and he's been tugged closer and closer while we kiss, thanks to my grip on his tie that I refuse to relinquish. Still, even though he's straddling me, Zayne doesn't drop his weight onto my lap, maybe being slightly afraid he'll crush me, or hinder the circulation in my legs or something. 

I lick into his mouth, and he lets me (the same way he lets me do a lot of things. I'm starting to get the message.), and my other hand at his hip trails a dangerous path around to the frankly amazing curve of his ass, only accentuated by the tight slacks he's wearing, and I squeeze. 

Zayne makes a small sound in the back of his throat, and jolts a little in my lap, but it doesn't seem like he's trying to get away as our foreheads press together and our hot breath mingles. "Zayne..." I say, and trace my finger down the seam of the back of his pants, drawing a line to where I can likely assume my prize would be, and he stiffens in my arms, brows furrowing slightly. I'm not sure if it's from confusion or discomfort, so I stop there, though I really want to push harder into the unyielding fabric. 

"I really want to fuck you." 

He blinks, and the flush already on his cheeks from our heavy makeout session darkens even further. From this angle, so close to him, I can physically see his pupils grow in size, blowing out the molten gold and green in his eyes. 

"... You what?" His voice is still low, and rough, though surprised. And then, after another long moment of us looking into each others eyes, he seems to fully realize what exactly it is I'm asking, as I let go of his tie and grab his other cheek with that same hand, using my grip on the plush pillow of his ass to pull him downwards and finally, more fully onto my lap. 

"You're serious." Zayne says, almost in disbelief, the chuckle present in the words themselves. 

So... He definitely doesn't hate the idea. 

--

But of course, because he's Zayne, he spends a few weeks doing research. Purely academic, he tells me, just so he knows what he's getting into and how to be prepared. Because he's Zayne, and he'll never deny me anything. Maybe he'll hate it, he doesn't know yet, but he will, always, without fail, indulge me at least once.

Another reason I'm starting to get suspicious is that when we are in bed, so far, he's really only made an effort to cater to my own needs, instead of his own. The sex is great, yes, and having a boyfriend who gets on his knees for me multiple times a week without ever once being asked too? Phenomenal. 

And clearly, he loves eating me out, fingering me, judging by the way the act seems to wreck him almost as much as it wrecks me (the first time he did it, I'm almost certain he came in his pants, because afterwards he insisted he was fine, that he didn't need anything from me, and then made a hasty retreat to the bathroom. When he returned, he said it was because he wanted to clean me up).

I'm not an idiot. Zayne is a powerful man, who bears a lot of responsibility on his shoulders, and he considers me to be one of them, most of the time. At least in bed, well... Maybe he can let me take care of him instead. Because I want to. He is very good at following orders, after all(I've noticed on more than one occasion). And I have been wondering more and more often... Just how far this tendency of his goes.

--

"How do you want to do this? On your back, or all fours?" I tilt my head slightly at him, pulling away from a sloppy kiss that has his lips shining with our shared spit. Zayne's ears are pink. He opens his mouth, but seems to have no immediate answer. "Or do you want me to bend you over the bed? ... Or do you want me to pick?"

"You choose. You're the one who wants this so badly." He tries to keep up his bravado, but at my final suggestion, I feel him twitch beneath me, though he's still dressed from the waist down. I'm the one who's more naked right now, having lost my shirt and shorts some while ago, not long after he closed the door behind him. He barely had enough time to toe off his shoes and set his bag down before I was crowding him against the wall, determined to make sure tonight went a very certain way. 

And now, with him shirtless, blushing, laying back in the bed and letting me touch him all over... I think I might get my way tonight. I just need to be careful... I don't want to scare him off of being this vulnerable for me. 

"Well," I begin, my voice light and teasing as I let my lips turn their attention to his throat and chest, kissing his Adams apple and collarbone, deliberately taking my time down to his tiny, pink nipples, while my fingers work at his belt and pants, sliding down his legs and discarding them somewhere on the floor, "I mean if I could really choose... We'd be doing this in your office and I'd have you over the desk. And you'd still have your lab coat on."

Zayne scoffs, "That one may have to remain in your fantasies, I fear. I do have a reputation to uphold." But I feel his cock twitching again, twice this time, belying the fact that he finds that thought arousing as well, though he's doing his best to scold me, despite the position he's allowing himself to be forced into. 

"Boo," I murmur, and bite his nipple softly. In return, I'm rewarded with one of his soft little whimpers, and he'd scowl at that too, if I said it to him. "On your back, then. I want to see your pretty face while I fuck you. Surely you understand the appeal?" 

Zayne's eyes glimmer with mirth, and I get another sound of amusement from him, though he says nothing else, giving me his consent as I feel him fully relax beneath me, and the fingers he has tangled in my hair move down to my thigh, and then knee, urging it upwards so he can spread his legs for me while I suck bruises into his chest. 

"Ready?" I ask, raising my head to meet his eyes, now dark with desire, half lidded, his bangs hanging almost entirely over one of them. He nods, and once I've managed to lube up my fingers, with the bottle prepared (in advance, of course) nearby, I raise one of his legs at the knee, bending it upwards as I reach down between them, bypassing his cock to slick up his entrance. Zayne jolts at the sensation, and I haven't even pushed in yet, only pressed against the pink pucker, spreading the wetness on my fingers around it. 

"Have you tried anything on your own?" His cock, I notice, is already half hard against his stomach, pretty and pink and perfect. 

"No... Other than... Well, I purchased an enema bulb, but that wasn't..." Zayne attempts to explain, and I begin a slow and gentle push into him with my index finger, and his brows furrow at the sensation. "Given how excited you were, I assumed you would..." He sucks in a breath, and his eyes close, "would want the pleasure."

"You're right." I confirm, and rub my other hand across his thigh, where I'm holding it, "Stop talking though. If we're ever going to get anywhere, you need to relax." Zayne is clearly tense, along almost every line of his body, and I try to distract him with gentle touches, along his hips and ribs. "Breathe, honey... Just breathe.... Relax." I murmur to him, and he makes a clear attempt to obey, though the breath he takes shudders on the way in and out. 

"Relax..." I press a bit deeper, and feel his hole clench around my finger, trying to push me out, and so I stay right there until his walls ease up. I wipe the furrow from his brow, and he finally meets my gaze again, his expression clearly unsure. 

"Remember, like I said, if you hate this, we never have to do it again." Finally, I get my finger all the way inside, and he's so tight around me just from this, I'm suddenly unsure how far we'll be able to get tonight. 

"How does it feel?" 

Zayne is clearly trying to relax his body, sinking further into the mattress, but his ass is not a muscle he's used to paying conscious attention to, and so he's clearly finding it difficult, though I do feel him start to relax more fully after some time, as I just wiggle a bit inside. 

"Strange..." He begins, and then gasps as apparently, I twist and crook my finger in just the right spot, and his previously flagging erection grows just a bit, right before my eyes. He looks down at me with a mixture of surprise and curiosity, mouth open as I crook my finger again, and he grunts, his warm hole fluttering. "That was..." Zayne tries, seemingly conflicted by the sensation. 

"Your prostate? I would assume, based on your reaction." I smile, nodding down towards his cock that has begun to fill out. "Does it feel good?"

"... I don't know. I do know it's a pleasure point in the male body." 

"Zayne, you are not about to give me an anatomy lesson right now." I move my finger, pull it out, drizzle more lube over it, and then press back in, starting a slow rhythm, hopefully to help him get more used to the sensation. For my troubles, I get another little sound out of him, this one sounding more pleasured than confused. 

"You don't--" He grunts again, turns a little pinker, and rolls his head on the pillow while I fuck him on my finger. His cock I am ignoring on purpose, knowing that would only distract him. "You don't think my lectures are sexy?" 

"Everything about you is sexy. Would it help you relax if you did give me a lecture on all the functions of the prostate while I get your ass ready for my dick?"

The slide of my fingers in and out of him becomes easier as he lays back and groans, so with another drizzle of lube, gently, I try to press my middle finger in as well. It's tight again, but he's becoming looser. 

"Yes--" he gasps, and I openly chuckle. In return I get a lazy half smile out of him. 

"Go ahead then, honey. Tell me what's so special about..." I twist both of my fingers the way I had before, to make him jump, rubbing them there when his hips buck and he gives me a whine, brows pulling up as his mouth drops open. "This." 

"Fuck." Zayne rarely swears, so that's how I know he's starting to lose it, and goddamn if that word from his lips doesn't get me wet in more than a few seconds. I let up though, focusing my attention on scissoring him, stretching him, fucking gently in and out. I don't want to overwhelm him, not yet. 

"The prostate..." He begins, the tensing in his abdomen easing up a bit as my focus shifts away from that particular bundle of nerves. "Is located below the bladder, and in front of the rectum." His voice has gone breathy, tight, but funnily enough, it does seem to be helping the tight warmth of his pretty hole relax while I work patiently. "It's primary function is to aid in--" another small whine when I add more lube, "to aid in semen production, and to help push it through the urethra." 

Hilariously enough, I do find myself actually listening, and bite my lip to avoid distracting him while I add my ring finger. At this point, his cock is now fully hard, which, honestly... I didn't expect.

"Go on." I encourage him, looking away from the sight of my fingers inside of him to see his neck bared, eyes closed as he almost arches into the pillow below his head. An adorable sight, he's panting, flushed from his ears to his chest, and yet his expression is one of almost complete focus.

"The urethra runs directly through the prostate. There are... Nnh... There are five lobes." 

Lobes? Zayne... I bite my lip harder. With three fingers now, he's much looser, and it's both so cute and so hilarious that his focus on anatomy right now actually is helping him open up to my intrusions. I can feel it happening. 

"There's the... Anterior--" The rest of whatever he’s about to try and explain about the lobes of the prostate is cut off as I move, leaning up and over him to capture his lips in a kiss. The heel of my palm rests over, and presses against his balls. Zayne makes a little muffled sound and then sighs. I can feel him melt into me and I smile.

“As much as I’d love to hear the rest of that lecture… You feel like you’re ready?” Our noses brush, and he looks up at me, his eyes dark and filled with emotions that I have trouble naming… Vulnerability, maybe? But something else too. His breath is hot against my cheek as he exhales. 

“Yes. I think so.”

“Feels good?”

“More than I expected.”

When I slip my fingers out of him, he grunts a little, the sound so disappointed that I chuckle as I climb off of the warmth of his body, and reach back for the dresser at the foot of the bed, slipping my legs through the harness and tightening it as fast as I can manage. 

“Good. Don’t move. I want you just like this.” I say as I crawl between his legs, one hand full of the silicone cock now attached to me, and the other with a bottle of lube that I drizzle generously over the entire length. Zayne pulls up his knees as I approach him, spreading his legs a little wider to accommodate me. For a moment, the sight has me frozen. His hole gapes now, stretched from my fingers, and I watch it flutter under my gaze. 

Zayne is blushing, hooking his hands behind his thighs, and no doubt shy about the way he’s presenting himself like this to me. Heat rocks through me, and I know I’m slick between my thighs. “Fuck, Zayne.” I breathe, and his blush grows brighter right before my eyes.

“Yes, I believe that’s the idea.” He quips anyway, and we both share a smile, his lips quirking while I try to hold back a giggle.

While I still have his eyes on my face, I reach my hand down, beneath the leather of the harness I’m wearing, and collect my own wetness on my fingers. We both look down at the same time when I press them back into his pink hole, and I feel him clench down on me, his cock twitching several times, growing harder than it’s been all night in a matter of seconds. 

“You…” He whines.

He’d never admit that’s what it was, but I become determined almost instantly to force him to make that sound again. I pour more lube over the space between his thighs, retracting my fingers to smooth some of it up and down his hard length and his balls, and then gather the excess in my cupped hand and push into him once more, only enough to ensure he’s good and wet for me before I settle more fully against him. I grip the silicone dildo in my hand, and press the blunt tip against him. It’s honestly not very big, or thick. I didn’t want to overwhelm him the first time we tried this… And it seems like that was the right choice, because there’s little resistance as the head pops inside.

I rock my hips, gentle, and study his face. He’s propped up on his elbows, watching the sight of a cock entering him for the first time, and he looks… Curious, almost. Confused, but also turned on, if his blown out pupils have anything to do with it. 

“Okay? Tell me if you need me to slow down.”

Zayne nods, his focus unwavering as I push further. Again… There’s little resistance. Maybe I should have gotten a bigger one.

“Keep going.” He encourages me. With a snap of my hips, I’m flush against the bare skin of his ass, and with the sudden movement, his head goes back, and a long moan leaves his throat. I watch his adam’s apple work through the sound.

After that, I start to fuck him, rolling slowly against him, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in, giving him the chance to get used to what must be an extremely foreign feeling to him.

It isn’t long before he’s panting, open mouthed, his brows pulling up and together as he falls back against the pillows. God, I can’t help but think how cute he looks like this… For once, he’s the one laying back and letting me fuck him into the mattress, and it’s not hard to see how much he’s enjoying it.

We’ve been together long enough for me to know how turned on he gets when I’m the one who takes more initiative. One evening, after he let himself into my apartment, shortly after we really started dating, I shoved him against the wall, kissed him until neither of us could breathe, and he came the moment I shoved my hand down his pants. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about– well, not this exactly – but something like this ever since. Seeing how easily he falls apart for me, and me alone, the great and powerful Dr. Zayne, just makes me want to take more and more. To push him further and further, but God–

One of my hands replaces his own at the back of his thigh, pushing it up further, and my other hand braces itself against his muscular chest while my thrusts grow faster, shallower, and the moment I hit that perfect angle, amidst the soft whimpers leaving him with every thrust, his expression contorts further. His stomach clenches, and he cries out, grabbing my wrist against his chest, almost like it’s a lifeline as his head turns into the pillows.

“Please– fuck–” Zayne manages, his voice high and thready while I pound into that sweet spot. 

“Please what, love?” I ask, my own voice a little hoarse, punctuated with sharp breaths.

“I can’t– I’m– I’m close.” He gasps, while I punch out more soft moans from him. His cock bounces with every thrust, painting a thin line of precum across his abs. 

I need no further instructions. I extricate my wrist from his grip, pushing his knee higher, until it’s almost against his chest. His other leg has long since fallen, his thigh quivering. I wrap my hand around his erection and jerk it hard and fast while I fuck into his body.

Zayne’s back arches into a perfect curve, and I swear the sight of it almost has me coming instead of him. I grind into him, doing my best to stimulate him from both sides, and I swear I can see a tear running down the side of his face and into the pillow.

“Go on.” I say, and he does. The sound he makes almost sounds like a sob, and peters off into a desperate whimper as he comes in my hand, and I can feel his ass tightening, trying to push me out while I continue to grind against his prostate. His cock throbs in my hand, and warm come splatters over his own chest, dribbles over my fist while I work him through it. His hips roll against my own, the movements uncoordinated and almost staccato, his long, pale neck on full display as his head goes back, and the arch in his spine becomes more pronounced. He trembles against me, gasping, and only once I see the tension in his limbs start to fade, do I stop.

In the aftermath, we’re both left panting. Zayne’s eyes don’t open again until I pull out of him. He whines at the loss, or maybe the discomfort, I can’t be sure which, and his hazy eyes find mine while his chest continues to heave, and his heart likely races.

There’s a soft smile on his lips as the harness comes off, the lube is put away, and I crawl to settle into his side. Our bodies stick together with the thin sheen of sweat covering us both.

I give him a second to catch his breath, and then look up at him. He’s staring at the ceiling like he’s just had a revelation. It’s kind of funny.

“So…” I start, almost singing the word, propping myself up to lean over him, “Are you gonna let me do that again, cause…”

When he looks at me, I’m very suddenly taken off guard by the molten gold in his eyes. 

Zayne huffs a little laugh and shakes his head.

“Only if you get a towel to clean us up with. I’m not sure my legs are capable of supporting my weight at the moment.” It’s my turn to laugh. He really does look like he’s about to pass out, but he’s not so far gone as to let go of the chance to give me one of his famous Dr. Zayne scowling faces. I kiss the pout off of his lips, and jump up to go get a warm, wet towel.

“Is that Dr. Zayne speak for, ‘Wow, you totally just blew my brains out and gave me the best orgasm of my life’?” I lean over him as I return, and he pulls me down into another kiss, slower, and longer this time. 

“Your translation skills need a bit of work to capture the true intent… But I suppose that one works just as well.” He chuckles against my lips.

“So are you going to finish telling me about all the lobes of the prostate? I was actually pretty invested. I mean, I definitely am now.”

“Not tonight. Just lay down, darling.”

[squareallworthy]

Reverse unpopular opinion ask meme: Irregular polygons

Irregular polygons are awesome. You can do so much more with them, in so many areas, but I'm going to limit myself to talking about just two of them: tiling and triangle centers.

(Did you think I was going to be all snobby toward my irregular friends and give them only grudging approval? Heck no, I love those guys! And so by the rules of the meme I get to infodump about the things I love, so this may be long but you asked for it.)

Let's first talk about covering the plane with copies of a single shape -- a monohedral tiling. And for now, let's restrict ourselves to periodic tilings. All triangles and all non-self-intersecting quadrilaterals tile the plane periodically, so that's not very interesting. All you have to do is place one polygon and then make copies by rotating 180 degrees around the midpoints of the sides.

With five sides, things become more complicated, because regular pentagons don't tile by themselves, but there are fifteen ways an irregular pentagon can periodically tile the plane. Here are four of them that were discovered in 1976 and 1977 by Marjorie Rice, an amateur mathematician.

There are three types of monohedral periodic convex hexagonal tilings.

For polygons with seven or more sides, there are no monohedral periodic tilings using a convex prototile , but there are periodic tilings for nonconvex polygons of any size. Some of them are quite famous.

Most of Escher's work in his Regular Division of the Plane series uses shapes with curves as well as straight sides, so they don't show polygon tilings, strictly, but the patterns do point toward complex tilings that are visually pleasing.

Irregulars can tile aperiodically, too. Here's a pentagon tiling with 6-fold rotational symmetry. It can be extended infinitely, and tilings can be constructed with pentagons for n-fold symmetry of any n>2.

Going back to non-convex shapes, here's the Voderberg tile, an enneagon that forms a spiral tiling. Notably, one copy of the shape can be completely surrounded by two others.

And of course I can't go without mentioning the tiling news of the century: "Tile (1,1)", aka the Hat, aka the T-shirt, a tridecagon (and polykite) that can tile the plane but only aperiodically. IDK if you follow polygon news but this was huge.

Okay, enough about tilings. With tilngs it's pretty easy to get what's going on just by looking at them, but my next topic, triangle centers, requires a bit more explanation. Also there's a bit of jargon, but I will try to keep it simple.

Take an arbitrary triangle ABC. Where is its center? One way you might define it is to find the midpoint of each side and draw a line to it from the opposite vertex. Each line divides the triangle in half, and these three lines (the medians) all cross at a point, the centroid. This works for any triangle, no matter its shape. The point marks the center of gravity of the area of the triangle, and also the center of gravity of its vertices. Based on that, you could consider this the center of the triangle.

Or you could work with angles instead of sides. Draw lines from each vertex that divide the angles in half (the angle bisectors). These all meet at a point called the incenter, which marks the center of the largest circle that fits inside the triangle. To put it another way, it's the point that is equidistant from all three sides. That's another point you could call the center of the triangle.

Or, how about a circle around the triangle instead? From the midpoints of the sides, draw the perpendicular bisectors. Again, they all intersect at a point, the circumcenter, which is the center of the circle that passes through the vertices -- the point that is equidistant from all three of them. So you could also call that the center of the triangle.

Or how about drawing perpendicular lines from the sides again, but having them pass through the opposite vertices (the altitudes)? They coincide at a point called the orthocenter. Isn't that neat? Yet another point we could call the center of the triangle.

But wait -- can we? For an obtuse triangle, the circumcenter and the orthocenter are going to lie outside the triangle. (For the orthocenter of an obtuse triangle, you have to extend each side into a line, and draw the altitude as a perpendicular to that.) Being outside a thing is really not what we have in mind when we talk about the center of the thing. Should we care about that?

Maybe not. Check this out. We'll go back to the circumcircle, and draw tangents to it at the three vertices. The three tangents form the tangential triangle (in blue), which we'll call A'B'C', where A' is opposite A, and so on with B and C. Now draw the circle that passes through A, A', and the circumcenter, and do the analogous construction for B and C (in red). The three circles coincide in two places: the circumcenter and another point called the far-out point. And as the name suggests, this is usually well outside the triangle, even for acute triangles.

There's no reasonable way to call this point the center of the circle. But so what? I just love the fact that the three circles line up like that. I no longer care about finding "the" center of the triangle. I no longer care that "center" is rather a misnomer for many of these points. I just think it's neat that you can draw these constructions on ordinary aysmmetrical triangles and they keep all converging on one point. Want more? Reflect the medians across the angle bisectors, and they all meet at the symmedian point. Or connect the vertices of the tangential triangle with the intersections of the medians and the circumcircle. Those lines meet at the Exeter point. Or, from each vertex, draw the line that splits the perimeter of the triangle in half. These are called the splitters, and they meet at the Nagel point. And on and on and on.

You can simply wander around a triangle, connecting things that relate somehow to vertex A, then do the equivalent thing for B and C, and stumble upon new centers. And there are tens of thousands of these things, constructed with straightedge and compass or by other methods. And there are so many ways to enjoy these things. You can page through the enormous collection and get a kind of stamp-collecting satisfaction just looking at their variety and knowing that they exist. Or you can appreciate the proofs that show that the constructions really do specify a unique point. Or proofs that show that a point constructed to have one property has a surprisingly different property. Or you can notice that the points fall into certain families and appreciate the connections between them. (For instance, the centroid, circumcenter, orthocenter, far-out point, and Exeter point, among others, all happen to lie on the same line, the Euler line.) Or you can convert the points to trilinear coordinates, manipulate them algebraically, and get to know them that way.

But to appreciate them at all, you need to work with irregular triangles. Because here's the thing: in an equilateral triangle, all these points collapse to the same point. Everything simplifies to a single center, and the incredible wealth of invisible structure that teems inside every ordinary triangle is gone.

You have finally found "the" center, but at what cost? Symmetry is death. Only through asymmetry will the vast truth of the triangle be revealed to you.

And those are just a few of the reasons irregular polygons are cool!

[doobledabbadoo]

Hii! You fucking ate with the TDI redesigns and it wanted to know if you'd make a guide as to how you mimicked the TDI style?

hihi !! tysm !! glad a lot of ppl like em !!

as for the style guide, i am far from an expert at replicating art styles, but having a neo-UPA inspired art style really made this easier for me, even if i did struggle on getting used to some design choices.

DISCLAIMER: I do not condone tracing over other people’s artwork to claim as your own final product. I only trace the shapes from the total drama characters to break down and analyze the art style for educational purposes.

IN GENERAL

total drama’s art style is heavily stylized and takes inspiration from clone high and many UPA-inspired cartoons in the late 90’s to early 2000’s. it uses very thick and bold outlines to define its characters and their individual shape language. a lot of designs use a variety of sharp angles, straight lines, and curved arcs to achieve a balanced character design that works in the total drama universe.

because the shape language is very geometric and simple, it’s surprisingly easy to recreate the total drama art style & reimagine some of your favorite characters in the universe!

BODY TYPES: THE “TYPICAL” WOMAN

a lot of the women in the show follow this base, even more than the “typical” male body type. compared to the men, the women of total drama have cat-like eyes, stylized lips, skinny necks, an hour-glass figure, longer and thicker legs, and pointy fingers. head shapes & features may vary depending on character and/or ethnicity. not all women in the show look like this, though! there’s a decent handful of women with very unique body types, such as beth, macarthur, & emma from the 2023 reboot! it also helps to reference characters from different seasons to get a better idea of the shape language in the show’s universe!

BODY TYPES: THE “TYPICAL” MAN

the “typical” body type for men isn’t as well defined as it is for the “typical” woman, so there aren’t as many examples of what defines the “typical” male body type. However, based on the handful of characters we collected, we can determine that the “typical” male body type in total drama is top-heavy. compared to the women, many of the men have broad chests and shoulders, thicker and longer arms, thicker necks, thinner waists and hips, and shorter, thinner legs. they have flatter, more boxy fingers comoared to the pointy fingers the women have. head shapes and features may vary depending on character and/or ethnicity.

BODY TYPES: THE PLUS SIZED WOMAN

plus-sized women follow some of the same rules & principles as the “typical” woman does, from more cat-like eyes to sharper fingers however, in contrast to the more common body type, these woman have much thicker body proportions and use rounder, smoother lines to emphasize either fat or muscle. head shapes and other features may vary depending on the character and/or ethnicity.

BODY TYPES: THE PLUS SIZED MAN

there’s a pretty good variety when it comes to drawing plus-sized men. while some of them, like ripper, follow some similar principles to the “typical” man, others offer a new, unique design base to work with. their features are generally rounder and wider to emphasize their weight. head shapes & other features may vary depending on character and/or ethnicity.

BODY TYPES: THE LANKY MAN

unlike the “typical” man, the lankier men don’t usually have the same broad shoulders and chest. their limbs are much thinner, & they sometimes don’t have any pronounced calves. it’s more common for the lankier men to have their feet facing in the same direction as opposed to the other, though the latter isn’t an uncommon design desicion either. head shapes and other festures vary depending on the character and/or ethnicity.

BODY TYPES: THE BEEFY MAN

Of all the body types presented to the male characters, this one is the closest and most similar to the “typical” male body type. the difference is that the broadness of the shoulders and chest are exaggerated more, and the shape of the arms can vary between being wider to having more lumps. head shapes and other features may vary depending in character and/or ethnicity.

HAIR STYLES

a hairstyle can tell people a lot about a character. theres a lot of different ways to draw hair on characters, though in general, the appeal to total drama’s art style would be the simplicity and angularity in its shape language and character designs, so you don’t have to give your character thousands of spiky hair strands to make them appealing.

im not good at explaining how i replicate art styles so i really hope these help!!! also im sorry this ask took forever to compile lol i just wanted an excuse to study the shows art style more. heres another helpful video to help understand the process of character design !!

i also recommend checking out harry gold’s channel. he does a lot of art style replication videos & this one explains art style replication exceptionally well!

tysm for ur ask & tysm for ur patience!!

[kiame-sama]

wait, you already said what you think the twst cast is as monsters, but what do they look like?

Warnings: my twst monster au, almost all characters with names (other than Yuu and Grim) in monster forms, mythical creatures, deer rack point system, measurements given in ft and cm, animal traits, various animal and plant species mentioned, usually I would say to use your imagination to think it up but I have thought about this way too much myself so I may as well share ideas of what they would look like, feel free to draw these monster men and if you do please share with me because I want to see these goobers drawn, some spoilers for Rollo's backstory,

Divus is a Harp Seal Selkie;

- Divus has a black and white fur coat of a Harp Seal with slight spotting pattern similar to Leopard Seals. His coat is always shiny, clean, and wrapped around his shoulders. Divus appears fairly humanoid and close to his canon appearance other than the sharper than normal canines that are closer to the cone teeth of seals. Selkies do not part with their coats lightly so it is very rare to see one without their pelts on their shoulders. His coat is more natural Harp Seal patterning than the clear black and white lines he has in canon.

Sam is a Shadow man;

- White skull markings along his face with burning purple eyes. He has several black tattoos on his skin that move and can even detach into actual shadow to ensnare his prey. There is constantly a darkness around him that seemed to repulse light, making him appear to be surrounded in constant shadow.

Vargas is a Texas-Longhorn Minotaur;

He has very long and large bull horns with the minotaur expression on his lower half making his upper body appear human other than his horns. His lower half is the same shade as his hair with white speckling on the left leg. His tail is often lazily swinging back and forth as he talks.

Trein is a Mountain Lion Sphinx;

- Lower-half is the body of a Mountain Lion with wings, upper half is Trein's usual upper body. He does have a lot of grey and white furs/feathers due to his age in his coat and it is clear he favors his right back leg as it usually sits at an angle. He can often be seen lounging with Lucius in a sunny spot in his classroom when not teaching.

Crowley is a Crow Fae;

- Similar to his appearance in canon TWST, but his large black wings are more prominent as are the iridescent colors in them and his hair. He actually has talons on his hands and not just the golden talons. He does wear golden caps on his talons however and has a medium length train of black tail-feathers.

Ace is a Saanen Satyr;

- He has short twisted horns and his orange hair is also the same color on his goat half- just a bit darker shade. His hooves are an off-white ivory. He does have the little billy-goat scruff of a goatee due to his Satyr heritage.

Deuce is a Rocky Mountain Faun;

- Deuce has large spiral horns and his blue hair is the same color on his goat half- just a shade darker as well with white speckles around his hooves and tail. His hooves are black. Deuce does not have the goatee often seen on Satyrs and Fauns.

Note; it is part of my AU that Satyrs usually have shorter horns and are closer to farm goats in their animal halves. Fauns are closer to mountain goats and therefore have longer more curved horns often seen on rocky mountain rams. Females of both Fauns and Satyrs grow the same large horns, but their horns are often thinner around than the males of their species.

Cater is a Lake Water Nymph;

- Cater is considered unusual among Water Nymphs because of his hair's coloration being a bright red instead of a more blue or green which is more common for Water Nymphs. Cater's hair is closer in color to a red Ludwigia as he is a lake Water Nymph and the flora of lakes tend to have a fair variation of green to red color hues. Cater's bright green eyes are closer to the usual colors of Water Nymphs and he accredits this to his mother who is a river Water Nymph. In the water Cater gets fins more adapted to lake swimming so he is not as strong in currents.

Che'nya is a Bakeneko;

- He is similar to his canon appearance, but the purple and pink of his hair is also visible on the skin of his arms, legs, and back. He also now has a two pronged fluffy tail similarly striped that is often seen waving mischievously behind him.

Trey is a Kelpie Centaur;

- When out of the water, Trey's Centaur half is that of a white horse with a long tail of the same green hair that Trey's human half has. His horse half is closer muscular build to Scottish Draft horses. When in the water, the white fur of his horse half becomes a lake green with fading blue hues. His tail hair becomes more stringy like lake reeds and his fur takes a more prickly quality. His back legs become a large fin when he is submerged completely in deep water, making him more of a Hippocampus in physiology while swimming.

Riddle is a Unicorn Centaur;

- His horse half has a pure white coat with a long tail closer to that of a lion than a horse, but long bright red hair for his tail. Riddle's hooves are a rather lovely golden color that shine like metal, same with the tight spiral horn that sits in the center of his forehead. There is a faded blue star shape at the base of his horn that seems to tattoo his fair skin, he often covers this up with his bangs. His horse half is similar in musculature to that of an Arabian Horse making him appear more dainty than Trey.

Note; Cater is often seen lounging on Trey's back while Trey swims in the Heartslabyul lake with Riddle laying in the grass on the shore. They often spend their afternoons doing this and Cater will frequently try to get Riddle to swim. Thus far, he has been unsuccessful.

Jack is a Gray Wolf Werewolf;

- Unlike his canon appearance, Jack constantly has that wolf-head and white fur all over his body. He can shift between being bipedal or a quadruped with little issue between the two forms of locomotion, meaning his limbs are closer in length than human limbs. He has fur similar in length to wolves and even has paw-like hands. His tail is frequently wagging whenever he is with friends or those he is fond of.

Ruggie is a Spotted Hyena Gnoll;

- Similar to Jack, Ruggie now has a Hyena head and pelt instead of just the ears and tail. He is still somewhat humanoid, but he is still shorter than Leona or Jack. His back legs are more like a Hyena and he has that same muscular ridge on his shoulders that Hyenas do. He still has his bright blue eyes despite how odd it is for Gnolls, but his coat is the same sandy light-brown as his hair usually is with dark brown spots.

Leona is a Nemean Lion;

- Nemean Lions are golden furred beasts much larger and stronger than any regular lion on top of being impervious to damage from mortal weapons. This translates into Leona's skin having a more golden sheen to it, always seeming to look like he has been dusted with fine powder gold sparkles. His dark hair has several bright gold strands woven in that makes it shiny as well. The fur on Leona's tail and ears is also that glittering golden color which only makes the tuft of fur at the end of his tail look darker. He is a little taller than in cannon and slightly more defined in musculature due to the natural strength of Nemean lions.

Azul is a Coconut Octopus Cecaelia;

- He is very similar to how he appears in canon, but now he has several black marks along his arms and body similar to how he looks in his merman form. Even in a human form, it is clear Azul is still not human due to these dark markings that wrap around his body. A few of these black tendrils frame his cheekbones and make those brightly colored eyes of his only seem brighter.

Jade and Floyd are Moray Eel Mermen;

- Similar to Azul, Floyd and Jade look similar to how they do in cannon, but their merman features are more visible even in their human forms. The fins they have alongside their faces are now present in their human forms as are the colorations of their merman forms on their shoulders and faintly around their faces. Their gills are still visible in their human forms.

Kalim is a Genie;

- Kalim is the closest out of everyone to his canon appearance as his identity as a Genie changes very little. He will likely wear clothes akin to his dorm clothes appearance but have the addition of golden bands around his wrists and ankles. He can form legs to walk on, but often chooses to fly instead, where his legs become more smoke-like in the typical Genie 'tail' that many Genies are often seen with. Kalim now has a golden aura around him that makes him glow slightly with a golden color due to his high-magic Genie nature.

Note; Kalim sleeps in his lamp and keeps many of his treasures in his lamp as his magic allows the lamp to be more like a hotel suite than a prison cell despite the size on the outside. Only Kalim and those he invites into his lamp can enter.

Jamil is a Sand Viper Naga;

- Jamil's upper half is similar to how it is in canon, but his lower half is that of a rather large snake. His shake half is 22ft (670cm) comprised of black and maroon scales. His maroon scales are closer to the color of dried blood and often get dark enough shades that they mix with the black diamond and striping patterns his black scales make. The scales on the stomach side of his snake body are a slightly more red tone than his skin tone. He does have golden scales that line his stomach scales and are in the center of the diamond patterns on his back.

Note; Jamil often sleeps with Kalim's lamp in the coils of his Naga tail. Having come from a long line of Naga that are usually the guards and guardians of the wealth and well-being Kalim's Genie family has amassed through the years. Wherever a Genie from Kalim's family lives, so too lives a Sand Viper Naga from Jamil's family to guard them.

Vil is a Peacock Harpy;

- Vil still has his flawless skin and purple ombre hair even as a peacock harpy, but he does have hair-like cobalt blue and emerald green feathers that often get woven into braids. He also has seven pristine head feathers that are the same 'eye' patterns as his tial feathers that often lay back against his hair unless he is feeling particularly proud, in which his crest will rise up like a crown atop his head. Vill has feathering along his shoulders, upper back and neck that are the bright cobalt blue of male Indian peacocks. Along his shoulder blades are his wings which have a full span of 8ft (244cm) but are often tucked neatly against his back and folded so the flight feathers don't drag when he walks. Vil has the full peacock train of tail-feathers and spends quite a bit of time preening and grooming them to maximum shine. He will only fully display his tail-feathers when being prideful or showing off to a prospective mate.

Rook is an Australian Golden Huntsman-Spider Drider;

- Rook's legs are a long spindly gold that are many times the length of his thorax and abdomen. The thorax of his spider body is larger than the abdomen of the body due to the typical shape of Huntsman-Spiders. The thorax area on Rook's spider body has a large black mark among the back hairs trailing down to where the abdomen part of his body is more narrow and the marks become black lines making their way down. His human half is attached at the top of the thorax where the spider's eyes are usually located. His spider legs are as thick as a Human's legs, his mandibles and pedipalps being similar in thickness. His fangs are to scale and are extremely long as well as being like blacked curved knives, he often keeps them tucked away to not unsettle others.

Note; Rook and Vil have a very mutually beneficial relationship just as they do in regular TWST. Rook helps Vil preen and take care of his feathers, often being the one getting the pin feathers Vil can't reach on his back and shoulders. Rook uses the silk he creates as a Drider to make fabrics for Vil as they are of high quality, and even higher thread count. Both are content to be the others boon companion and will often be seen working together outside of class as well.

Neige is a Mourning Dove Harpy;

- Neige has the same dark black hair and big brown doe eyes he does in cannon but he also has grey-brown feathers throughout his black hair. His cheeks, neck, shoulders, and upper back have the same gray-brown feathers with speckles of dark brown, white, black, and gray feathers throughout giving a light speckling pattern. His wings are that same gray brown color and are 6.5ft (200cm) in length. The ends of his flight feathers are often trailing over the ground beneath him when he is relaxed and he rarely opens his wings fully. Like most mourning doves, he has a lovely soothing voice and his unassuming species of Harpy makes him all the more charming.

Note: I was going to make Neige a Willow Grouse Harpy due to the coloration match with Neige and his RSA uniform, but I have a childhood fondness for the call of a mourning dove and Neige is supposed to have a beautiful voice, so I figured sweet Neige can be a mourning dove and not the goofy sounding Willow Grouse.

Epel is a Beliy Naliv Apple Wood Nymph;

- Epel has white tree bark as skin, occasionally having the slight dark mark or blemish where Epel had gotten into fights despite being a more peaceful species of Wood Nymph. His hair is made up of pale green leaves that are often covered in powder lavender blooms that are the same color as his canon hair color. Epel has the same large blue eyes as he does in canon. Occasionally the blooms on his head will grow into small apples that are white due to his species of Wood Nymph being the White Cloud Apple. His skin is rougher in texture and closer to the texture of bark.

Idia is a Shinigami;

- He still has his blue flaming hair and blue tinted lips and gold eyes. His skin is closer to a light gray in tone now, his nails a natural black. He now has these scraggly black wings that are kind of like bird wings but more haggard in appearance. The feathers are more slick and almost oily in texture and have some traces of blues in them similar to Idia's hair. He can use them to fly, but they make a very loud wooshing sound that he isn't overly fond of so he doesn't often use them. His limbs are just a bit longer than they are in canon giving him a more skeletal and gaunt appearance.

Ortho is also a Shinigami;

- Similar to Idia, Ortho still has his blue flaming hair and golden eyes. He will have the same light gray skin tone Idia does, but his wings are now cybernetic due to an unfortunate accident when Ortho was much younger that caused him to lose his Shinigami wings. Ortho also has several cybernetic limbs as a result of that same accident, making monster AU ortho closer in appearance to canon Ortho, but still able to eat/sleep/behave like a living being. Ortho is not AI but does have several augments to allow his brain to function with the aid of AI due to his unfortunate incident when he was younger.

Silver is a Reindeer Cervitaur;

- Silver is a leucistic deer cervitaur. This means his deer half has white fur as well with light gray spots along his back similar to the spots fawns have for camouflage purposes. His antlers are also an ivory white, and only have three points. From burr to tip of the beam, Silver has two points at the end of the beam and one point near the burr of his antlers. Lilia throws a party any time Silver gets another point on his antlers. Silver's deer half has the musculature type closer to reindeer than whitetail deer.

Lilia is a Vampire Bat Fae;

- Similar to his canon appearance, Lilia looks almost the same in his monster AU form, but his monster AU form has bat wings and a little tail. Most bats have tails and delicate wings, so I decided Lilia should also have bat wings and a little tail. His wings are sturdier than most bats and have several holes in them from past battles he has endured. He is still the Fae variation so he has the same pointed ears, sharp teeth, and slit pupils other Fae type have. His wings are black with Light pink highlights near the tips just like his hair.

Note; Lilia likes to sleep upsidedown in this AU and will often settle himself in the cafeteria chandeliers or even the rafters of various buildings to take naps throughout the downtimes of the day. Lilia is more nocturnal in this AU as well with increased sensitivity to sounds/lights.

Malleus is Dragon Fae.

- Malleus in the monster AU is similar to his canon appearance but has his dragon wings, tail, and various clusters of black scales along his body. His nails are decent length black talons and he has black scales along the backs of his hands and up his arms. His neck and upper back/shoulders have more black scales. His wings are the same deep black with a slight purple tint to them anywhere the skin is exposed. His tail is about as thick as a leg and tapers off to a wickedly sharp point that Malleus could use to impale someone if he wanted to. Black scales frame his eyes like their own kind of makeup and are more colorful around the eyes in purples and green sheens that highlight the obsidian base color of the scales.

Note; Malleus is more in touch with his dragon instincts in this AU due to being more outwardly dragon. He does make a nest out of his bed and is much more inclined to hoard things he is fond of, including but not limited to Gargoyles, unusual stones, and various creatures he takes interest in. Once he considers someone to be part of his hoard, he will be possessive of them and fiercely protective. Only creatures part of his hoard are allowed to enter his nest. Lilia, Silver, and Sebek are three of his living hoard.

Sebek is a Raiju Fae;

- His hair is a bit more wild and fur-like compared to his canon appearance with yellows mixed in to the sage green color. His teeth are much sharper and he actually has more dog-like qualities similar to Jack's canon appearance. Raiju are lightning dog mythical creatures, so Sebek's appearance will be similarly dog-like with the beastman ears and spiky furred tail that has a rougher texture compared to most fur. His tail and ear positioning will often be a dead giveaway for what emotions Sebek is feeling at the time.

Rollo is an Inferno Fire Nymph.

- Rollo's eyes are an ashen gray as is his skin and hair when he is not in his active inferno flame form. Much like a burned log, his flesh will bare the same ashen faded look to it. Rollo is usually in this form as he is not overly fond of the fire he creates and he can keep himself mostly calm despite the constant annoyance of others around him. When in his active inferno fire form, his ashen hair will ignite into flames, his gray eyes turning a bright fire red. Similarly, his skin will take a redder tone and embers will float off of his hair.

Note: Rollo's fire can burn others, but he can also consciously change the temperature of his flames to only warm and not harm if he felt so inclined. He would only willingly do this for someone he deeply loved and cared for as his full flame form reminds him far too much of his deceased brother, hence why he uses it sparingly. There are many types of Fire Nymphs, but Inferno Fire Nymphs are considered the most deadly as their flames get the hotest. Young Fire Nymphs cannot control their fire and can burn themselves out if they get too hot internally.

[voidcat]

— the maker, far away and the muse, ardent

characters: endo yamato, you

notes: this is more in the style of my typical dazai content so iykyk. artist!reader, gender neutral pronouns used. small picture of dorian gray reference. a mini post explaining my vision for this fic basically

Drawing Endo Yamato is a tricky feat.

Despite his simple looks, you realize there are more details to him that meets the eye. Sharp edges and curves, eyes and lashes that cut through, wavy locks of hair that fall with an order to itself.

It is difficult but so is to create. That’s the thing with art, and that’s what you love about it until the very end.

No matter how hard, how detailed something is, no matter how long it’ll take you to reach that level of skill required to make it, it is never impossible.

And so you sit back and keep observing him, smoothing out the page before you, you sharpen your pencil.

Despite the numerous pages adorned with his face, you’ve never spoken with Endo Yamato, not even once. Nor did you feel the need to.

Does god often seek an audience with their followers, does a nature artist eat the apple even after days of mold has accumulated— does everyone kill the thing they love? Or do they just leave it be, to their happiness or misery.

To you he is nothing more than a pretty face, beautiful features and an impressive body, one he uses as his own canvas, recording his life and feelings onto his skin permanently.

Endo Yamato never sits still, as if offering a challenge to you. Another thing that helps you in the long run, your pen begins to hasten, your sketch line improves and you begin to remember and transfer every small detail of a millisecond to paper without breaking a sweat.

It begins piece by piece, part by part. When one thing proves difficult to grasp, you have no choice but to dissect it one by one.

You begin with his structure, how he carries himself and his body. You have confidence in your figure drawing but it takes something extra to show off his pride and nose high up attitude in his posture. You don’t know Endo Yamato all that much but you know enough that you don’t like him or his kind at all.

Then comes the face, the edge of his jaw and the softness to his cheeks despite coming off as thin. It’s the details that prove the real challenge. When drawn apart, be it his eyes or the hooked nose, you’re good. Yet the way they have been placed on his face, you have to remake the dough figurine over and over again. His hair proves a great distraction, you’d suppose it is the real source of your problems. It hides everything characteristic to him, every small detail, the arch of his brows, the wrinkles on his face when he smiles or furrows them, the angle of his nose and how the bridge comes down, the light in his eyes though they are absent majority of the time.

You sketch over and over, the pencil glides off the pages. You change the materials but the subject remains the same. Noticeable changes begin to appear after some time. You’ve lost for how long you’ve been drawing, but it comes natural now.

So you switch up the medium, and try the process from the start with watercolors. The uncontrollable nature of the medium met with the difficult subject growing familiar on your muscles perfectly.

Too perfectly in fact, as you are lost in the thrill of it, that you don’t even notice how time passes nor the shift in scenery unless it contradicts your paintings— and you’re slouching over the papers once more, face contracting in focus as shadows disturb your view and lighting.

When you steal a glance above, you’re met with not a cloud but none other than Endo Yamato himself.

Hands shoved deep in his pockets and his confident yet relaxed posture, he glances down at you and the papers, wearing a smug smile the whole time.

You wait for a moment of breath then divert your attention back to the work before you, adding shadows currently.

You hear him let out a slight grunt, and maybe you’d see his expression shift into something of surprise too, were you to be carefully watching.

“It’s sublime knowing I have a fan.” He says, still not stepping one step to the side, adamant on blocking the light apparently.

His words register far too late for you, you let out a hum at first, “hmm… oh?” The sound fades into surprise on your end, “ah, no, you see-“

You dip the brush into water and to the shades of blue and purple, mixing and lightening the amount of paint on the brush. 

A tapping of feet brings you down to earth and reminds you for once you are not alone in your leisure time of painting.

“Ah… sorry.” You say more as an apology for forgetting he was right there up until a second, “it’s nothing like that.”

Your words take him out like a chain of inconveniences following one after another, building up until you’ve lost your temper.

You don’t notice this either, focus solely on perfecting the shading, calling it another painting done and complete.

To Endo, your nonchalance is odd to say the least. Here he stands, the subject of your attention for many a while now, from what he has seen, and you don’t seem to care one bit. Or is it the paper that is holier than him? Or is this another, albeit looser case of Takiishi, not caring for the people but for their reflections, their end products, what comes out of them and the hand that crafts them into something bigger, brighter.

Along the lines Endo Yamato says to you, you do catch something like ‘having the real thing before you already.’ An enlightenment perhaps, a revelation you didn’t need nor asked for.

So he is a charmer, you think, or tries to be. Considering the things at hand it’s the former most likely— walking up to you without a care in the world as if you’ve interacted before. It takes some sort of confidence, as most charmers carry with them. He is just not trying it to the fullest with you, but is it because he thinks he already holds a part of you in his hand, you’re unsure.

In the short timeframe of thinking over a man you couldn’t care any less, you notice your brush staggering, slowing down. Any more and the drops of water will be too much for the paper, ruining all your hard work on this completely.

“So… listen,” you begin, cutting off whatever he was saying. “If you don’t have anything important to say, would you mind-“ 

You wait and wait for him to catch on. Instead met with empty eyes looking at you with not a single clue inside that brain of his, you let out a sigh.

“The light at this hour is very good and you’re making me lose it minute by minute right now.”

Endo looks at you, in disbelief again. Not the reaction he was expecting and definitely not the words he expected to hear. And compared to how quiet and just shy you sounded up until the last sentence— that last demand, all that timid nature of you dispelled within a second. 

Deflated, he admits his defeat for the time being and leaves, stealing one last glance at the paper.

As the man leaves, you watch his back for a bit, waiting for your brush to dry.

Odd, you think. 

What did he really expect you to do or say? 

You may not know Endo Yamato but all you’ve observed is more than enough to deem him as weird. You are somewhat aware he is filled with burning passion down to his very being but that’s just not who you are as an artist.

The views people have on you, and by extension, on artists has always been far fetched from what you’ve seen.

Must art always be loud and intense, waging war upon any heart that gazes at it? Should you too be destructive and heavy— not all artists see their subject like Basil to Dorian, not all art is an all consuming fire, an endless devotion, a declaration of war. Art can be natural and gentle, like a breeze, like a stream of river.  Love can be accepting and gentle, unifying and kind with the familiarity it brings, the comfort hidden in the routine, as he fails to see.

By the time the painting has come to an end, darkness has fallen. Endo Yamato has already left, and the sunlight soon after him. The sky begins to darken, purple spreads of paint among the clouds. You turn the page and leave today in the past, crossing another thing off the list and moving on.

[art-res]

quick tips: motor control drills

This really isn't a guide but more of a ramble lol.

I haven't done this in forever but I did it this afternoon and highly recommend spending a little bit of time just drilling hand eye coordination. I think it helped, and was nice to do when I wasn't feeling particularly inspired.

Focused on fast and smooth, but also wasn't afraid to draw over the shape until I was happy with it

draw circles as fast as possible using the shoulder as much as possible

draw ovals and for a few of them, I tried to draw them from every angle as clean as possible

draw lines radiating from the center and try to draw the same line as straight as possible.

parallel curved lines

cubes from different angles if you are feeling wild

Here is just one page of some of the exercises I did today, messy chaos but ended up being kinda fun actually

Hope this helped!

best, AL

Please consider helping me keep Art-Res running for years to come! (to host website where I keep the artist utilities found below :))

> buy me a coffee 

Artist Utilities

Idea Generator

Visual Reference Boards

Random Color Palettes

Free Habit Tracker Printable

[mustainegf]

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Explicit Sexual Content, Praise Kink, Wax Play, temperature play, Rough Sex, External Ejaculation, Power Dynamics and Emotional Intimacy

I stand in front of the mirror, my heart is fast while I slowly peel off my black lace bra, revealing full breasts with rosy nipples that are already hardening at a mere thought of the night ahead. A grin spreads across my face as the recollection of our earlier conversation drifts into my mind...

"Oh baby," Kirk had huskily whispered in my ear at dinner, "You look beyond gorgeous..." His fingers outlined the curves of my waist, sending shivers down my spine.

Now, I step out of my panties, letting them fall to the floor, leaving me bare except for the sheer thigh high stockings hugging my legs like a second skin. Kirk slowly rubs on a thin layer of baby oil to my skin, assuring every inch of me was glistening in the soft candlelight. The oil would make what we were about to do much safer.

It builds in my belly as Kirk reaches gently onto our bedside table, snatching a candle and grinning over the flickering flame of the scented candle. He knows exactly how to tease me, drawing every last ounce of pleasure and pain out of me until I'm writhing beneath him, begging for more. Kirk motions to me to lie in bed, and he follows suit not too far behind, settling on his knees between my spread legs.

My breath catches as Kirk takes the wax from the melted candle in his hand, the warm sticky texture coating his fingertips. He trails it up my inner thigh, letting it cool slightly higher up before continuing its path. Every touch shoots sensations through me, muscles quivering.

"Tell me how much you want it, baby..." Kirk says. The huskiness of his voice is low, seductive. "How much you need me to mark your perfect skin."

I whine, my hips twitching involuntarily as the wax reaches the apex of my thighs. "Please...mark me," I say on a pant, my hands clawing onto the sheet tightly. "P-please..."

Kirk leans down close, his hot breath ghosting over my sensitive skin as he positions the candle above my left breast. "Your tits are fucking perfect, baby."

He tilts the candle, and a thin stream of wax drips onto my upstanding nipple. I gulp down abruptly as it strikes with sudden heat, followed by a violent tingling as wax rapidly cools against my flesh. Kirk watches closely, his eyes darkening with lust as he watches how wax clings to my nipple, forming a frail, transparent cap.

He slowly drizzles the wax over my breast, in intricate patterns that swirl and drip across my skin. With each delicate drop, Kirk's praise becomes more frequent. "Look at you, so beautiful and brave. Taking every bit of pleasure and pain I give you..."

It continues down my breast and stomach, pausing in the valley between my thighs. I arch my back further, offering myself more to Kirk's touches. His fingers outline the edges of the cooled wax, breaking it into smaller pieces that adhere to my heated skin.

"Ahh... such a good girl," Kirk coos, pressing in to a gentle kiss to my collarbone. "So eager to please me. And I love watching you squirm..."

Kirk shifts, moving to hover over me as he lines up his hard cock with my slick entrance. "Do you feel how hard you've got me?" he growls, grinding his length along my folds without penetrating me. "I cannot wait to be buried deep inside of you."

One handed supporting his weight, Kirk uses the other to angle the candle lower, dripping another stream of wax onto my stomach. I cry at the burning stimulation, my hips bucking upwards with instinct. The burn of the hot wax with the pressure of his cock rubbing against my clit is literally too much to bear.

"Beg for it, baby," Kirk orders. "Tell me how badly you need my cock stretching this pretty pussy."

"Please, Kirk," I whimper. "I need you. I need to feel you inside m-me." My nails dig into his skin.

Kirk complies, sinking into me in one smooth thrust, and we moan at the feeling,the stretch and fullness of his cock filling me to completion.

He leans in further into me, the flame dancing near my neck as he makes sure the tip follows the line of my racing pulse. I shudder beneath him, anticipating the searing heat of the wax. Sure enough, Kirk starts to drizzle the molten warmth onto my bare skin, painting across my collarbone and throat.

"Fuck, you take my cock so well..."

Kirk pants, rhythm faltering for a second while he just stares at the marks on my skin.

Each thrust sends the wax melting and spreading in patterns over my flesh. "Don't stop," I plead, my voice husky with desire. "Mark me e-everywhere..."   Kirk doesn't say a word. He tightens his grip on my hips, angling them so he reaches even deeper inside of me while continuing to drizzle wax over my torso and breasts.

As Kirk becomes more and more erratic in his movements, his passion increasing with each passing second, the candle in his hand starts to swing. I see the look of concentration in his eyes waver, his gaze drifting from the wax to my face, then back again, torn between the two sources of pleasure.

His thrusts start to become swifter, with every stroke of his cock, I whine dumb little noises. I wrap my legs around his waist, hauling him in deeper.

In an instant, the candle tips over, spilling what's left in it right onto my chest. Thankfully, it was a safe waxplay candle. I yelp with surprise, but the brief sting of discomfort only raises my arousal.

Kirk's eyes are completely consumed with the need to claim me. He shoves the candle forgotten onto its side on the table, his hand instantly replacing it on my hip, his grip tighter as he yanks me against him.

Our bodies mash together, slick skin slapping with each brutal thrust. Now, one of his hands is free to roam over my breasts, covered in wax, tweaking and pinching my nipples as he fucks me.

It hit me like a literal train, sending raw ecstacy shooting through my veins. A loud moan burst from my lips as I clamped down on Kirk's member, milking him with my walls. At the same time, I feel a warm squirt of liquid gush out of me, soaking us both in my sweet release.

Kirk grunts in approval, praise for my performance. "That's it, baby. Such a good girl," he says with a growling undertone, his voice all thick and lustful. But he does not stop there, still very well thrusting into me hard.

"I'm so fucking close." he groans, now bucking into me erratically as he chases his own peak.

"Cum for me, Kirky," I implore, panting, my hands reaching up to cup his face. "I want to feel you all over me."

The words seem to be enough to send him over. Giving one final, powerful thrust, Kirk pulls abruptly out of me. He takes his throbbing cock in hand and begins to stroke it as he aims it at my awaiting body.

With a few more pumps, he finds his release, ropes of thick white semen spurting forth to paint my stomach and breasts. I watch in wonder as he coats me with himself, marking me as his in the most primal way a person could.

Panting heavily, Kirk collapses beside me, one arm falling possessively over my waist. "Jesus... fucking christ"

Kirk's chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath, his softening cock still twitching softly against my thigh. His fingers delicately caress on my skin as he drinks in the picture I make spread out on the bed, decorated with the remnants of our play.

He leans in, his soft kisses tracing along my jawline and the curve of my neck, not in haste but paying due attention to those spots where the wax had hardened into little drips and pools.

"You are so beautiful like this," he whispers, his voice full of love. "just. perfect."

[frostbitebakery]

You See Such Mad Things Happening

an The Unlucky Ones snippet

The Curse rises out of him, ghostly bones tapping along his arm in question.

Bly doesn’t know how to answer. His chest feels funny still. Scientist Se has patiently explained to him - “you died” - what had happened before he woke up. But he must’ve done it wrong?

There’s transparisteel cubes around the capsules now.

“I want my batch,” he whispers into his arm, carefully muffled, daringly out loud. He shouldn’t. He must already be in trouble for dying wrong.

He can’t even hear the thuds of Wolffe punching against his own cube. His knuckles are bloody and used to write mean things.

Cody is trying to get Wolffe’s attention.

Wolffe will get in trouble, too. He surely will be disciplined if he doesn’t wipe away the mean words.

The Curse puts a hand against the glass, skull turning to look at Bly.

“I don’t know,” he replies softly. “Maybe it’s because you acted funny yesterday?”

The Curse had grown so large, had called its other halves to itself until they melted into each other. It had looked beautiful and it had felt— scary. But that’s dumb. They’re clones, there’s no need to feel scared if the fear response isn’t to release adrenaline in order to accomplish the mission in an efficient and timely manner.

The lights had clattered and exploded all around them, white halls plunged into darkness, the transparisteel glittering down to the floor. It had been so pretty.

Commander Fordo had snagged him up while Commander Alpha-Seventeen had carried Cody away in the other direction. Gree had been taken away by another Alpha class, too fast for Bly to see who it was.

Cody had looked as mesmerized as Bly had felt. Everyone else had panicked.

And now there are transparisteel cubes around their capsules.

“What if I have a bad dream again?” He can’t go to Cody. Or Wolffe. Or Fox. Or—

He rubs the sniffle into his sleeve. He can’t go to anyone.

The Curse curls around him and he imagines, with everything he’s got, that he can feel it, that it has flesh and skin and warmth.

He comes out of a light doze when a bony hand waves in front of his face, flowing to the bottom edge of the mattress and pointing.

“Stop it, silly,” he chides and looks around. No one is watching him. Fox is playing hand signals with his Curse. Cody ignores his like always. Wolffe— Wolffe isn’t there. Where—

His brother is guided back into their capsule room by an angry looking Alpha-Seventeen, cleaning droid under one arm.

The Curse taps the mattress again and Bly minutely shakes his head. Not while Alpha-Seventeen is here. Bly trusts him with his life but this isn’t about his life.

“Start of night cycle,” the voice in the ceiling announces and the capsules automatically close.

He hurriedly ducks his head and lies down.

The Curse is still outside his body, illuminating the inside enough to crawl to the end of the mattress and fumble a hand under it until he finds the slit in the cover, the pens and flimsi.

He makes himself comfortable on his stomach, knowing the Curse will hover around and through him.

The Curse snaps its jaw a few times, that weird metal rattle only felt, not heard.

“What do you want me to draw?”

The pen follows the glowing finger bones, tracing curves and circles. No straight lines, no hard edges.

Bly looks at the thing when they’re done, angles the flimsi to get a better idea. “What is it? Looks like something from survival sims.” He squints, holds the drawing closer to his face. “Is that a—“ He falters. Stupid survival sims. He knows this. His memory was literally engineered to be eidetic. “A… an angiosperms type plant?”

The Curse hovers next to him, mute.

“A flower, silly.”

It tilts its skull and one of its hands comes out of his chest where his heart is.

“Uh, thank you?” Bly has no idea what the Curse means.

It snaps its jaws at him before sinking into his skin again.

“Goodnight to you, too,” he grins, carefully tucking the drawing under his nightshirt.