#master’s touch markers

[peterkothe]

INKtober 2024-Versus👊

Son of Ultraseven, the face of the Heisei era New Generation Ultras, Ultraman Zero vs. Ultraman Belial, the fallen, devilish, corrupted Ultra, and Zero’s arch-nemesis!

[atla-what-is-this-site]

bought a new skin tone marker set-

Two of them are…

o r a n g e

But what’s worse is that in the camera they look..

Brown

[mrztwiztidbunni]

This little guy turned out so darn adorable! 😍

I used master's touch markers to complete this page.

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ 𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 + 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬

character: alastor warnings: no smut but still 18+, heavy pet/master dynamic, toxic relationship, blood, alastor is obv experiencing intense feelings of infatuation words: 818 notes: a thought i had based on just how much alastor casually touches charlie throughout the entire series hehe—something that would manifest tenfold with his favourite pet, i think!

For someone with a penchant for sadism, Alastor can be surprisingly touchy with his precious pet.

It’s primal: a compulsive need, an instinctive addiction, an insatiable parasite. It’s something he can’t control even if he wanted to—and he doesn’t have any interest in denying himself such a luxury. 

Not when you are his.

It’s possessive; a physical marker, a visual claim that you are owned, that you belong to him, answer to him, are of service to him. It’s a single finger, hooked in that pretty crimson collar, curled tightly around the leather as he leads you around the hotel with him, keeping you near, a bony knuckle pressed tight to your pulsing jugular. 

It’s a large palm, laid flat on the small of your back above the swell of your ass, fingers splayed wide and claws just barely piercing the thin cotton of your clothing as he guides you—to your seat at the dinner table, when you’ve been especially well-behaved; to the living room to witness a new group activity; to his bedroom, when he decides it’s time for his pet to sleep. 

It’s four fingers cuffed around your wrist, keeping you tethered to him via a leash of his flesh, obediently trailing behind him like the sweet little pet you are as he goes about his business in town, dutifully keeping silent just like he told you to, nuzzling into the space between his shoulder blades when he stills for an extended period of time, the ball of your nose rubbing over the prominent notches of his spine, his responding hum vibrating against your flesh.

It’s protective; a way to ensure that you are within reach of him at all times, so that he can defend against any and all incoming threats and potential dangers. It’s an arm curled around your shoulders, pressing you flush to his side where he can tuck you safely beneath his touch, or an arm twined around your waist, palm cupping your hip as he clutches you close, closer. 

It’s his thigh slotted up against your own during one of his routine lunches with Rosie, your elbow threaded through his as he chats and eats and laughs and plots, dainty fingers toying passively with the hem of his shirtsleeve, fingertips just barely brushing the thin skin stretched across his wrist. 

It’s his palm swathed around the nape of your neck, tips of his claws digging into your skin just hard enough to be a reminder—be good, behave—grip flexing the moment he senses any peril, instantly ready to yank you out of harm’s way and draw you back into himself, where you are shielded and secure, where you fit perfectly. 

It’s peaceful; an odd type of comfort he’s never quite experienced before—something deep-seated, something growing in his soul, something that soothes any unruliness the instant it begins to spawn within him, rattling his ribs and eroding his throat as it rages with gnawing teeth and thrashing claws. Doused in your presence, in your supposed love for him—your devotion, your affection, your obsession—it diminishes, dries up and dies; even if only for a moment.

It’s his chin resting on the crown of your head as he works and you sleep, curled into his chest, breaths damp and gentle against his collarbone, lulled into fitful dreams by the skillful scratch of his pen against parchment, the gentle clink of the metal pen nib against the glass ink bottle, the sharp scrape across the rim as he disposes of excess ink, a heavy sense of contentment sinking in his chest.

It’s demanding you sit at his feet during his nightly reading session, your body wound around his leg and a foot wedged between your thighs, his palm cupping the crown of your head as he strokes your hair in soothing, rhythmic motions. It’s allowing himself a brief glance down at you, something dense and warm seeping through his ribs and into his lungs when you nestle your cheek against his calf, fatigued eyes refusing to close without his explicit permission, licks of flame flickering in glazed pupils as you watch the blazing fireplace.

It’s him groping for you the moment anything mildly disconcerting happens, desperate to feel your flesh beneath his touch—filling his palms with fistfuls of you, staining his teeth and soaking his tongue with scarlet flowing from your throat or your wrist or your bosom, inhaling your scent harsh and deep as he buries his nose in you, and letting it pollute him, consume him, sedate him. 

And despite how new it all is, how scary it feels, how vulnerable it leaves him as it pries his ribs apart bone by bone, digs its talons into his tendons and pulls them apart string by string to expose, offer, whatever it is that throbs in his chest for you, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[ladysarai]

10 Star Wars Fic Recs for Fanworks Day!

So, today is International Fanworks Day! I saw this post for Feedback Fest 2025, asking for comments "recommending 10 fanworks. Tell everyone why you love these works and why they should check them out." And because I am ~EXTRA~, I decided to make a Tumblr post for this.

But then I realized I could not keep it to 10 recs total and decided to do two posts--one for Inception, and one for Star Wars. There is NO rhyme or reason to the fics recommended here, other than "this is a story I linked to @nutterzoi and told her to go read RIGHT NOW and then when I saw the link I thought 'oh I should read that again'."

Here be my Star Wars fic recs! They are all prequel era, because I have a problem and that problem is named Obi-Wan Kenobi. Recs under the cut!

Trail Markers by @ooboowoonkoonooboo: A modern AU, which I was super hesitant at first, because to be honest? I have been taking my fandom faves and shoving them into Star Wars AUs for the last, oh, almost 30 years. But this was about high altitude climbing! And Codywan! And a special interest of mine is absolutely high altitude climbing and Everest, and here they are climbing Annapurna. (What's even more impressive is that the author ACTUALLY DID THEIR TREK, which. Is probably why it's just so amazingly excellent.) But the writing is fantastic and emotional and the backstory of Cody and his brothers kept me reading when I should have been doing other things. I have not been able to stop thinking about this story since I read it.

New Growth by @outpastthemoat: I was a Jedi Apprentice fan back in The Day, and have a new fixation with Melida/Daan (because look. As an adult, thinking about Qui-Gon abandoning a 13 year old Obi-Wan on a wartorn planet where adults are fighting and killing their own children is really fucked up, and I like the exploration of that). ANYWAY, I have read a BUNCH of post-Melida/Daan fics, but this is my favorite, and from Qui-Gon's POV. He is such a complicated character with a lot of flaws and I love that about him, but he's also a Good Man. Having a Padawan is like having a plant, and the fic includes this line: “No child is ever low-maintenance,” Tahl returns. “You just weren’t paying attention.” I absolutely adore Qui-Gon needing to think of Obi-Wan as a plant in order to realize what he needs to do to help him.

The More I Live the More I See this Life is Not About Me by K_R_Closson: A fic in which Clone Wars General Obi-Wan Kenobi touches a Sith artifact and turns into his 13 year old post Melida/Daan self. (I mentioned the fixation, right?) It's so good, with excellent clone POV (hi Cody ilu), and the tension that comes with knowing they need Obi-Wan to be his adult self again but seeing the boy who doesn't want to be General Kenobi. The conflict that Cody and the clones have regarding forcing someone to do a thing they don't want to and the parallel with their own lives is just. Chef's kiss.

After the War by antheiasilva: It is Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan, so if that's not your jam, be warned. But it's not generally mine either and I love this story to pieces. It's set after the war, in a world where Qui-Gon lived, and it has a really amazing concept for how they defeated Palpatine. It also really does not shy away from showing the PTSD Obi-Wan would and should have after the war. But like: Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, Anakin, Padme, Ahsoka and the baby twins all living together in Naboo's Lake District. Come on now. Bonus points for the complicated relationship they all have with the Jedi Order, too. It's just full of found family feels.

Patron Saint by @andthepeople: SO FREAKING GOOD. It's an always-female Obi-Wan AU, and I am obsessed with how being female does and does not change who Obi-Wan is and how she manages her role as a Jedi Master and council member and General. The relationship between Obi-Wan and her troops is the heart of the story and the love they all have for each other is just. GUH. Please read this story. The ending is fabulous and has Obi-Wan pulling a Jean Grey Phoenix X2 move that just. I can see it. Everything about this is perfect. (Also it's Codywan.)

And I Fear Nothing by @fox-trot: Unfinished, and that is heartbreaking, because this story is so good. I literally read it all in one six hour sitting, and it's another fic that won't leave my brain alone now. Obi-Wan is on Tatooine with Luke, Leia, Cody and Rex (and later, perhaps a few others). It's all Found Family and PTSD and how they all heal and hurt each other. I love it unconditionally.

The Legend of Liob by killbothtwins: Honestly one of the most entertaining and hilarious stories I have read in a LONG time. A photojournalist is posted to the 212th to help with PR for the war. Someone (Boil) impulsively creates an imaginary trooper, and things spiral out of control from there. But this imaginary trooper does save the day! In just about every single way. It's got great humor, amazing clone and Obi-Wan characterization, and a fabulous plot. Do yourself a favor and read it.

Silent (and So Near) by @tessiete: Another story I have not been able to stop thinking about since reading it. It does say Chapter 1/6, but idk if more will be written or not. I personally do hope so! It's SO well written, and full of emotions. Qui-Gon lived through Naboo, and now the Clone Wars have come and he is NOT interested in being a General. Just. Qui-Gon's feelings and thoughts are so fascinating to me, and his relationship with Obi-Wan and Anakin, guh. The lengths that Obi-Wan goes to to keep Qui-Gon safe from himself. The river stone. Anakin's attitude. I am obsessed with this version of Qui-Gon, tbh.

[to speak of precious evenings] by @cillyscribbles: OH I love this story. First of all, the way with words is just. Beautiful. But taking the "Cody and Obi-Wan get drunk together and talk" plot and turning it into this is a talent. It's beautiful.

Every Shadow by @kenobster: SO. VERY. GOOD. Unfinished, and I hope that it won't stay that way, but just as an FYI. I swear, this is the post Zygerria fic I need. Everyone's trauma after that arc is here and they are all hot messes having terrible times. But it's done well, and the writing is amazing. Do heed the warnings, but nothing explicit is in the fic. This is another story I can't stop thinking about.

[naffeclipse]

I'm sorry if this question has been asked in some form or another but... How would Eclipse, should he have ever moved away from the Arctic in search of a new home, react if he encountered a pair of orphaned Orca Siren Calves (Sun and Moon) being raised by a reclusive writer human Y/N? Like either their sibling got the Siren Transformation and the whole pod is just now... gone due to some unfortunate events... Or the Y/N just found the two orphans in the shallows near their very secluded home and the parents never came back?

Point is human Y/N is trying their best, but that means things aren't going all that great. Both kids can read and are cared for. Moon is a master of the door dash app when using the tablet kept on land near the water for them. But there's love... Lots of love.

How would he react to this?

Oh, I love this

You wanted to be left alone, unfortunately, the two... babies, didn't get the memo. They're so small. You have no idea what to do with the mythical creature children. Sirens. Sure, you've heard of them. So why aren't they taking care of their young? Why are they wailing at the edge of the icy land you've made your home on? It doesn't take long for you to take pity on the small things and feed them some chewed fish (but only this once).

Somehow, you end up with a small ice shelter where you've carved two breathing holes under the ice to let the seawater and the babies swim for a day, keeping a careful watch on them while jotting down a few ideas you've had for your writing (perhaps inspired by sirens). Then, at the night's end, you lovingly pick up both toddler-sized sirens, tucking one into each arm to carry them to your home where your bathtub has become a makeshift crib of seawater and half-chewed rubber duckies.

You believe they're twins despite their different appearances, one touched with cream-colored orca markings and soft yellow frills framing his face. The other brother is black and white and has a slippery dark blue tendril behind his head, trailing into a luminous bulb. They have mismatched eyes but share one blue iris.

So much for only feeding them once. The tiny fish got you wrapped around their little claws.

They growl and chuff and softly whine whenever you're not within sight, and each of them demands time alone to snuggle against your chest before you set down your bedding on the bathroom floor and urge them to sleep through the night. You're right here if they need you. Somehow, one or both end up on you, dripping wet, and you can only groan and softly hold the babies through the night despite their constant wiggles and slick, sheeny bodies.

This goes on for a few years before you start to worry that your bathtub is too cramped for the children. Sun and Moon (oh gosh, you gave them names; now you're really attached) are so smart and excel at reading and writing, making use of markers and whiteboards, and remembering to let their hands dry before grabbing the paper from the floor of the ice shelter to draw doodles of the icy waves.

There were learning curves, such as when you had to scold Moon for biting you so hard his sharp teeth drew blood, but he cried, so you stopped being angry and showed him how to help you bandage your hand. See? All better. But no biting. Another time was Sun growing impatient with your slow pace as you gathered your writing materials before joining them in the ice shelter, and he grabbed your leg and halfway pulled you into the frigid water, shocking your system with the sheer cold before you scrambled out and had to retreat to your home to undress and get warm. Sun hid away from you, unwilling to come out despite your coaxing once night fell. You had to lay down a new rule: they cannot pull you into the water. You are not built like them. He clung to you and apologized, and you forgave him with a kiss on the forehead.

You wanted to be left alone with your children. (Yours. Your babies.) Unfortunately, they're not the only sirens around. You sense another presence just at dusk when you're preparing to take Sun out of the breathing hole (you can only carry one at a time now, and even then, it takes all your strength to lift with your legs—when did they get so big?) and pause with your hands under Sun's arms, his hands still opening and closing for you. Through the slight opening in the flap of the ice shelter, out into the shallows of the icy sea, you see two pairs of eyes, yellow and red, and piercing.

A siren.

You react with adrenaline and fear, fueled by the intention to protect your children no matter the cost, and pull Sun and Moon out of the breathing holes in a second. Placing them in the far corner, you shield them with your body. The strange siren pokes his head through the breathing hole not a moment later. Eyes wide, breathing harshly, you stare each other down, siren against human. His gaze slips past you, and he grins upon finding Sun's and Moon's big eyes peeking around you as they cling to your shoulders, confused and frightened. Their flukes flip anxiously.

The siren grinned at you, and for the better half of the night, you conversed with the siren about how you came upon your children. His intentions remain sinister and masked until he at last tells you how perfect he finds you and the boys. You stare, standoffish, but he assures you, he will be the father that they need, and the mate you deserve. You don't believe him. You don't trust him with your babies, but when he grabs your leg and rips you away from your children, much to their protests and small cries, you're caught under him and his caressing claws before you realize that his hunger is more.

It starts to make sense. Of course, Eclipse can teach them far more than you can about how to navigate their marine existant and how to properly hunt and not only take food from your hands. He teaches them how to sing, how to watch prey, how to use their strength and teeth to conquer. And you... you watch, realizing that you miss those bathtub days, but your boys are happy. They love Eclipse and Eclipse, well, when he's not tending to the children, he's spending time with you, laying his crossed arms on your lap to gaze up at you, insisting you accept a dead seal from him.

Maybe he has a bit of charm. And maybe you begrudgingly let you sing you to sleep when you're left fretting about Sun and Moon swimming late into the night on their own, but they're growing big. They don't fit in your arms anymore. You start to feel a little forgotten before you find all three sirens acting very suspiciously, your boys whispering before telling you that Dad—Eclipse wants to give you something. He softly presses a beautiful black pearl into your palm. You've never been much for anything that isn't practical, but it's beautiful, so you take it. Eclipse is pleased and so are the Sun and Moon. He steals a kiss from you. You don't mind.

You wanted to be left alone, but you find yourself in the siren's arms as you both watch a burning orange sunset and your sons playfully fighting in the small waves.

[jaxangel]

Puppeteer AU Fanart

(Mixed Media Traditional)

(Sorry for glare)

I am a fan of @rorydrawsandwrites 's Puppeteer AU and decided to draw some fanart. I also decided to do it traditionally because I haven't made a full piece in traditional in a little bit!

I hope you like the art!

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Materials used (for those interested):

Grumbacher Mixed Media Sketchbook

Ohuhu Alchohol Markers

Crayola Colored Pencils

Masters Touch Premier watercolors

Grabie Paint pens

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If ur reading this hi!

Likes and reblogs appreciated

Please follow for more fanart and fanfics related to TADC (specifically Caine)

[corralinesage]

Child of September (2/?)

18+ Mature content, pure smut

I hope you guys enjoy this update!! The master list is linked in the title<3

Chapter 2: Capturing memories

(w/c 11k)

You adjusted the thick blanket that covered your shoulders, moving your body enough to get your blood circulation going again after sitting on the couch for most of the cozy afternoon. You glanced at the window, noticing that the autumnal gloom of the clouds had subsided just enough to allow rays of golden sunlight to push through for just a moment before the sun would disappear fully behind the horizon. The apartment smelled like chai, thanks to Natasha who had been in and out of the kitchen ever since breakfast to warm herself up with cups of tea. You were sitting on the living room couch with your sketchbook in your arms, squinting at a questionable drawing of a street view, for once having deliberately chosen to draw something other than people. You hated the black and white sketch, the perspective possibly a little bit off because you lacked a reference and had pulled the image out of your imagination, which had a tendency to never end well. There was a reason why you mostly focused on figure studies and portraits. They were just much more interesting than anything else, especially when you had a live model roaming around your apartment like she owned the place.

“Love, come here”, you called, flipping a new page and closing the book with one of your markers between the covers, tossing it to the side when Natasha walked in, wearing an entire outfit from your closet, although it was far from anything presentable. She noted how much dimmer the lighting was in the room, switching on a reading light on her way to the couch to spare your eyes from excessive strain.

“What is it?” She asked, your eyes studying your favorite pair of sweatpants that Natasha was donning with one of your ribbed tank tops and an oversized, knit cardigan.

“You have your entire closet littered around my bedroom and this is what you wear?” You questioned in disbelief, gesturing for her to come closer.

“It’s what’s most comfortable”, she stated in all seriousness, smiling softly to herself. She straddled your lap when you pulled her down onto the couch, her arms going around your neck as she sank into your embrace.

“Mm, yeah”, you huffed in amusement, slightly distracted by her presence despite the atrocious outfit she had on. Your lips found hers, first pressing down casually in a chaste kiss, but as an idea struck your mind you allowed the kiss to deepen, parting your lips, your tongue brushing against the seam of her lips. She hummed into the kiss, pleased by the sudden course of action you were taking, arching herself closer to you as her cheeks started to flush a soft pink. You had been drawing for hours, spending your day off planning the next assignment that you had been given for the following week, which, truth be told, Natasha wasn’t entirely too fond of when she would've rather had you all to herself. You ran your hands down her sides, sliding them under the waistband of her sweats, your fingers sinking into the bare skin of her behind as you gave her a firm squeeze. She gasped into your mouth, her hips rolling gently into your lap as if she was merely adjusting her position, the touch of her tongue growing just a bit more demanding. You switched angles, bringing your hands back up to her shoulders, unwrapping her arms from your neck to push the cardigan off her. Natasha didn’t protest at all when her top was next to go, leaning back down to kiss you once the garment was off, her nipples hardening in the cool temperature of the room. She stood up for a moment to kick off her pants, revealing a pair of underwear that was most likely yours as well. Natasha ignored the questioning raise of your brow as she sat back down. She felt warm under the touch of your hands as you caressed her back softly, sighing into her mouth from how good she felt against you. There was a brief moment where you had to choose whether to carry out your plan or not, Natasha’s warm, naked body more than inviting, steering you further and further away from your initial intentions. But eventually, you pulled away, both of you panting softly, a playful smirk on Natasha’s lips. Maybe it was finally her turn for some attention. She eyed you for a moment, her fingers playing with a necklace you were wearing.

“Go kneel on the other end of the couch and stay still”, you whispered quietly, the command seeming to linger in the narrow gap between your faces, Natasha blinking her eyes almost comically, doing a double take at your request. She looked at you for a moment, not used to being ordered around in bed but out of curiosity she did as told, moving to the opposite end of the couch where she knelt down, facing you. “Lift your arms up and arch your back”, you instructed her, Natasha giving you a disappointed frown as you pulled your sketchbook back onto your lap.

“What? I have to pose again? Then why did you kiss me?” She whined halfheartedly, following your silent instructions, moving her knees to the right and tilting her chin down. She had been through it before and possessed a vague idea of what you were looking for.

“It gives your cheeks some color”, you smirked, watching her roll her eyes, her blushed skin turning a shade darker. Considering the way you had met for the first time, you were confident that she didn’t mind it. Natasha liked posing for you, loved it. Sometimes she even asked for it. Although, you had a feeling that it had less to do with your art and more to do with your intense eyes on her. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll make it up to you. You just stay still”, you promised, leaning back a bit as you looked at her through only one of your eyes, using your pencil to map out the length and width of her body before starting your sketch with loose lines to figure out the correct proportions.

“You know you always do this”, she mused, staying still as a statue. “You make me pose for you until my nipples fall off from the cold and then you have sex with me”, she argued, her voice carrying a hint of amusement that she tried to hide, making you chortle out a laugh, your eyes returning to her body again. “Here’s an idea. Let’s just have sex like regular people”, she said teasingly, her smile widening when your gazes met. You grinned at her, finding it hard to contain your joy whenever she joked around with you.

“Or you can be the best, most beautiful girlfriend in the world and let me do this without you whining like a big baby”, you retorted, biting your lip as you paused for a moment just to look at the arches of her body, focusing on the lights and shadows, your eyes inevitably returning to her perky nipples. You felt your cheeks heat, maybe you shouldn’t have turned yourself on before starting such a tedious task, but as Natasha eventually quietened down you found it easier to ignore the tickle of warmth in your lower abdomen. She focused fully on you as you worked, much like when she had first met you, the situation sharing many similarities with that specific memory.

You continued to sketch her onto the paper, your pencil capturing every little curve and dent of her knees, shading in the muscles of her thighs before moving higher to define the two spheres on the paper to look more like her breasts. You left her underwear out of the drawing, shading in the space between her legs, biting down on your lip, the urge to be between those muscular thighs washing over you. God, you just wanted to abandon the sketchbook and fall into her embrace, but you kept going because you needed the drawing for an oil pastel piece that you were planning on doing with your new set that you had gotten a few days prior. It had an impressive range of shades, and you were bursting at the seams to finally try them out. You could’ve drawn something else with them, but you just wanted it to be Natasha because you loved her color palette more than anything else, already picturing the way you would capture her ivory skin and auburn hair. You desperately needed to get out of your head before it was too late, your underwear damp enough already. The silence was not helping your overactive and imaginative mind, allowing you the room to recall how good it felt to be sandwiched between those thighs of hers.

“Your hips have such a nice shape to them”, you mumbled, defining the outline of the sketch, following precisely the curve of her waist. The comment might have been odd to someone else, but Natasha had always loved how observant you were with her, intrigued by the way you saw the world around you in different shapes and colors. Your eyes moved to her body again to recheck that the lines of her armpit and bicep were accurate to reality.

“Thank you”, she hummed, smiling softly, your words warming her heart.

“I think you have the prettiest belly button I’ve ever seen”, you continued, Natasha chuckling quietly.

“How many have you seen?” She inquired curiously, trying to distract herself from your heated stare that only seemed to intensify.

“I’ve seen enough and none of them come even close to yours”, you answered, voice laden with amusement. You continued to shade in parts of her body, paying special attention to her curves to make them look every bit as soft and enticing as they were to your eye, using your finger to blend some of the shading to make it appear less harsh, your other hand searching for an eraser so you could fix the angle of the arm that was farther back.

“What do you like about me the most?” She asked quietly, your eyes snapping up to see her face, your lips stretching into a smile. She was so adorable it made your body physically ache.

“Your personality”, you replied honestly, Natasha rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m super cool, but physically. Why do you like to draw me so much?” She asked, genuinely curious about what you saw in her. You sighed heavily, pausing for a moment to think, your eyes remaining on her.

“What I like most about drawing you is you. I love this”, you explained, gesturing your hand between you. “I love that I get to just look at you and draw what I see, capture the moment”, you hummed, Natasha’s smile softening. “If you didn’t know this yet, you’re gorgeous, and who doesn’t like to look at gorgeous things?” You asked rhetorically, smirking her way as you went back to the drawing.

“What do you see in the drawings?” She asked, continuing her method of distraction despite it bringing her no relief whatsoever from the ache between her legs.

“I see glimpses into the past, moments in time. Every piece of my art has a memory or memories attached to it and when I look at the things I’ve created they always bring me back into the moment of creation”, you replied, realizing that it was the very reason you liked to draw and paint her so much.

“I’m in all those memories”, she whispered in mild awe, finally understanding another piece of you that suddenly made so much sense. You nodded your head, thinking back to the dozens of pieces you had made of her over the years you had spent together.

“You’re in all those memories”, you echoed fondly, knowing that that very moment was forever going to be in the sketch that sat on your lap. There was an elongated moment of silence where Natasha just looked at you as you traced the lines of her neck muscles and added some volume to her hair by coloring some of it in before she spoke again.

“I really wanna know, what’s your favorite part of my body”, she asked, eager to know because she knew what her favorite was when it came to you.

“I like so many things about you, little details, stuff others wouldn’t think twice about”, you chuckled, not sure how to decide a favorite out of them all.

“What details?” She inquired immediately, clearly curious about the way you perceived her.

“Well”, you started awkwardly, feeling like she was going to find your answer weird. “I love the way your bottom front teeth are crooked. The right one in the middle is more in the front than the rest. It’s cute”, you hummed, hiding your face from her by deciding that the sketch needed a little more of your attention.

“You need to spend less time in my mouth”, she chuckled, unable to hold in her laughter.

“See, I knew you’d think it’s weird”, you whined, shooting her a look.

“No, no. I love it”, she protested immediately, urging you to keep going. “What else?”

“I love it when you lift your arm to the side and the muscles of your shoulder and chest stick out and if the lighting is right, they look even more defined. It’s really attractive”, you whispered quietly, feeling your cheeks heat. “And I like the way your collarbones and the notch between them frame your chest, very elegant”, you commented, smiling to yourself as you dragged the pencil over said part of her body. “There are these couple little freckles on your left boob. They’re light brown, really subtle. They look like constellations”, you chuckled, Natasha glancing down to look at her chest, suddenly not sure if she had noticed such a thing. “Oh, and that scar on your lower back, the one I said looked like a heart”, you added, reminded of the burn mark Natasha hadn’t even known existed until you pointed it out. You paused for a moment before continuing. “This is so weird.” You cringed at what you were about to say but carried on regardless of it. “I love the way the cartilage in your nose kind of cinches in right before the tip of your nose and it gives it this roundness that’s super cute. And I can’t forget the tiny nose bump, or the way your Cupid’s bow dents right above your lip.” There were too many things, too many parts of her that all deserved your undivided attention. Natasha hid her surprise, impressed by the tiny details that you picked up on when you really studied her as thoroughly as possible. Her gaze was very fond as she looked at you, clearly able to see the way you felt about what you had said, felt about her, realizing just how much the smaller details meant to you, and just how much time you spent staring at her.

“So, which one is your favorite?” She asked softly, so eager to know.

“I don’t wanna say”, you whined, looking up at her with a small wince on your face.

“It’s the teeth, isn’t it?” She smirked, able to see that she was right from your expression.

“I don’t know why!” You groaned defensively. “It’s just cute.” Your tone turned into a quiet, little grumble as you brought your hand over your face to hide from her mirthful eyes.

“All I was looking for was something along the lines of tits or ass, but you really went all in”, she teased, hearing you laugh even louder.

“Stop it! It’s supposed to be endearing”, you moaned, chucking your eraser at her to make her stop teasing you. She allowed it to smack her in the arm, the eraser bouncing under the coffee table. “What’s your favorite then?” You asked bitterly, although you could never actually be upset by her.

“I like your neck”, she hummed, rubbing her lips together as she glanced away, remembering just how good it felt to kiss down your throat or suckle the pulse point under your jaw. She loved to smell your neck, your skin often carrying the scent of your perfume that enhanced your own fragrance. She also liked to nuzzle her face into the crook of your neck especially when you were warm and cozy in bed or when she came home from a long day of work and was finally able to sink into your embrace. She thought about gliding her tongue over your throat, a flush of heat rushing to her cheeks at the mental image that made her stomach lurch.

“I thought it’d be ass. You look like an ass girl.” You smirked playfully, deciding to get some payback.

“Well, maybe if you had an ass to like.” Oh, she looked so cocky, your jaw falling open as you gasped at the severity of such accusations.

“You’re gonna regret that.” You shot her a warning look, moving the sketchbook off your lap, Natasha perking up immediately to see if she was going to be granted the permission to move. “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m just gonna get my oil pastels. Sit tight, Nattypoo.” You stood up, allowing your hand to brush over her stomach and chest, avoiding her breasts as you walked past her into your room. She dropped her pose, moving her arms and back a bit to relieve the ache of her muscles, rolling her shoulders to make them relax as a sigh escaped her. You returned with the oil pastels, sitting down and grabbing a couple of shades you thought would work the best. Natasha lifted her arms back up, but you shook your head, glancing up at her. “You can drop the pose. I’m done with the sketch. I’ll just create the color palette quickly and I’m done”, you hummed in concentration, skimming your fingers over the set of crayons.

You studied the shades of the shadows on her body, mixing burnt sienna and yellow ochre together, using richer browns to deepen the color for the darkest parts. You colored in small squares around the sketch, mapping where each color would go. You chose three different shades of brown for her hair, mixing a bit more crimson with burnt sienna to give it an auburn hue. You inched a bit closer to her on the couch, occasionally lifting the sketchbook up to see how good your color matching skills were before going back to mixing your shades.

“Do you have any weird things you like about me?” You asked as the silence seemed to stretch on and on, feeling the need to keep Natasha entertained for just a little longer. You weren’t expecting anything special since your eyes were trained to look at the world through a different lens, but you wanted to know regardless.

“I like the shape of your lips”, she replied, smiling a bit as she looked at your face, itching to touch you.

“I don’t think that’s weird.” You chuckled, glancing at her impossibly green eyes that lingered on you, Natasha observing any details she could find.

“Okay, well how about this? I like the shape of your nails, both fingers and toes”, she offered, immediately making you smile.

“I think that’s a step closer.” The smile lingered on your face as Natasha continued to think of what exactly she liked about you.

“This should do it, I think”, she started with a small smile on her lips. “I like the way your underwear hugs you so perfectly, the way it accentuates your hips and thighs.” Her voice was low, and she spoke in a quiet, intimate way, almost coming off as dreamy. “I love your pelvis. I love everything about it. The shape, the softness of your skin, the space below your navel. You know where the skin is soft and it’s perfect for biting on your way down.” Her lips curved into a knowing smirk. “I love every dip and curve…” She trailed off, her eyes fixed on you in a blank stare as if deep inside her head. You felt warmth pool in said part of your body, a fluttering feeling more than present in your lower abdomen.

“I like your hands a lot. They’re very capable”, she mused, continuing to voice out her thoughts as she watched the way you held seven crayons in one hand as if holding cigarettes, the other hand coloring the paper. “I like you”, she whispered softly, a tender smile on her face.

“I like you too”, you hummed in amusement, Natasha feeling her chest flutter at your words that felt somehow very intimate even though you verbally expressed your love for the other on a regular basis. You looked at her and then you looked at the paper, your eyes moving down to her chest and nipples that were leaning more toward purple than the rosy pink you desired. She looked a little pale, the blush from earlier no longer anywhere in sight. You scooched beside her, dropping the crayons onto the book, your hands cupping her cheeks and pulling her into a heated kiss. Your touch was very passionate and took Natasha by slight surprise, her brain needing a moment to process the situation so she could react accordingly. She leaned forward, taking your advance as a sign that she was allowed to move around more, eager to touch you and feel your warmth against her cold body. You opened your mouth wider, deepening the kiss, suddenly feeling desperate for her, your moans muffled by her lips. You pulled away, trailing hasty kisses down her chest to find her breasts, your crayons rolling off the book before it slid off your lap and thudded to the carpet below.

Natasha gasped at the way your teeth scraped over her nipple, your lips wrapping around the hardened bud firmly, your face pressing into the softness of her breast. You allowed your hands to find her waist, skimming your fingers over the area, squeezing her hips. When you heard the soft purr come deep from her throat you knew you were a goner, your lips pulling away from her now flushed bud that was a gorgeous shade of rose pink, a color that you adored for its depth and nuance. You switched over to the other side, your dominant hand sliding between her parted knees and up to the apex of her thighs.

“You ruined my underwear”, you noted between kisses, your fingertips feeling around the warm fabric that was damp from her arousal. She merely chuckled, trying to press herself closer to your touch.

“Oops.” She smirked, the playful tone causing heat to rush down to the lower half of your body, her teasing eyes telling you she wasn’t sorry in the slightest. You rose back up to her face, capturing her in another searing kiss, not resisting her at all when she started to lean forward, guiding you to lie down on the couch, finally freeing her aching knees from their bent position and crawling over you. “Mm, you’re so hot”, she whispered against your lips, her heavy breath fanning over your chin. “The way you look at me”, she continued, kissing you again, her soft body pressing into your own, your hands caressing her back, really feeling the weight of her on top. Your heart thudded in your chest, your skin growing warm, blood rushing up your neck and down between your legs as her tongue dipped into your mouth. “You’re concentrated, in your own world”, she panted lightly, her hungry mouth moving to your neck, placing open-mouthed kisses to the underside of your jaw, her tongue licking sloppily over your skin. “It’s so sexy”, she groaned, her voice low, giving it a soft rasp. You brought your hands up, cupping her cheeks to bring her face to face with you, a wide, excited grin spreading onto your lips at her words. She rolled her hips against yours, pressing the warmth of her core into your thin leggings as if to show you exactly what you did to her. Your lower body tingled sharply, your hands moving to her round buttocks to pull her closer, a soft grunt falling from your lips.

“Talk about sexy”, you hummed teasingly, smoothing your hands over the perfect roundness of her backside, giving her a proper squeeze, a quiet moan escaping Natasha. She leaned back into a kiss, immediately capturing your lips with her own, moving her hips again to intensify the pressure between her legs.

“We have got to get you out of these damn clothes”, she grumbled, displeased when the collar of your shirt wouldn’t give in anymore than it already was.

“Mm, let me sit up for you”, you chuckled, pulling your lips free from the suction of her mouth. She helped you upright, her hands immediately sliding under your long sleeve shirt, nearly tearing it off your body, a joyous laugh resonating in the living room when she shoved you back down onto the cushions, crawling back enough to pull off your underwear and leggings in one go before removing her ruined panties as well.

Once you were fully bare for her, she climbed back over you, sinking into your body as her lips searched fervently for yours, needy for your touch. You bucked your hips against hers, feeling the way her short hairs brushed over your pelvis, your moan muffled by her mouth as your tongues brushed together, desperate to deepen the kiss. Her rushed breaths puffed against your skin, her warmth and proximity making you feel almost feverish. Your hands were greedy, tugging on her flesh to bring her impossibly close, guiding the movement of her hips as she ground into you. She let out a strangled grunt when she found enough friction, the movement of her body becoming rougher, her sex pressing into your skin. It was all so sudden, so passionate, so wonderfully thrilling that all you could do was take it as it was. She kissed you harder, more desperately, the touch of her lips bruising, teeth biting into your lower lip until it slid out of her grasp. She didn’t give you time to catch your breath before her lips were back on yours again, unable to stay away. You brought your fingers to her folds, coating them in her slick before rubbing them lazily against her. It made Natasha practically shiver on top of you. She let out a hum, drawing her lower lip between her teeth as her eyelids fluttered shut, her reaction to your touch sending a jolt of electricity down your spine. Her lips parted in a soft gasp when your fingers found her entrance, slipping inside with ease. She let out a pleased hum, pushing her hips down on you to bring herself closer to your hand in an attempt to make you go deeper.

“Mmh, fuck”, she moaned, her back arching as she ground down, feeling insatiable, your fingers unable to reach the depths she desired. “More”, she whispered, lifting her hips up enough to easily allow you to add another finger. She was so warm, the heat of her wet core making your stomach lurch as you pumped your fingers in and out, feeling the sensitive skin inside, your fingertips skimming over the roughness of her walls in the exact spots she liked it. Natasha moaned, slowly starting to match the rhythm you had set for her, bouncing lightly on top of you, mind more than focused on the way your fingers rubbed at her entrance with each thrust, the way your palm pressed up against her clit. Your other hand found her waist, sliding up her bare back to bring her down so you could kiss her, but you spoke before your lips connected.

“This is what I want to capture in my art”, you mumbled, finding her lips in a wet, hungry kiss that left Natasha breathless. “This is what I remember when I look at my work”, you whispered between feverish kisses, your lungs burning from the lack of oxygen. You kissed down her neck, pleased to feel her arch her back enough to bring her chest into your reach. You cupped her breast with your free hand, massaging it lightly before bringing your mouth to the soft, inviting skin, your tongue poking out to lick over her nipple.

“All drawings of me are filled with dirty memories”, she chuckled, feeling you smirk against her breast.

“Maybe”, you huffed in amusement, biting down on her flesh a bit teasingly as you curled your fingers inside her. Natasha’s eyes squeezed shut as she muffled a groan.

“No wonder you love ‘em so much”, she mused, struggling to talk as your thumb found her clit.

“I want to taste you”, you murmured against her chest, slowly pulling your fingers out of her, gaining Natasha’s attention immediately. She looked down at you, her face flushed from desire, lips a rough pink that you only ever saw on her during sex. “I want to make you feel good”, you added in a slightly pleading tone, hoping to make up for all the time she had spent posing. Natasha smirked, excited by the change in your tone.

“How much do you want it?” She asked in a mild challenge, setting tone for the intimate moment between you, looking to hear you beg.

“More than anything else”, you assured her, gazing up at her through your lashes. You could see from her face that she was feeling playful that night.

“How… much?” She asked in a low croon as she leaned closer to you, her lips hovering over your own. You knew what she was after, your fuzzy mind unable to do anything but oblige her.

“Please”, you nearly whispered, attempting to connect your lips, but Natasha pulled back.

“What do you want, malyshka?” She asked softly, her tone a little teasing because she knew you struggled voicing out your desires sometimes.

“I want your pussy.” Your tone was mellow, tinted by a hint of shame, your cheeks heating violently at your words.

“What do you want with it?” She continued, your breath feeling shallow as you felt your body push out more slick to smear into the insides of your thighs.

“I want… I want to give you head”, you said hesitantly, trying to go around the matter to avoid the humiliation of actually saying what you wanted.

“And how would you do it?” She hummed, dropping her mouth to the side of your neck, slowly kissing you with firm pressure, her lips sucking on your skin to mark you as she waited for your response.

“How would I give head?” You asked in confusion, feeling her nod against your neck.

“You and I both know what you really want”, she hummed, sinking her teeth into your flesh, biting down enough to make it sting.

“I want to bury my face between your legs”, you whispered breathlessly, your back arching off the cushions the lower her mouth went.

“You can say it, detka”, she chuckled, a sense of encouragement in her slightly demeaning tone.

“I wanna be smothered by you.” You were unable to look her in the eyes, your body on overdrive from arousal. All you wanted was to please her, you wanted her to use you for her own pleasure. You wanted nothing more than to be consumed by her.

“By my what?” She prompted again, earning a little groan from you.

“Your pussy”, you moaned in defeat, her teeth sinking into your shoulder.

“Mm, such a good girl”, she murmured, trailing kisses down your naked chest to find your nipple. She sucked on it harshly, her soft moan muffled by your breast. You felt your chest flutter with pleasure both from her touch as well as her words, your head feeling rather light, spinning with desire. “Are you gonna be good for me?” She asked softly as she pulled away, finding your doting eyes. You nodded, starting to sit up to change your position, but she made you halt. “Are you?” She pressed on, wanting you to use your words.

“Yes, Natasha, the best”, you promised her, Natasha smirking at you knowingly.

“Get on the floor”, she hummed almost dismissively, guiding you to kneel down on the living room carpet before positioning herself to face the back of the couch, her backside level with your face. Her skin was silky smooth, the shade of ivory carrying a hint of warmth as the blood rushed quicker beneath it. She was gorgeous, her skin reminding you of marble, every dip and curve on her body itching to be touched as if you would have been carving a sculpture, molding a piece of clay. She was soft and pliable, flexible, but firm, oh-so unyielding and compelling. You couldn’t have looked away had you tried to. You brought your hands to her hips, immediately pressing your lips down on her toned back, placing soft kisses across the small of her back as your hands smoothed over her hips and the curve of her buttocks. She leaned forward to find some support from the couch backrest so she could relax into your touch, pushing her hips back to give you more than an ample view of her soaked sex.

“Fuck”, you sighed under your breath, your hands smoothing over her perfectly rounded glutes as you took in the sight before you, eyes lingering on her pink folds, the shade deep and rich from stimulation. Natasha felt a flush of warmth go through her as she imagined the look on your face, more than glad to know that you liked what you were seeing. You trailed your lips down to her backside, leaving behind wet, open-mouthed kisses until you reached her buttocks, massaging them with your hands, spreading her open for you. “You look so perfect”, you murmured, bringing your mouth back down on her, biting the fullness of her curves to truly feel her in every way possible, a slight hiss coming from Natasha. “I should paint you from this angle.” It wasn’t entirely a joke despite the hint of humor in your tone, your eyes roaming all over the arch of her back and the way her muscles undulated beneath her pale skin as you slowly inched your mouth closer to her sex. You could practically feel her warmth against your face, smell her scent, her wetness more than inviting, her throbbing body begging you to touch her. Natasha’s breath hitched, her response threatening to die down in her throat from the level of anticipation she felt.

“Good luck trying not to get distracted”, she scoffed after composing herself, parting her knees a bit wider and tilting her pelvis to give you better access. You chuckled at her words, unable to hold yourself off for any longer. You wanted her so badly, so badly your entire body was buzzing. You gripped her hips, pulling her cheeks apart to spread her open for you, your mouth finding her warmth on its own. You licked up the arousal that was gathered at her entrance, your tongue pressing into her with firm pressure, hands pulling her closer to your face. You heard Natasha grunt, clearly swallowing down her moan as she gripped the couch cushions hard enough to hurt them. The sound made you smile against her, forcing you to pull away a bit to gather yourself, your smile only widening when Natasha pushed back, searching for your touch.

“Patience”, you said teasingly, Natasha whipping her head around to look at you, giving you a warning look that quickly turned into an amused one.

“Yeah, uh-huh.” It was mocking. You both knew who was in control. She straightened herself slightly more upright to be able to reach you better, her hand sliding to the back of your head, gently pulling you back between her legs. You let out a small laugh, Natasha’s eyes rolling to the back of her head from the vibration. You opened your mouth wide, lapping at her core with enthusiasm, her hand remaining at the back of your head to make sure you stayed where she wanted you. It made you giddy, so unbelievably excited, your abdomen swarming with fresh butterflies, the apex of your thighs throbbing with want as you coated your face with her arousal. You nuzzled into her scent, working your tongue against her just the way she liked it, Natasha’s hips starting to push back to meet the rhythm of the pressure and friction you were providing her, clearly searching for more. You let out a small moan, trying to press yourself even closer to her, licking a wide stripe up her sex, but you knew it wouldn’t be enough, your lips finding her clit, wrapping around the nerves in a firm suction. Natasha let out a low moan, the kind that groped the very bottom of your stomach, a jolt of thrill going through you as her grip tightened at the back of your head. She ground down on your face, searching for more pressure, quiet panting coming from her, her back arching as much as her body would allow it to, muscles starting to cramp in anticipation, but just when you thought you had brought her to the edge, she pulled away from you, letting go of you. She turned sideways on the couch, her flushed face coming into your view, cheeks dusted a sheer shade of rose, lips as pink as they could get. Now that was something for you to paint.

“Come, krasotka, I want to sit on that pretty face of yours”, she said softly between labored exhales, her hand reaching for your arm to guide you to lie down on the couch for her. “I want to see you when I come.” You tried to hide your smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth and the burst of excitement consuming your chest, but you failed, grinning like a fool as you climbed onto the couch, sliding beneath Natasha as she encased your head with her knees. She leaned back a bit, sitting down onto your chest, her left hand coming up to your face, brushing aside some of your hair before caressing your face affectionately. “Such a gorgeous girl I got”, she hummed, obsessed with the admiring look in your eyes, your hands smoothing up her thighs, caressing her hips and waist rather automatically. “So pretty.” Her voice was nothing but a quiet croon, a pleased smirk finding her lips when she felt you attempt to tug her closer to you. She loved how eager you were, how devoted you were to the craft. “And apparently impatient too.” She let out a soft chuckle, warmth filling her chest at the shy smile on your face. “You wanna make me come?” She asked in that low voice of hers, still caressing your features with her fingertips.

“Mhm, please.” Was all you managed to get out, giving her hips another tug.

“What was that?” She was jeering, looking to have a bit of fun with you before she would begin to lose her composure to the throbbing pleasure between her legs.

“Please, Natasha.”

“Please what, darling?” She wiped her thumb across the curve of your lower lip, smiling softly.

“Let me make you come.” You tugged at her hips again, the mere sight of her above you making your heart race unbearably fast. “Please, Natasha.” Her smile widened.

“Come where?” Oh, what a little shit. You almost wanted to groan from frustration.

“Come on my face.” She acquired a pleased look onto her face, yet she still feigned her uncertainty and made it seem like she was mulling the matter over in her head. Your nails dug into the flesh of her hips when you felt her arousal wet the skin on your chest. You felt dizzy from desire, impatient and restless. You were so hungry for her, the longing pull in your chest becoming unbearable. “Please, Natasha. Let me make you come on my face.” Her smile turned into a pleased grin.

“I knew you had it in you. I’m no mind reader”, she reminded you. The smug look on her face was not helping you with your predicament in the slightest. She was pushing all the right buttons to turn you into a whiny, miserable, yet desire-crazed mess. “Go ahead, baby.” She chuckled at your enthusiasm as she lowered herself onto your face, your mouth opening automatically for her. Natasha’s thighs trembled slightly as she held herself up to avoid being too rough, her body throbbing with the need to grind down on your velvety tongue, eager to chase after her postponed orgasm. She sighed in relief when you kissed her sloppily, your lips sucking softly on her sensitive skin, your tongue only barely brushing over her clit before you opened your mouth again to fit as much of her into your mouth as possible, burying yourself into her warmth. Natasha’s back arched, hips rolling against your tongue, a small whimper falling from her lips at how incredibly satisfying it felt to be touched, her hand finding the couch backrest again for some support. You could tell she was trying to be careful, keeping most of her weight off you, nearly hovering over you, but you knew you could take her, and she knew too, she simply needed to be reminded of that. You smoothed your hands up her thighs, caressing her gently as you swirled your tongue over her folds, rapidly building her pleasure back up to its peak. You gripped her hips rather roughly, hugging her lower half as you yanked her whole body weight down on you, Natasha gasping at the increase in pressure, her eyes fluttering open to see you, finding you looking up at her with encouragement and adoration. Her stomach lurched at the sight of you eating her out like you were starved, her composure starting to waver the closer she got to her high.

“Not too rough, is it?” She asked you, out of breath, your wandering hands making it harder for her to concentrate as they trailed up her middle, cupping her full breasts.

“No”, you mumbled incoherently, Natasha hissing at the sensation, her hips jerking forward on their own. She couldn’t hold herself off for any longer, giving into the inviting warmth of your mouth, allowing your hands to guide the movement of her hips as she rode your face. The way her lithe body rolled against you reminded you of ocean waves, her breasts bouncing enticingly with each jolt of her hips. Your jaw was growing tired, your tongue feeling thick in your mouth, but you were determined enough to get her off to keep going. You couldn’t breathe properly, but you barely even noticed, mesmerized by her quiet, desperate moans and her sculpture-like body that only seemed to look even better from your angle that accentuated her curves. The brief idea of making a miniature sculpture of her entered your mind, your wandering hands already memorizing the way her body felt beneath your touch.

“F-fuck”, Natasha moaned, the sound coming out reserved, like she hadn’t quite been able to contain it. She spread her knees wider, smothering your face with her sex, gasping for air as her clit pressed against your nose time and time again, her tense hips snapping erratically into your mouth, her orgasm reaching her with such intensity she could do nothing but tremble. She tried to swallow down the high-pitched whines that pushed up her throat, but they slipped out with each hasty exhale she let out, waves of pleasure crashing through her. You could feel her core pulse against your mouth, her body pushing out more of her arousal to smear over your sticky face. You conformed into the movements of her body, your hands on her waist, holding her gently as she used your mouth to prolong her pleasure.

She let out a long groan when the pleasure finally subsided, turning into a soft buzz that made her body relax as the warmth settled into her muscles and made her want to sink right into your embrace. Her eyes met yours, gaze hazy from the euphoria she had just experienced, her mind fuzzy, longing for your attention. You licked up her folds gently, earning a sigh from Natasha as she slowly eased her weight off your face and lay down on her back over your body, unable to support herself for any longer. The room was filled with your labored exhales as you both caught your breaths, collecting yourselves to be able to speak and move again. Her odd position and the quiet, unanimous puffing made you chuckle, your head lifting off the cushions to reach the apex of her thighs. You kissed her sex gently, moving your mouth to her inner thigh, biting her lightly before suckling the soft flesh hard enough to leave a mark, your fingertips smoothing over her body in a soothing caress, going up her sides and to her chest, your arms eventually wrapping around her lower half in a hug.

“Fuck me”, Natasha sighed in exhaustion, carefully sitting back up and climbing off your body. Her comment made you laugh, an intense blush creeping up your neck to warm your cheeks. You loved it when she was impressed with you, whenever you managed to please her exceptionally well. Natasha looked down at you as you slowly sat up, her lips pursing slightly as she fought the smile on her face, her stomach doing a flip from seeing your flushed appearance.

“You took me so well, detka.” Her tone was praising, her hands automatically fixing up your hair a bit in a caring gesture. She sat down beside you, her hand cupping your cheek to bring you closer, so she could plant her lips on yours. Your knees opened to the sides to allow her closer to you as she deepened the kiss, her lips parting. “Mmh, you’re such a good girl”, she whispered against your lips, the touch of her hands so delicate on your face. You could do nothing but smile, your heart fluttering from the praise you received. She held you close for a moment longer before pulling away, reaching down to the floor to find her shirt, bringing it up to wipe your face clean from the mixture of saliva and come that lingered on your skin. It made you chuckle, a bright smile finding Natasha’s lips. “You’re so beautiful”, she hummed, holding you almost delicately, a stark contrast to the way she had fucked your face just a moment ago. You actually felt a bit sore, but you didn’t mind it in the slightest because the way she looked at you made your head fuzzy from affection as well as lust.

“So are you”, you hummed with a small smirk on your face. “I got inspired again”, you chuckled, Natasha’s brow arching in curiosity, waiting for you to elaborate. “I want to make a sculpture of you.”

“A sculpture?”

“Yes. You’re my muse”, you said playfully, Natasha looking away to hide the small grin on her lips. “I want you in every single piece of art I make”, you hummed, Natasha’s eyes finding your own.

“You’re incredible”, she praised, her hand finding your waist, sliding down to the top of your thigh, stroking the smooth skin there idly, itching to dip her fingers down between your legs.

“Will you pose for me again?” You asked her softly, even though you knew that she would. You didn’t even have to ask.

“Oh, there’s no doubt about that”, she chuckled lowly. “I could never refuse this kind of treatment”, she mused brightly, noticing your hips shift a bit as you tried to ignore the ache in your lower abdomen. Your eyes dropped down to your lap as Natasha’s hand moved to your damp inner thigh to feel the wetness that you had smeared all over yourself by squeezing your thighs together. She gave you a look, a knowing smirk donning her lips. “I think it’s time you get some attention yourself”, Natasha hummed in a low, sensual tone, leaning closer to your ear, kissing your neck gently. “What does my pretty baby want?” She whispered, shivers going down your spine as your forearms broke out in goosebumps. “You can ask for anything at all.” All you got out was a quiet moan, your body feeling so heavy. You just wanted closer to her, you wanted to feel her lips on your neck, you wanted her to mark you, to make sure everyone knew that you were hers. It was ridiculous. You were so far gone, and she hadn’t even touched you. She kissed down your neck, her tongue poking out to caress your skin as she placed open-mouthed kisses over the column of your throat and the underside of your jaw, occasionally nipping you. “What do you want?” She asked again between kisses, moving closer to your mouth. You couldn’t speak, far too focused on her plump lips that finally reached your own. Your moan was muffled by her mouth, your hand searching for hers, guiding it between your legs.

You desperately needed to find relief from the relentless pressure that was making you almost feverish with want. You kissed her harder, brushing your tongue against her own, Natasha opening her mouth wider to deepen the kiss. Her right hand rose up to your neck, fingertips mindlessly caressing the sensitive skin there before her hand found purchase on the side of your neck, thumb stroking softly over the column of your throat. It made your head spin, Natasha swallowing each small, airy moan you let out, her left hand tracing the shape of your folds languidly. Your hips jerked slightly when she tapped your clit with faint pressure, your hands coming up to cup her cheeks, pulling her closer to you, Natasha finding herself back on top of you in no time as you slumped down onto the cushions. She let out a small chuckle, pleased to feel your bare skin against her own as she settled over you, her hips pressing her hand against your core, offering you enough pressure to make you dizzy. She leaned back in to kiss you, the movement of her mouth slow and sensual, her wet tongue brushing only briefly over your lips before she sucked on your top lip delicately. Her breath was sweet and warm, her scent still heavy on your lips and chin, a waft of her perfume mixing with the smell of her arousal. You allowed your hands to sink into her loose curls, tousling up her hair as your fingers scratched gently over her scalp. You couldn’t get enough of her, your body screaming for more of her attention.

Your hips bucked up, searching for her hand, your walls fluttering expectantly. You couldn’t take any more teasing, any more kissing. You needed relief from the numbing tingle in your lower body, your dominant hand leaving her hair to find her hand. Natasha eased herself off your body a bit, her arm braced against the couch cushions to put a few inches between your bodies, allowing you to guide her hand where you wanted it. Arousal shot through you like a bolt of lightning as you took in her flexed abs and the tensed muscles of her shoulder and arm, your mind so incredibly greedy for her. She was too beautiful, too attractive, prompting you to forget about your own pleasure, your hands caressing her waist before rounding to her back and sliding up, feeling the impressive muscles there.

“What?” Natasha asked quietly, a small smirk on her face as she tried to decipher what was going on in your mind.

“You’re so sexy, mesmerizing really”, you whispered, grinning up at her, Natasha rolling her eyes. “Mmh, how are you so attractive?” You moaned, caressing her body, your hands sliding down her front. “I’m obsessed”, you admitted, Natasha chuckling softly.

“I know you are, malyshka”, she crooned, thinking back to all the paintings and drawings you had of her. It was rather obvious to her and everyone else just how obsessed you were with her. You scrunched your nose in mild embarrassment, but the expression was wiped away from your face the second you felt her fingers press over your clit. Your eyes fluttered shut as your chin tilted up, Natasha taking the opportunity to press kisses on your jaw and neck. “You’re so wet. Oh, wow”, she chuckled, her fingers slipping inside in one go. The sensation made you gasp, your hips shifting restlessly, begging for her to move, but she pulled out completely instead, bringing her soaked fingers between you. “Almost too wet”, she smirked teasingly, licking up the slick that clung to her digits. “Fuck”, she whispered, unable to hide her smirk. “This might get messy”, she mused, warmth flushing your cheeks as you took in the sight of Natasha sucking on the tip of her index finger like you were the most delicious delicacy she had been graced with.

“Oh, we shouldn’t be on the couch”, you lamented halfheartedly, Natasha smirking brightly.

“Fuck the couch”, she murmured, kissing down to your breasts as she slowly pulled away from you, kneeling down between your parted thighs. You giggled at her comment, adjusting your position on the cushions, finding a pillow for your head. Natasha grabbed the pair of sweats off the floor, placing the fabric beneath your hips to protect the couch, despite her initial indifference.

“I love you”, you whispered playfully, touched by the fact that she knew you well enough not to mess up your perfect couch.

“I love you too”, she hummed, pressing a kiss on your knee, her gaze dropping down to your glistening sex, hand moving between your legs on its own accord. She bit your thigh gently, her thumb caressing your folds, clearly appreciating how beautiful you looked splayed out for her. You felt your walls clench, the cool air of the living room offering some relief to your heated skin, but it wasn’t enough. She rubbed slow circles over your clit, a soft whine coming from you purely out of desperation. You needed so much more than the gentle touch of her thumb. You tried to press yourself closer to her, wiggling your hips a bit, but it offered you no relief. You grabbed her hand, appreciative of the muscles and veins of her forearm, biting down on your lower lip as you watched the way the blue and green veins bulged out the slightest bit. You guided her fingers to your entrance, Natasha’s gaze shifting automatically to see your face as she slowly slid her fingers inside, filling you up. Your mouth parted in a silent gasp, your eyelids fluttering shut, the grip on her wrist tightening as you immediately started to pump her hand into you, so desperate for more stimulation. She kissed your knee again, clearly missing your lips as she curled her fingers inside you, feeling around your sensitive walls, any movement of her hand causing a jolt of pure lust to go through you. You needed more.

As if fully aware of the thoughts flying inside your head, Natasha brought her thumb to your clit, pressing down on it as she began to move her hand a bit more. She leaned over your body, kissing your lips before going down your neck, her fingers going as deep as they could. Your eyes closed at the pleasure that stirred inside you, hips bucking into her hand impatiently as you tried your best to focus on the way her perfect lips kissed down your collarbones and found your breasts, sucking on the silky flesh before finding your sensitive nipple. The touch of her mouth was much more gentle, slow and sensual, whereas her hand was growing rougher by the second. You heard the loud squelching you were making but you didn’t care, the sound only spurring your arousal on. Your body was so heated, on such overdrive that you felt helpless.

“Natasha”, you moaned quietly, feeling like you were going to burst if she didn’t fuck you harder. She only smiled against your breast, opening her mouth again, her teeth sinking into flesh in a gentle bite. It made your mind blank, your clit throbbing with the need to be touched properly.

“Say it again”, she murmured, her tongue licking over the swell of your breast. She let out a small moan, her left hand stilling as she poured all her focus on the softness of your heaving chest.

“Natasha”, you whined, the sound of your pleading voice making Natasha’s head spin. You groaned quietly, squirming beneath her. “Please.” You moved your hand back between your legs, starting to rub hasty circles over your clit to make the unbearable burn more manageable. She tutted you softly, pulling away from your perfect breasts.

“Let me”, she hummed, kissing down your abdomen, her teeth dragging over the space below your navel, placing gentle bites here and there whenever she couldn’t resist it. Her warm mouth moved across your heated skin and down to the apex of your thighs. You took in a ragged breath when her lips peppered firm, wet kisses over your pubic bone, her teeth scraping over the sensitive area before she finally replaced your fingers with her plump lips. You could have cried from relief, her tongue massaging your clit without any further teasing. The air left your lungs as she moved her left hand inside you, setting a steady pace that would build up your release in no time. You were burning up, your lungs feeling weak with each hasty exhale you let out, a moan escaping you here and there, your head feeling light and airy in the midst of all the pleasure you were feeling.

“Natasha”, you panted, trying your best to communicate to her that you needed her to bring you over the edge or you were going to lose it. Your hand found her left one, your nails sinking into her wrist as you tried to make her go fast, go harder. You let out a deeper moan, a real one, allowing yourself to let go for just a second to hopefully appeal to Natasha’s generous side. You knew she couldn’t resist you, not when you sounded like you were falling apart, like you wanted nothing but her attention, and her attention only. “Oh, Nat-” You moaned in desperation, your back arching, her mouth remaining relentlessly on your sensitive sex. You wouldn’t be able to take it for a second longer. You yearned for her. You needed her to push you over the edge. You needed her so badly. “Mmh, please”, you whimpered, feeling Natasha lose her composure for a moment, her mouth twitching slightly in a smile that threatened to overtake her entire face.

She took a brief moment to rub her lips together, adjusting the angle of her head before bringing her mouth back down to your core, suckling your flesh, flicking her tongue roughly over your clit, the stimulus hitting every single nerve in your body with such intensity you could do nothing but conform to her touch, your back arching, hips bucking into her hand and mouth. Your muscles cramped, toes curling from pleasure, hands searching for something to grip to contain the intensity of what you felt. You couldn’t hear, you couldn’t see, you could only feel. She was everywhere. The coil in your lower abdomen only tightened, becoming unbearable in the matter of a couple seconds, your body hot and sweaty, more than ready for release, and then it hit you full force, the pressure releasing in a sudden orgasm that finally allowed your body to relax. Your walls clamped down on Natasha’s fingers, making sure she stayed inside you as your body writhed in pleasure, waves of warmth swallowing you from head to toe. You held your breath, focusing every ounce of your attention on your orgasm, your release more than satisfactory, especially because it was a result of Natasha’s efforts. She pulled her fingers out of you as gently as she had put them in, flattening her tongue over your folds as she cleaned up the excessive amount of slick your body was producing. You heard and felt her chuckle, the sensation making your body jolt. You responded to it with a small huff, your eyes remaining shut as you reveled in the comfort of your release, feeling your body sink into the softness of the couch, your arms welcoming Natasha into your embrace on their own accord. You got your face full of her hair, its scent hitting your nose in the most intoxicating way, a smile spreading onto your lips. You inhaled the sweet smell, heady with its familiarity and safety. You hugged her close to your chest, overwhelmed by everything that you were feeling, Natasha snuggling into your breasts, pleased to be pressed up against you.

“You’re mmh-” Natasha moaned, pressing her mouth on the side of your breast, kissing the soft skin repeatedly.

“I’m what?” You chuckled, running your fingers lightly down her back.

“Everything”, she hummed, licking a nipple into her mouth. Her words made you smile, eyes fluttering shut at the warmth of her tongue. You turned to your side, sliding Natasha beside you so you would be able to see her face as you cuddled. She looked up at you, smiling softly, her cheeks tinted a soft red, eyes green and bright, as always. You couldn’t pull your gaze off her, your heart squeezing from just how beautiful she was, your smile widening into an excited grin. Sometimes you couldn’t believe that she was yours. She leaned up onto her elbow to be able to kiss you, her sex-swollen lips finding your own. They were so perfectly rosy, so plump, so easy to get lost in. You parted your lips to deepen the kiss, feeling her tongue brush against your own languidly. It was a comforting kind of kiss, one that filled you with love and affection instead of lust and passion.

“I could look at you forever”, you whispered once she pulled away, her eyes flicking between your own for a moment before she leaned down again to place a gentle peck on your lips. You both fell silent after that, the warmth and glow of sex lingering between you, Natasha’s soft body pressed into yours as she caressed your face idly, observing every arch and curve of your features.

“I wish I knew how to paint this”, Natasha whispered, brushing her fingers down the side of your face, wiping away a couple of rogue hairs.

“What?”

“This feeling, you, your face”, she hummed softly, her thumb caressing your lips, eyes fixed on their roundness, enticed by the depth of their color.

“You can”, you assured her, Natasha huffing through her nose.

“I can’t even draw”, she protested, earning a small chuckle from you.

“You don’t need to be able to draw”, you reminded her gently. “You can just use colors, make it abstract”, you explained, looking up at her with a small smile.

“But it won’t capture your beauty”, she said quietly, mildly upset that she wasn’t able to create the way you did.

“Anything you make will be beautiful”, you reasoned, moving your head enough to be able to reach her hand and give it a kiss.

“You’re just saying”, she grumbled with a little pout.

“No. I’m serious. Maybe we should try it out. I know you’ve got an artist in you”, you said teasingly, tickling her side gently, making her smile a shy, little smile.

“You’re so beautiful.” She had a reverent look in her eyes. “I would only ruin your beauty”, she lamented, her fingers never leaving your facial features, finding different ways to caress and pet you. “I ruin things”, she whispered almost silently, halfheartedly, her words nothing but a breath in the stillness of the living room.

“Impossible”, you countered just as softly. “Every piece of art I’ve made has been infinitely better with you involved.” Natasha smiled at that. “You make my world turn, and all that crap.”

“Is that so?” She acquired a bit of humor into her demeanor, amused by your wording.

“Absolutely.” You looked up at her, holding her gaze for a few heartbeats, both of you fully present in the moment. “I mean it, Natasha. You don’t even know how much I mean it.” Her arms tightened around you to make sure you were secure in her embrace. She nuzzled her face into your neck, searching for the warmth of your skin.

“I may not know it, but I feel it.” Her voice was so delicate that it made your heart ache as you held her close, kissing any part of her you could reach, until her skin simply wasn’t enough, your lips craving her own.

“I want kisses”, you mumbled, pulling back, very aware of the tears in your eyes but you didn’t care if she saw them because you felt so safe. She smiled up at you, welcoming you down to kiss her perfect lips. You pecked them once, pulling back to see her face before kissing her firmly again. You loved the feel of her soft lips, the squelch of your mouths, the way your chests pressed together. You loved her. You were obsessed with her, with her soul, her body, her mind. You kissed her again, unable to hide your smile. She held your face so delicately, responding to each and every one of your kisses. You kissed her maybe twenty times. Maybe more. Maybe a hundred times and when you had kissed her for what you thought was the final time, she pulled you back in for another silly, little peck.

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

LOVE TASTES LIKE STRAWBERRIES.

PAIRING — baker!colin shea x patisserie f!reader

CONTENTS — one-shot; modern au; alternate universe—bakery; rivals in love; fluff; coarse language.

SUMMARY — You have a standing rivalry with the bakery across town, but you know what they say: there’s a thin line between love and hate. And despite how much you act like it, you don’t actually hate Colin Shea.

WORD COUNT — 3.3k

✩ main masterlist ✩ chris evans characters m.list ✩ library blog

“Hey, Princess!” 

You bite back a groan, trying to ignore it, hoping against hope that you were just hearing things. 

But then you hear it again. “Over here, your highness!” 

Finally, you turn towards the sound of the voice and are met with a pair of familiar blue eyes and that infuriating grin. Colin Shea jabs a thumb in the direction of your stall, the one right next to his, as it has been every year. 

Your biggest mistake was deciding to check out the competition after hearing there was a new contender in town. You saw the name of a bakery you didn’t recognize on the list of participants in that year’s spring fling festival. 

The event? A baking contest. The prize? $5,000 in cash and publicity for your store. Despite not winning that first year, the contest shone a spotlight on your shop, Queen of Tarts, and you saw a decent boost in sales in the month following the festival. Needless to say, you resolved to compete every year since. 

Rockin’ Rolls, the new bakery that opened up across town, was exactly like you expected: lots of natural light, bare white walls, gallon-sized jars full of flour and sugar lined up on shelves painted a light minty green, and wooden display cases that looked like they were handcrafted.

It was a quaint little place, and despite the sweet smell of fresh bread wafting out from the kitchen, their displays showcased a wide selection of breads, pastries, cakes, and pies. Evidently, they sold much more than just rolls. 

The owner of said establishment, however, was not at all what you expected… and you ended up, well, checking out the competition in a whole different way. 

Frustratingly handsome, easygoing boyish charm, and a sense of humour you’d find endearing if it didn’t belong to your sworn enemy, Colin was a pain in your ass but looked damn good while he was at it. Not only could he be charming, he was a master of bread. The first day you visited his bakery, you bought a loaf of brioche that was so rich, so buttery, yet so light and airy that it almost had you in tears. 

Your pride, though, kept you from going back for more. 

Because he was also absolutely insufferable. At first, you enjoyed the dose of healthy competition, the two of you always good-natured and lighthearted about it. The rivalry soon became an all-out feud, however, as it turned out both of you were frighteningly competitive… and very sore losers. 

Soon, Colin’s laidback attitude became a source of unending irritation, while he seemed to find your background—namely your rich parents—personally offensive. You’ve engaged in a yearly bake-off ever since, both your storefront windows featuring an actual tally squeaked on with marker. The winner threw obnoxiously smug celebration parties, tagging the loser in photos and videos posted on social media. 

“Aren’t you a little old for the name-calling, Shea?” You snark, taking in his slightly tousled hair and casual attire, a dark t-shirt smeared with flour and dark jeans torn at the knees. 

“Calm down. You know it suits you,” Colin replies mockingly. “Naive and privileged heiress, out here slumming it with us peasants.” 

“Don’t you know—” you say through gritted teeth as you set up your station. The proximity of your tents has both of your staff groaning in frustration, but neither of you are phased. “—that you shouldn’t ever tell a woman to ’calm down’ unless you want to get punched in the dick?”

“Aw, sweetheart, if you wanted to touch my dick that badly, why didn’t you just say so?” He smirks as he kneads his dough, the muscles in his arms bulging nicely with the effort. It takes every last ounce of willpower not to stare at them. 

“I’d rather be set on fire,” you mutter to yourself, lying through your teeth, rolling out your own pastry dough for your tart crusts. 

“And did I ever tell you how cute that name is? Queen of Tarts, how adorable,” he pouts, pointing a flour-covered finger to the sign hanging from your tent. His voice holds a slightly mocking tone, but you’re determined to let it slide off your back. 

“Yeah, so you should be calling me ’your majesty’ instead,” you sneer. 

“You haven’t earned that title yet, Princess. And your little strawberry tarts won’t be enough to win you that prize.” 

“My tarts were famous long before you showed up, I’ll have you know.” 

“For what, being a giant disappointment? That pastry is way too thin.” 

“I know what I’m doing. I was making these with my eyes closed while you were still learning how to proof bread!” 

“The weight of your custard is gonna break those things in half before anyone can even eat it. Not to mention all that fruit you’re about to pile on top.” 

“You know,” you shake your head, rolling out the chilled dough. “Someone ought to teach you a lesson.” 

“Yeah, you think you can teach a man like me?”  Colin grins, wiggling his eyebrows. “Silk sheets, candlelight… the gentle strains of Kenny G?”

“Ew, stop it.” 

“Why? Afraid you’d like it too much, rich girl?” 

“Ugh,” you groan in disgust, turning away to concentrate on your pastry. “Just you fucking wait. This is gonna be the best thing you’ve ever had, and then I’ll have you admit that you don’t know jack shit.” 

It occurs to you then that Colin has never actually had any of your pastries. All of the times you two had competed, not just in the festival, the two of you would automatically declare yourselves the winner—the rules be damned. And after the fact, while you couldn’t help but secretly partake in the loaves of freshly baked focaccia, ciabatta, and sourdough, Colin has never once touched the tarts you’ve so painstakingly made with love. 

The pastry Colin deemed too thin, you had down to a science, filled with smooth and creamy perfectly sweet custard. On top are strawberries you sliced so thin they could be arranged into the shape of a blooming flower, brushed with shiny red glaze, dusted with powdered sugar, and garnished with a few adorably tiny green leaves of apple mint. 

When you win the top prize this year, much to your satisfaction, the other staff at Rockin’ Rolls gladly grab at your famous confections, showering you with appreciative mmm’s and ahh’s. Colin, however, remains at his station, cleaning away and looking pouty as he usually did whenever you beat him at something. 

“Come now, Mr. Shea, don’t be a sore loser,” you tease, despite the fact that you were probably much worse, ignoring the way Colin noticeably bristle at the sound of your voice. You hand over a plate with a single strawberry tart placed gingerly on top of the white porcelain. “I’ll be generous and share my winning creations.” 

Generosity, sure. Deep down inside, way past the rivalry and annoyance, you held a reluctant respect for Colin. Despite his carefree attitude and sometimes crude jokes, the man is serious about yeast. He turns into a different man once he steps into the kitchen, his eyebrows knit together in concentration, all signs of the immature jokester you’ve come to know disappears. Or at least, pushed momentarily aside. 

His hands gently mold doughs into various shapes, handling them with such care that sometimes you didn’t recognize the baker in front of you. You remember that first taste of brioche, how that masterpiece had come from the heart of this giant man-child, and it was impossible not to admire Colin Shea the bread artisan. 

So, you wanted to know what he thought about what you could do. It was one thing to own a mildly successful business, but another thing entirely to share your creations with someone who knew what the whole process entailed. 

“I’m allergic, your highness,” Colin merely says, not even looking up as he wipes down his flour-dusted workstation. 

Your jaw drops. “What?” 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, don’t you also have some cleaning up to do?” Colin glances over your shoulder to bark out orders to his staff, who quickly finish the rest of your tarts before going back to their stations. They give you friendly pats on the shoulder as they pass, showering you with more compliments, just as your staff does for them, like they all do every year regardless of the outcome of the competition and despite the childish rivalry of their bosses. 

Except you can’t enjoy it this time. You take back your plate, the dessert still intact, bringing it back to your own tent where you would pick at it for the rest of the festival until it was time to go home. 

Because you know for an undisputed fact that Colin is not, in fact, allergic to strawberries. 

He’d lied to your face.

You can handle the jokes, the snide remarks, and his mocking tone… but if there was one thing you wouldn’t ever let slide, it was dishonesty.

Colin says goodnight to the last of his part-timers as they head out the door of the shop. Everyone had piled into the van and helped him reload all their supplies back into their kitchen before heading home for the day, but he stays behind long after closing time. It’s nearly midnight, but he opens the fridge and pulls out a small yellow box. 

Queen of Tarts is written in loopy pink script, a little bejeweled crown hanging off the capital T. It’s a logo Colin knows well. One of his employees had saved this for him, not knowing he had already declined your offer earlier at the festival with a bald-faced lie. 

They said it was the best strawberry tart they’d ever had, “But you knew that already, right, boss?” 

He didn’t. 

In all the years you two had competed, Colin could never bring himself to actually try one of the tarts you were so proud of. 

For the two of you, baking wasn’t just about making money. It wasn’t even always about what you made. It was about expression, about the way food, even the mere thought or smell of it, could bring out emotions and memories long buried. 

The only reason strawberries were your signature item was because your father took you strawberry picking as a child, you once shared with him. Colin found himself smiling at the mental image, of a younger you making fresh strawberry jam at the farm, sampling it with pieces of soft bread, only to be broken out of his reverie when you turned away out of embarrassment, demanding that he forget about it. 

And baking bread was a whole other beast. It required patience, love, and care. Colin insisted on kneading the dough by hand, the industrial-sized mixer at the shop often going unused. He always tells anyone who would listen that it doesn’t taste right otherwise, which is what his grandmother told him when she’d taught him everything he knows. 

Food contained histories and legacies, lessons of love carried throughout generations. To partake in a meal prepared for you by someone else, no matter how brief or how small, was incredibly intimate. 

And Colin definitely didn’t do intimate.

Every romantic encounter was fleeting and casual, the terms made abundantly clear before he ever partook. He felt no guilt when the women he slept with walked away hurt, because it wasn’t his fault they expected more when he explicitly stated over and over that he couldn’t give it to them.

And then he met you, and for the first time he was the one who wanted more. He wondered if he could ever change for you, if he could be man enough to swallow that fear of commitment and just tell you all the things he felt whenever he looked upon your face—even if he couldn’t exactly find the words big enough, right enough, to describe them.

Colin had expected a typically sugary-sweet proprietress of Queen of Tarts, naive about the ways of the real world, your path paved by privilege and by dollars you hadn’t earned but instead inherited.

But what he got was a bolt out of the blue and the knowledge he had misjudged you. There was a fire in your eyes unlike any he’d ever seen in another person, a stubbornness to prove your worth and your place in this world, to get by without the help of your immensely wealthy parents. 

Like the first blossoms of spring, colour slowly bled into his black and white world, as though his life didn’t really begin until your arrival in it. 

And he knew that the moment he gave into his desires and took a bite out of your carefully constructed custardy treats, he would know what love truly tasted like. 

He wouldn’t be able to pretend any longer.

Colin looks down at the lone strawberry tart, looking just as perfect and sweet as they always do. In the privacy of his own shop, alone in the middle of the night, remembering the way you’d looked at him when he lied about being allergic, he finds his resolve faltering. 

Because before any of his hopes could ever take flight, they were dashed just as quickly. Just four words uttered a week ago after he won another meaningless bet, after he had proceeded to rub your nose in it. 

“God, I hate you so much.” You’d muttered it under your breath as you rolled your eyes, turned away from him so you couldn’t see the surprise and hurt that was surely laced right into his features. 

A part of him shouted that the words were merely said in jest, that you only mumbled them out of irritation because—even he has to admit—he was being a colossal dick.

But another part of him realized you’ve never actually smiled in his direction. You have done it around him, at your patrons and your friends, at his employees who unlike him were always nice to you, but the second your eyes met his, the smile would drop. 

He knows the remedy. He could just stop being an ass, pour on the effortless charm that seems to work on most of the women he’s encountered. Except, he just can’t. Colin sighs.

Despite your hatred, he likes watching you get angry at him. Not that he enjoys making you mad, he simply likes it when you give just as much as you get, not letting anything deter you until you’d proved him wrong. He likes that you challenge him, that you aren’t afraid to be you around him. 

Then, a sudden frantic series of knocks on his shop door startles him into tossing the tart back into the fridge. Uttering a string of curses, he moves to finish closing up and ignore the stranger at the door, until—

“Open up, Shea! I know you’re in there.” Colin’s heart jumps to his throat at the sound of your voice. He freezes for a moment, listening to your fist continue to pound against the door. But then he manages to collect himself, slapping on that arrogant smile before opening up. 

“Well, what brings you here at this time of night?” He asks, but before he can continue with an inappropriate booty call joke, a second yellow box is shoved under his nose. 

“You are going to eat every last crumb of this tart,” you slam the box down onto the counter. “I don’t fucking care if you really are ‘allergic’ all of a sudden.” 

“Uh, that’s called murder, your highness.” 

“Every. Last. Crumb.” You emphasize each word with a jab of your finger against his chest. Colin wonders why he can see hurt laced in your features, too. 

If you hate him, why does his opinion even matter to you? For the first time, Colin can’t immediately tell what a woman is thinking, and it’s driving him mad.

But if you were privy to his thoughts, you’d tell him it’s because everyone knows a good and true rivalry is born and built out of mutual respect.

People just don’t bother with someone they don’t hold in high esteem. And if you really did hate him, if he really did hate you, then what was the goddamn point?

It can’t be just for the glory of being crowned the best, or the prize money; you’ve seen him in action too many times to believe that. This shared thing isn’t just a passion for either of you, it’s a way of life. It’s everything. 

“You hate me,” he says, but it comes out more like a question, the confusion evident in his voice. People don’t bring sweet strawberry tarts to someone they hate. 

“So? And you hate me. That’s how this works,” you say, clearly taken aback. Your voice grows unsteady at the way he looks at you, taking a few nervous steps back as he stalks toward you. 

“Except it’s not,” Colin stops just inches from you, so close he can smell the combined scent of sugar and butter latched onto your clothes. “Not even close.” 

“…Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” You wrinkle your nose. Even now, in the middle of a confrontation, after hinting that he is absolutely hopeless for you, Colin can’t help but love your timing even if it’s also frustrating as hell. He grins. 

“It was hot.” 

“Then take off your hoodie and not the shirt?” 

“You want me to take my clothes off?” 

“What? No, I—” 

“You hate me, though? Tell me the truth.” 

“No way. You lied to me earlier,” you finally look up at him, glaring. “And if I’m being totally honest, it’s the lack of effort that really grinds my gears. If you’re going to lie, at least do it well.” 

“I don’t hate you.” Colin says, still smiling. He wants so badly to touch you. 

“Well, good, I don’t hate you either.” The store goes still, the two of you maintaining eye contact until the silence is almost too much to bear. “No idea where you got that from, anyway.” 

He laughs, incredulous. “Because you said it.” 

“No, I didn’t! When?” 

“Last week.” 

“Oh, you mean when you were being a dick?” 

“Not uncommon, Princess. Be more specific.” 

“In my defence, you were being an ass.” 

“Again… not uncommon.” Smirking, Colin reaches out to brush his fingers against yours. His eyes never leave yours, trying to gauge just how far he can go. You don’t move even as your fingers intertwine, even as he tugs you gently towards the kitchen, picking up the box from the counter and pulling a matching one out of his fridge. 

Realization slowly dawns and you finally smile at him. Colin thinks he’ll melt into the floor, it’s so damn brilliant.

The two of you sit in his kitchen, illuminated by nothing but the small light from the nearby stove and the moon outside the window, partaking in sweet treats that would be gone in just a matter of minutes. But even long after the plates are cleared and washed, you and Colin would remember this night. 

You would remember you spent the rest of the night learning the recipe for his famous brioche, after reluctantly admitting you still have dreams about it. You would remember the way his eyes sparkled at your admission, his hands covering yours as he helped you knead the dough. The laughter at the way you ruined the first batch by adding way too much butter, the countertop and your fingers covered in a sticky mess.

As you washed your hands in the sink, Colin asked if you would come by again because “learning how to make bread is a process, Princess”. 

Colin would remember you saying yes, trying to sound nonchalant but turning away shyly and unable to meet his eyes. He would remember it being more intimate than anything he’d ever shared with anyone, committing to memory that he had been right.

Love tasted like fresh strawberries, buttery pastry, smooth custard, and just the tiniest tingles of mint. 

But, and this was the most important part—only if they came from your hands.

fin.

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. no part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. followers with zero engagement, serial likers, and blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[peterkothe]

INKtober 2024-Knight⚔️

Last year I drew the Red Knight, thus, I’m following him up with THE BLACK KNIGHT!Sometimes a villain, sometimes an antihero, but usually a mystery!

[creek-ink]

don't know if u answered this but what supplies do u use for traditional art ? ! ? !

I rly go crazy w mixed media in my traditional art so I also included some pages from my sketchbook ^-^ hope this helps and lemme know if u have any questions!

art bag: by angoo (it's my fav)

sketch book: masters touch mixed media custom cover

water color sets: winsor and newton (white), arteza (black), I also use those weird brushes that hold water

what's in my pencil case?:

- prisma colored pencils

- bic 0.7mm HB #2 mechanical pencils

- prismacolor liners (05 and 03)

- micron liner (05 in like a warm brown)

- uni-ball signo in white

- artist loft alcohol marker in black

- and then this jucey ass unlabel pen from dollar tree (2nd image, between micron and uni-ball pens)

sorry this took so long 4 me to get too- just wanted to be thorough

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Eight (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note, this series is 18+. Minors / ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list). 

Author’s note: Oh my goshhhhh, I hope you're ready for chapter eight??!!! We've been on such a journey with these two, and I can't wait for you to see where they go next. As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. ILY :-*

Word count: 8.6k for this part. 

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

In your ensuite, you shower the residue of the day away from your flushed skin, rinsing the sand and sunscreen and sweat away beneath the warm, sluicing water. You’re alone, and yet your thoughts are consumed by another. By Santiago specifically; of course. 

He had promised you something -to give you what you want, need- and you’re trembling already in anticipation of it. You feel butterflies unfurling in the pit of you at the thought of laying down with him. Of baring yourself to him. Of surrendering. Having him hold you. Not urgently or desperately this time - no. Intentionally. Deliberately. Gently. 

You unhook the shower head to rinse the soapy suds away from the contours of you and you think of him - because how can you think of anything else? Indeed, your want is so barreling that even your own hands smoothing over your skin - your breasts, your stomach, your thighs - arouse you, your own touch the precursor to the path his warm, rough fingers might travel. 

You are about to merge with him, but he already feels so much a part of you. 

You belong to Santiago. 

It’s Santiago who is indelibly written onto your body, the map of scars telling the story and you and him. The scar on your shoulder from a bullet wound, the scar on your calf from an off-road collision, the lines and marks all over you where Santiago has been there for you, taken fire for you, pressed his lethal hands to you to keep your lifeforce from ebbing away. 

There’s that, but also, there are the more invisible markers which your life with him - alongside him- has left on your skin. There’s the scrape of his stubble against your neck. The grip of his broad hands on your hips. The pulse between your legs which your body remembers. You have catalogued and cartographed the soft and harsh parts of his body - and his soul. But, you still do not have the map to his heart. He is yet to show you the way; but even so…

He is your ride or die, and your body knows it. Always has. 

Your body knows that you are about to collide with him. To be subsumed by the surge and undertow of him, and you throb for it. You expel a sugared moan into the steamy air as the jet of water provides pressure against your wanting clit, and for a moment you wonder how you can be so gone for him. You have been waiting for him to choose you;  but, in truth, for you it was never a choice. 

One of you can not hope to be read -to be understood- without the other. Your bodies are forever moving through the world as a team, as a pair, even if you leave each other’s side. You didn’t choose it so much as it just happened. A lifetime, wearing familiar dirt tracks into clear waymarked paths with every step forward. 

Still, the map has always remained incomplete. You could never quite see where this path with him ended. How far it could take you. Whether he would walk alongside you some or all of the way. 

You are grateful for him. So grateful. But you always want more. More of him. How could you not? 

Santiago has already made your life beautiful in so many ways. Can he give you something beautiful tonight, too, like he had promised? Something that feels different to those waves which break, over and over, self-defeating. Something that feels different to an ending?

You startle as there is a soft rap at the door, and Santiago’s voice bleeds through the panelled wood, sounding as warm and grainy as sun-heated sand. Like summer. Like sunlight through a clearing in dense, gnarled woods. “Are you ready, querida?”

Are you? 

Are you ready for what he has promised? Because you are suddenly all too aware that what he has offered -in not so many words- is to make love to you tonight. To give himself to you. To let you bask in him. 

Are you ready for that? To see him in more than fragments. Not only snatching the haphazard pieces of him he offers - so jagged that they cut the palm you grasped them tightly in. Are you ready to feel whole? 

Can you take his love if it doesn’t hurt? 

Your heart thuds in your neck; from the hot, billowing steam, and from him. The mere idea of him. You step carefully out of the cubicle, steam venting into the room. Your skin is hot and wet and dripping, and you feel that same way too. 

“Two minutes.” 

You towel off, your hands lightly trembling. 

You think of him, because how can you do anything else?

You think of the water, sluicing down his sturdy body as he showered off in the main bathroom. Of him getting himself ready for you. You wonder if he aches for you as you do for him. You wonder if he grew rigid beneath his hand as you were becoming liquid for him. You wonder, if his heart ever once felt like it had a choice.

You think about him waiting for you right now in the bedroom. Maybe shirtless, black-grey curls wet and tight, his golden brown skin lit with the soft orange glow of the lamp. Of him poised there in the quiet and stillness waiting to collide with you, just like the sea washing over this frayed edge of land in this endless dance - consuming, taking, giving, repeating. Working as a team. 

You wonder if he feels this flutter in him too. This movement in him. This undeniable, slow drag which has always pulled you two to one another. Always. 

And so, he asks you. Are you ready? And you do what you can to prepare yourself for this collision. So eager to merge with him, but basking in the fact that, for once, you get to take your time. That you don’t have to fear or brace, thinking about whether, when you crack the door to the bedroom, he will already be gone. 

Taking your time then, and with subtly jittering hands, discombobulated breath, you smooth sweet-smelling lotion all over your body. Of course, you think of his hands and where they might travel too when they get their chance. Of how Santiago can touch you better than you could ever touch yourself. How he knows your body, seemingly, as well as he knows his own.

And so, you think of him. You think of him and of the ocean and the rocks. Of valleys and summits. Of dense jungles and sunlit clearings. Of the frayed edges of the land and the frayed edges of yourself. Of all the places where things collide and all the places where they merge, and how those places are so often one and the same.  

So then, when you think that you are finally ready? When you have smoothed lotion into your skin and smoothed your pleasant, buzzing nerves, you step out into the bedroom.

And that is the very moment you realise. Realise that you’re not at all ready. That you could never be. How could you be? How could he fail to take your breath away, even once? 

Just look at him. 

You enter the bedroom, your silk robe draped appealingly over the contours of your body and Santiago stands, surging up from where he had perched himself so impermanently on the edge of the mattress. He’s been waiting for you and he looks; immediately. Drinking you in. His jaw falling slack. He looks like he might’ve smiled at first - or greeted you in words. But he can’t do so now. The words are swallowed, perhaps, as a gulp trails down his corded neck. Santiago looks serious, his brows weighted. He looks as though he knows how much this matters. Like he finally knows how much you matter. 

You look at him too, and you find you can’t smile either. After all, Santiago fills you with a joy so heavy that sometimes, it is hard to recognise it as such. 

You simply take him in, then. All at once. The contours and ridges of him, and the paths your hands might travel over his smooth brown skin. You see him. Your lust-ridden and love-sparked eyes dance over his wetted, grizzled curls, scrunched-up but with errant strands coiling across his forehead. You take in his bare, sculpted chest. His toned arms and his soft, inviting stomach. You drink in the way his brushed cotton joggers cling to his ample hips. To his sturdy thighs and to the clear outline of the bulge at his crotch as he swells with anticipation from the sight of you alone. 

His hands hang loose yet primed at his sides as he looks at you from beneath his thick, fanning lashes. The pace of his breathing is slightly quickened, his gilded shoulders rise and fall with greater vigour as he scoops a hand over his flecked stubble and you hear it rasp. Feel it as though his fingers were your own. As though there is no difference or distance between you at all. Not the distance between here and Colombia. Not the distance he runs from you whenever you get too close. 

Your chest tightens with the sheer familiarity of him. Because of the fact you already know how he feels and how he tastes. How the vibration of his moans in his corded throat feel against your skin. Your chest tightens, because even in the mellow light of the room he still looks sharp and sure. Formidable. But he looks like home too. You remember all the ways you already know he is tender, and you want to learn every other way too. 

You take a deep, steadying breath as you sway towards him, from one steamy room to another, Santiago’s warmth every bit as enclosing. You are grateful that the window is cracked open, cool air kissing your heating skin. The sound of the swollen waves mirroring the surge within you.

In this moment, Santiago is not a man to you at all. Rather, he is a landscape. He is your whole life laid out before you. He is everywhere you have been, and he is everywhere you may go. His lands are your topography, and you know that you will walk his paths forever hoping to find a way to his heart. Hoping that, one day, he will let you call him home, even though you’ve already been here learning him for as long as you can remember. 

He is everything. And you’re not ready. And it’s all too much. 

Finally though, Santiago looks certain. He looks ready. He looks at you as though you are the moon and he is the tide, and that within moments he will move oceans for you. That he will flood your frayed edges, smooth and overcoming and inevitable. 

He closes the distance, his warm palm slipping up to gingerly cup your face and his lips slanting to capture yours. His fingertips tugging at the bow of your robe, about to release it. 

But you? You hesitate. You turn, almost impercebtibly, but it is enough for Santiago to notice. 

You hesitate because, by now, you are so used to breaking. And you’re not sure you can do it again. 

For so long, he has viewed you in pieces, and you have started to wonder whether he was the one who broke you apart in the first place. 

Now though? His gentle, earnest eyes reading your face and your body so carefully? His hand reaching out for you in a way that promises healing? That shows his palm holds nothing jagged - nothing but love? 

To your utter surprise, your skin flushes hot with embarrassment and you blink, your lashes fluttering towards your cheek. A modest, bashful smile is primed on your mouth. An apology readying itself on your tongue. It seems silly, you think. Silly to be hesitant now, after everything. Seems silly that after all of the times you have given in when he would promise you nothing, that you would shrink back when he offers you something more. Most of all, you think, it seems silly to be hesitant with him, after all the ways and places and times he has touched you.

You don’t quite understand it, but to his credit, Santiago seems to. When he senses your apprehension, his eyes narrow a little. His brow furrows, and his mouth slants up into a gentle, reassuring smile. 

“Come here,” he says instead, before your garbled, unnecessary apology can free itself from your throat. His voice is as soft as the shushing waves and the mellow light and he takes you by the hand, his fingers twined delicately with yours. He leads you, but not forcefully. He leads you the way the sun leads the moon into the night sky as it chases its warm light - you gladly follow, his palm bleeding heat. His eyes full of sunlight. He leads you then to your bed and he peels the covers back, inviting you to lie with him through a subtle nod of his head. The way this all started the first time he undid you - except tonight, you know, is so very different. 

Santiago climbs in first, never letting go of your hand, and he pats the spot on the mattress exposed by the turned-back comforter. Your fingers tug on your robe and you finally slip out of it, exposing the contours of your body to the pooling lamplight. Santiago’s tongue traces along his lower lip as he drinks you in, watching awestruck as the fabric shimmies to floor, pooling at your feet and leaving you bare. For a moment, you even feel self-conscious as Santiago regards you; for once not frenzied and desperate, but with time to study you. You feel on display and yet he makes you feel nothing but beautiful. Makes it seem natural as you allow the caress of the smooth fabric to be replaced by the warm embrace of him. You slip in beside him, shuffling under the covers. Both of you lying on your side to face each other, but still with some distance between you. 

You breath hitches as Santiago’s arm folds over your bare middle, his lithe fingers applying smooth caresses to your skin, the pads of him dancing up the notches of your spine, tracing the line of your shoulder blade. You are happy for him to touch you. You want it. But you do not reach for him just yet. Your arms remain bunched in the space between you, your forearms guarding your chest. 

“You still want this?” he asks, voice as soft as dissolving sugar. 

You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, for you know it will be an irresistible, sweet, moreish thing. You can’t allow him to gaze into the depths of your own eyes just yet. After all, it is not only your body which is laid bare for him. Your feelings are too, you fear. Every single want and dream and desire and insecurity. He can read you. Knows you. 

“Yes,” you attempt to state levelly, and yet your voice cracks wide open. “I want this more than anything.” 

With a soft, perhaps relieved, exhale, Santiago shimmies forward then, closing some of the distance between your bodies. Tangles his thighs up with yours. Shifts his head so you are almost nose to nose on the pillow, dipping briefly to plant a fleeting kiss to the tip of your nose. All the while, too, his hand continues to wander over your body. Stroking you, caressing you, asking for nothing in return, and you bask in these slow, stretched, careful moments. 

“Then… what is it?” 

You finally look up at him then and, try as you might, you can’t disguise the way your eyes shimmer with emotion as you note the way concern has etched its way into his brow. For reassurance, your arms tug tighter into your chest. 

His eyes become liquid too, the earthy mirror to your own. They shine with a deep well of friendship, of care, of love. And you realise exactly “what”.

Part of you is afraid, sure. Part of you has been hurt too much to accept that you could share something truly joyful with the man. But a larger part of you is keen to relish in this waiting and restraint for other reasons.

Why, though? Why on earth would you wait? Hesitate? Well - it’s quite simple, really. Because if it doesn’t begin, it can’t ever be over. If you don’t have him like this - whole, fully - then you can never lose all of him. Losing pieces of him was hard enough, wasn’t it? And you don’t know that you could bear to lose a scrap more than that. 

Santiago’s gaze dips to your mouth and you can tell he’s eager. Good to go when and only if you should give him the green light. You want that. You do. Still, upon examining his expression more closely, something tells you that there is one more wall to fall. You’ve encountered so many of his walls already, that you’re not sure you have the strength to tear this one down. 

In the end, you are grateful that you don’t have to. That he does it for you. 

“You were wrong, you know,” Santiago’s voice sounds out, a gentle tone but full of subtle cracks. His hand slides up, gingerly capturing your cheek in his palm, holding your gaze with his. You don’t know what’s coming, but your chest tightens with some unknown thing, even as Santiago’s thumb tenderly strokes back and forth over your cheek to soothe you. Your brows knot, and you shake your head lightly, exhibiting your confusion. 

Pursing his lips, preparing himself, Santiago tugs the covers up to your shoulders, keeping you warm. “That night in Philadelphia,” he continues, a divot carving itself into his brow at first, and yet a mere moment later, his face lilts into a soft, wistful smile. “That was it. That was the night.” 

His smile widens, ever so subtly, and his eyes shine with enough adoration that you wonder if you’re meant to be here. If he can really be looking at you like that, or if you’ve momentarily stolen someone else’s life. “The night that… what?” 

“The night my dumb ass first realised that I was in love with you. And… the night I first realised you didn’t love me back.” 

You face scrunches with even deeper confusion now. 

What?! But, that couldn’t possibly… 

That night was years before you even hooked-up. Years and years and years before all of this. Before you even felt…. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Your breath stalls in your chest then as comprehension floods you. 

He loved you first.

Your chest constricts, and your heartbeat pushes the rhythm of his name into your mouth, in lieu of any words. 

Santiago. 

Santiago. 

Santiago. 

All this time? 

He crooks his finger under your chin, his gaze level and calm - no blame in it. “You were wrong, see? You didn’t get there first, querida. I was waiting a long time for you. I guess I got scared you’d never catch me up, and so I…” His eyes swim briefly then, clouding over with something like regret. “...I started running. And I guess I just…” His shoulders hunch up towards his ears. “I didn’t know how to stop.”

Santiago. 

Santiago. 

Santiago. 

Your heart thuds his name, and you are overcome with too many emotions to name. Emotions which bend you from the inside out, mobilising you to unfurl yourself, to move towards him. But you don’t; not just yet. 

You do see it plainly now, as you look into his earnest, regretful eyes. You’d spent so long acting as though he had something to prove to you, but you already know who he is, don’t you? Know that he’d never hurt you if he could help it. You see plainly how it has hurt him to love you. That it still hurts him to love you. 

You don’t want that for him. You never wanted that. In fact, all you’ve ever wanted is for him to feel safe. To feel loved. And so, if Santiago can’t run freely into your safe hands? If he doesn’t believe he’s brave enough to do so? If your arms were closed to him for so long that he forgot what it felt to be open? If all of that is true, then you will reach for him instead.  

“Santiago.” You breathe his name, finally pushing the syllables from out of your chest. Finally squeezing errant tears from the corners of your eyes as you realise all of this time you’ve loved each other alone instead of together like you should have. As you mourn all the missed moments. As you lament all of the things which got in the way. 

That doesn’t matter now though. All of that feels inconsequential. It all feels like bullshit now that your paths have finally converged. 

And so, you do reach for him with your careful, killing hands. It is your turn to gingerly cup his cheek with your palm now, his stubble rasping beneath your hand, and his long-lashed eyes fanning closed as he leans gratefully into your touch. 

There’s so much that you want to tell him. So much that you want to say. 

That you’re here now. That you love him. That he doesn’t need to run. 

But… you don’t want to say it with words. After all, that was never the language you two shared most fluently. You want to tell him with touch. You need to. Want to tell him plainly and hear those sentiments returned in the writhing conflux of your bodies. In the moment, with your love for him spilling out of you, it seems no other way you could tell him - show him - could be enough. 

You reach out then, and with a stuttered inhale, your chest a butterfly house, you press your palm to his warm, bare chest. You feel his heartbeat thudding under your hand. Faster, Faster, Faster, as you touch him. 

You love the man. You will keep his heart safe in the roll cage of your ribs if he’ll let you. You will. You promise. You’ll be gentle with it. No more bracing. No more collisions. 

“Santiago,” you breathe as you move closer. As close as you can get, in fact, your form pressed up against his, skin to skin. “What do you want, right now?” You speak the words into the junction of his neck, his pulse point throbbing against your wanton lips. “What would make you happy in this moment?” 

You feel the deep vibration in his throat as he hums, moans, begs - dumbly - and you know intuitively that he cannot rely on words in this moment either - only on his touch. Can only tell you -show you - what he wants, craves, in the act of reaching for you, his hands finding familiar paths on your skin but walking them in a new way tonight. He reaches for you. Rolls you beneath him in a fluid motion because you yield, already a boneless, molten thing under him. 

He touches you. Caresses you. Kisses you. You return it. For a moment you are a mess of ragged breath and sweat and clashing teeth and tangled tongues. Of pads of fingers and brushed cotton and soft heaving moans. And then, his strong arms bracing him over you, Santiago pauses - amidst a breath snatched from your mouth. Pauses just to look at you there beneath him. His eyes flit all over your face, and he huffs out a disbelieving puff of air. 

”Holy shit, hermosa.”  He looks at you as though you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Perhaps you are. His molten, lust-dark eyes certainly make you believe it. 

Still, just before your greedy fingers can wind up and over, brushing over the prickle of short, buzzed hairs at the nape of his neck to drag his mouth back over yours, Santiago shifts, his kiss eluding you.  

Santiago has always had the map to your heart, and as his fingers trail so confidently down your skin, his lips working down the column of your throat, your breasts, your puffy nipples, stubble grazing you, you think that maybe, finally, he is following it home. Your bodies always were symbiotic; moving, fighting, then fucking as a team. He already knows as well as you do that your bodies, the cartography of your love, is a terrain which can be best understood by traversing it. That touch is the language you share. That you were always fluent in. This time, it is not a touch borne out of jealously or frustration or anger. It is not half-hearted or contingent. It is beautiful and joyful and giving. It is soft and attentive and God he’s never felt so good. 

You expel a breathy, silent moan - a plea really - as Santiago presses his body up against yours, his knee nudging to kick open your thighs. His hips dipped to grind his clothed erection into your heat. Your skin heats, desire curling in the pit of you and you kick away the covers, his warmth more than enough now. With a gust of air, a show of restraint - you swear he’s so desperate for you he could have dry-humped you through his clothes - Santiago manoeuvres his sweat pants off of him, and when he settles in position again he is bare and warm and hard against your slick. 

“Are you-? Do we need-?” 

“-I’m protected,” you answer as his muscled form braces over you, his strong arms boxing you in, the tip of his nose nudging yours, his thighs between your parted legs as the straining mass of his arousal glides over your folds. You wrap your legs and arms around him, holding him tightly, your nails tracing lovingly up and down the canopy of his broad shoulders. Twining into the mess of damp curls on top of his head. You feel the press of his soft stomach against yours. The heat of him everywhere. 

His lips meet yours desperately then, his mouth so needy for yours you could swear his lower lip is trembling as he opens up to shove his tongue over yours. “Baby,” he asks, wracked by need already, his brow burdened with the weight of it and his words barely intelligible. “Are you ready for me? I need you, querida.” 

“You’ve got me,” you soothe. “But I… I want you like this.” He looks surprised for a moment as gently, you guide him on to his back, rolling yourself on top of him until you’re straddling his meaty thighs. You take control away from him and for a moment, you can see he feels the loss of it. That he seems vulnerable, unsure. That while he had clearly intended to give into you, fully, that doesn’t mean it’s at all easy for him to surrender. “Just lie back and let me take care of you, okay?” 

His eyes lock on to yours, soft and uncertain, and it occurs to you again that you’ve never taken him like this. That he has always tacitly taken control. That he has always focussed on your pleasure as paramount. His words, whispered against your skin, into the shell of your ear - that’s it, princesa, right there, huh? - still echo in the depths of you. And now, you want to focus on him. Tonight, things are different. 

You feel desire twist in the pit of you as you look at him all spread out beneath you like this. Evidently needy for you, his cock rock hard and nestled against his stomach. You want to keep him on the edge for hours. Want to hear gruff moans unspooling from deep in his chest. Want to see his fingers rake through the sheets and his jaw tipping to the sky as he writhes his curls back into the pillow, eyes rolling to oblivion. 

You want to kiss him, everywhere. Want to smooth your hands over his brown skin until he melts into the mattress. You want to cover him with your body until he feels safe. 

You want him to feel safe. 

As you examine his form, already near boneless on top of the mattress but reaching for you - reaching with his fingers, with a jut of his chin to raise his pretty mouth, with a buck of his hips to chase your friction -  you settle for a compromise. A balance of your urges to demolish and exalt him. 

For a moment then, you even entertain the idea that you can exhibit restraint enough for foreplay. To tease him. To drag this out. Indeed, Santiago whimpers, an uncharacteristic sound from a man too stubborn to ever admit defeat, and with the sound, your stomach lurches with want. He grows entirely needy as you suckle at his neck, leaving purple love bites in your wake.

You shuffle your hips down his sturdy thighs so that you can fold to slide your tongue over his pecs, circling his pebbled nipple, beginning to trail your warm, wet mouth down his abdomen in a way that makes his glistening cock -wet with your juices- twitch on air. 

“Please. Goddamn,” he begs already, his thighs shaking beneath you, and you don’t need to be told twice. You want the thick, needy, ruddy length of him inside of you as badly as he appears to want that too.

You’ve waited long enough for this. To hold him so completely and to love him with your whole body. 

And so, you shift up until your slick arousal settles over the hot, straining mass of him. It’s slippy - you’re so wet already, and the contact earns a deep, guttural noise from him. 

Then, as you settle in position, automatically - more than automatically, like it’s preordained - Santiago’s hands settle at your hips the moment you are on top of him. They rest in that familiar place he loves to hold, fingers splaying, pads digging into your supple flesh. He grips you in his broad, lethal hands. 

Hands that were trained to kill but made to hold you tenderly; just like this, you think. 

He holds you, and ever so suddenly everything falls into place. As though you were lost all of this time and you have finally found where you were supposed to be. Like someone just handed you a map and assured you you can never lose your way again - not now that you’ve found him. Not as long as you hold on and don’t let go. 

You look down at him, your whole world beneath you and Christ, he’s usually beautiful - luminescent even - but you’ve never seen him look quite like this before. He looks… undone. Unguarded. Needy. Dishevelled. Vulnerable. His lust-blown eyes are blackened with desire yet shining too with adoration. His lids are heavy. Screwing shut as you glide yourself along his shaft. Gusts of breath coming from the circle of his soft, plush lips. That stubbled jaw raising, tipping up as his crown of lustrous curls beds down into the pillow. Light and shadow pooling and dancing and swimming in the contours of him - his sharp nose and heavy brows and sculpted chest. All that and more; but the true beauty? 

The true beauty is when his eyes flutter open once more; and you clearly see the eyes of your best friend looking back at you. 

You see him all at once, rather than the parts of him he’s attempted to compartmentalise. 

Emotion and desire twist in your gut and all you want in that moment is to show him. To show him that he’s loved. 

He’s so, so loved. 

And so are you. 

You hinge at the hips, your head falling to the side of his, temple to temple, cheek to cheek, his stubble rough against you. His familiar scent, woody and citrus, fills your lungs. You feel his brow against yours is already slick with a sheen of sweat as you dip your mouth towards the shell of his ear. “Are you ready?” 

His voice is hoarse. He is levelled by his want, but his face still cracks with a smile, the muscles in his cheek shifting against yours and the rake of his stubble conveying heat all the way to your core. “Are you kidding? I know you didn’t miss this.” 

He plants his feet and bucks his needy shaft against you with greater pressure, the head of him pressing at your swollen clit, gliding over it. You moan at the unexpected zip of pleasure, blooming out from your centre to every extremity, and you feel Santiago’s dirty, satisfied chuckle vibrate through you, chest to chest. 

His chuckle quickly digresses to a moan as you return the favour just as suddenly. As you rise slightly on your thighs, until you are able to grip his aching shaft in your hand and notch him in position, your folds caressing the blunt head of him. His grip on your hips tightens as you lower yourself on to him, feeling how he spreads you open as his girth pushes past your entrance with a thick, hot glide. 

Santiago chokes as he bottoms out, and you can feel him throb and pulse in your centre as he adjusts to the sensations. 

You feel full of him. Full in every sense. 

Fuck. You didn’t know. You didn’t know it could feel like this with him. Light. Playful. Delicate. Joyful. Beautiful. 

“Fuck, hermosa,” Santiago keens as you begin to move, folding over him once again, covering him with your body, your thighs enclosing his ample hips and your forearms planted, bracing yourself against the cushioning either side of his head. 

It feels soft and syrupy as you enclose him in your wetness. Sweat beads and gathers between your bodies as you undulate and rise and fall on him, the slow, sensuous drag of you causing him to bite down into the meat of your shoulder, his breath hot as it billows into the hollow of your collarbone. 

Santiago clings to your hips for a moment, an admirable attempt to guide your motions - until it all becomes too much. Until he surrenders fully and lets you lead. His hands first fist into the sheets at his side, and then they wrap around your back, coming to rest there, his fingers intermittently dancing over your skin. For once, his embrace is not a desperate thing. He’s not attempting to pull you closer or to push you away. He simply wants you exactly where you are. Exactly like this. 

It’s tender, the way he’s touching you. The way he’s trusting you and letting you set the pace. The way he kisses a string of pearls along your skin, the wet, percussive sounds filtering down to your bones. It makes you feel some kind of way, so you try desperately to focus on the sensations his friction is stoking in your centre. In the way the glide and drag and pressure of him inside of you is causing a steady, building, eddying ball of light to hover in the core of you, getting ready to burst out and fill your whole body with sunshine. 

It has felt dark, sometimes, to love him. But right now? It feels like dawn. 

You screw your eyes shut against the dam of emotion breaking within you. Against the tears threatening to spill over. You distract yourself from feeling too much all at once, planting kisses along the length of his beautiful, sculpted jaw. By devouring his mouth the way one would savour a feast. Slowly. Intentionally. Your tongue, ever so deliberate against his. 

“Fuck,” Santiago curses, his voice trembling. “You’re dripping all over me. Jesus fucking Christ.” 

You are. You can hear it. Feel it. This pooling slick between your legs being worked out of you. Coating him. Making everything smooth and fluid and easy, after so long with such friction between you. 

You ride him like this, communing with grunts and moans. Communing with his body, which you read so well. So automatically. You know what each shift and expression passing over his face means. You understand the tightening of his thighs beneath you. You can read his breath, his touch, his sounds, his movements, and you relish in the ways that you know him. All the ways you know how to make him feel good. 

You kiss a bead of sweat from his temple, the salt flooding your tongue as you rise up on him, lifting your body away from his to let the cool air soothe your heat-pricked skin. Relishing the look and feel of him beneath you. Relishing the way he drinks the sight of you in too with a slack-jaw, watching the way your hips work over him. The way your breasts bounce and sway lightly with the motion. You shift your angle slightly, until a long, gritted exhale unspools from Santiago’s plush mouth, his pretty eyes fluttering shut and his grip on your hips unwavering but weakening. 

“That’s it. Right there? Just like that?” 

“Uh. Uh huh,” he replies through gritted teeth, his expression looking pained as he tries to work through it. “Holy shit, baby.” 

You beam a devilish smile down at him until his eyes spark with mischief, and your core clenches on his dick as you watch him swipe the pad of his thumb over his pink, supple tongue, liberally gathering spit. He reaches for you, rubbing the pad of him gently against your clit. 

“Good?” 

Good? Yeah. Good enough to make your toes curl and your legs weaken beneath you. Good enough that you can scarcely continue your ministrations, your body sagging forward again, slumped almost boneless over him. 

“Tired?” Santiago asks you, and you stubbornly answer no despite the burn and tremble in your spent thighs. He sees right through it. “Let me flip you over?”

Reluctantly you concede and he rolls you, carefully, staying inside of you and never breaking contact. Settling your back against the mattress and his sweat-sheened body over you like a canopy. Like safety. 

He kisses you - deeply. 

He thrusts himself inside of you, the noises between your bodies obscenely wet by now, his grunts and groans percussive as he continues to stoke that white hot ball of light in your middle. 

He has never rocked you like this. So tenderly. So reverently. Slow and sure. Not racing towards any ending. He makes love to you as though he’s not afraid of any kind of ending at all. Like this perfect moment can just stretch on forever. Like he can always be buried inside you. 

You, though? You are still afraid of that ending. 

It feels good. God. It feels impossibly good to be held by him like this; but it’s bittersweet. Bittersweet enough that you still have to screw your eyes shut against the flood of emotion you are continuing to hold back behind that dam. 

Santiago’s lips graze your cheek, a softly planted, lingering kiss. “Hermosa,” he encourages. “Look at me.” 

“I can’t,” you admit, and you feel a sting of prickled heat beneath your eyelids. You feel vulnerable, exposed, in a way you’re not used to either. You feel like you want to run, but you know now. That never did very much good. 

“Look at me,” he insists, his voice soft and smooth, no sand left in his throat. So you do. You trust him. You follow him. Walk with him, like you’ve been on the same road all along, each without a map. 

You don’t know what you expect to see when you open your eyes, but all you do see is his gaze fall softly on yours, even as he fills you. You see him as a friend and a lover. You see him as everywhere you’ve been and everywhere you’re going. He’s a landscape, and his whole being is expansive and opened up to you. 

He fucks into you, his pace consistent and steady, and he plants intermittent kisses over your cheeks, scattering them into your hairline, your neck, the corner of your mouth. That ball of light inside you tightens, shrinking down, and you know it’s getting ready to burst. To radiate out into every extremity. 

You feel like you’re heavy and weightless at the same time. Like you’ve sunk so far into the mattress that you’re inches below it. Like you’re floating up to the ceiling. “It f-feels too g-good,” you stutter, your voice mere breath.

It does - feel too good. Not just the sensations, but him. The familiarity and safety of him feels too perfect to risk never having this again. 

Your eyes roll back into your head as Santiago keeps hitting that spot deep inside of you over and over, pleasure sparking and sizzling, white hot. “It’s okay, querida. I got you. Just keep looking at me. I got you.” 

You wrap him up like the gift he is, your legs folding around him, the tender soles of your feet settling on to his plush ass cheeks. Your arms winding around his middle, tightening, drawing him to you. Drawing him so close to you that you can’t look at him anymore, his head buried into the junction of your shoulder, his curls tickling your cheek. You draw him close enough that there is no space between your writhing bodies. So close that you don’t know where he ends and you begin, a mess of breath and sweat and limbs like twined dense jungle.

I love you.

I love you is what you want to say. I love you too is what you want to hear back from him - but your mouth makes the shape of some different words instead. “I don’t want to lose you.” 

It’s a broken, laid-bare plea. It’s what all this comes down to, isn’t it? You can’t fathom losing him. Can’t fathom being without him. 

“Cariño,” Santiago speaks against your neck, his lips sliding hot and wet down the column of your throat. “I’m never lost when I’m touching you.” 

It’s not what you wanted to say. It’s not what you wanted to hear. But you realise, in that moment, as Santiago moves his mouth to meld desperately with yours. As a lone tear sluices over the bridge of his strong nose. You realise that the words each of you spoke mean the same damn thing anyway. 

His tongue shoves unceremoniously over yours then, Santiago coming undone now, ragged and frayed like an edge of land as you wash over him, flooding him with liquid. He opens you up, everywhere. The cave of your mouth, your weeping cunt, your heart breaking open like dawn. 

You moan and he punches your name from his lungs as his hips stutter into you. His thrusts become sloppy but he keeps consistent pace long enough to tip your pleasure over the brink. For you to come undone, a star bursting from your middle, light pulsing out to every extremity and sending jittering aftershocks through your body. You clamp down on him, hold him close to you as you ride it out, your head buried in the crook of his shoulder, his creamy load pumping into you, deep and urgent, and his disbelieving, wracked moans sounding in the shell of your ear. 

You convulse on him, squeezing every last drop from him, your legs quivering. 

You cling to him. Cling to him for dear life as your pleasure swells and breaks and ebbs and flows. 

In turn, Santiago comes down with a shudder, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths above you. Eventually, he slips out of you, wordlessly, his eyes shining still with unwaning, transparent adoration. He kisses you, everywhere. Puts his hands on you. He laves his tongue over you in gratitude. He kisses every crook and peak and contour and valley of you. He kisses your scars, his mouth curved with a smile the whole while. He applies love across the cartography of you, of your life together. He presses his lethal hands to you and he kills you; softly. Gathers you up to him. 

It is then, in this moment of impossible tenderness, that your tears find their release. 

It floods you. All the times you’ve almost lost him. All the times you should have been holding each other close instead of pushing each other away. All the times you should have been cherishing this beautiful, fragile thing between you instead of fearing it. 

You let the tears eke out; but then Santiago kisses them away too, concern shimmying in his molten eyes. 

In this moment, you feel that he’s loving you how he’s always wanted to love you. Showing you what he’s always wanted to show you. 

And then, something else slips out of you. “I love you.” Your voice is small. Afraid. Even now. 

But this time, Santiago does not hesitate. “I love you too.” 

A few more tears fall. You would like to believe they are happy tears, but you still somehow feel that they are bittersweet. 

Wordlessly, Santiago shifts you, gently, bundling you up against his warm, sturdy chest. 

You listen to his heartbeat thudding in the shell of your ear, noticing it gradually slow. 

You let him trace idle shapes into your skin. 

Let him hold you close, until he stills. Until his breathing is so soporific that you wonder if he has succumbed to sleep. 

“You still awake?” You venture. 

“Yeah.”

“We made a mess.” 

“I know. But it’s okay. I put you in the wet patch.” 

The laugh that escapes you is unexpected. Shifts some of the heaviness in your chest. You bat him playfully in the pec, tweaking his nipple for good measure. “You’re a bastard, Garcia.” 

You think his throaty, reciprocal laughter is the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” 

You shift back just a little, enough to look up at his face. His teasing grin slips effortlessly into something far softer and more earnest when he’s looking at you. 

“Come here,” he proposes softly, guiding you up. Leading you back into the shower. You follow him. You follow him though he never would seem to follow you anywhere. 

Still, you push all that away, in favour of the here and now. With him looking at you like that, what else is there? 

And so, you let yourself enjoy it. You enjoy it as he playfully tweaks your nipple in return and you giggle. As he wraps his arms around you from behind and your fingertip draws a tentative heart in the steamed-up mirror. As he leads you into the cubicle with him, beneath the spray of warm water. 

As you step beneath the stream with him, his fingers twined with yours, you realise that he’s taking you all over again. Making you his, but not by fucking - no. This time, he’s taking you with his soft eyes. With the way his soaped hands move with reverence over your slick body, reluctantly washing the traces of him away from your skin. With the way his mouth moves languidly against yours - and he tastes of soap but you don’t care. He’s taking you. Piece by piece. Taking you until there’s nothing left. Until your heart has migrated little by little, bit by bit, into the roll cage of his chest. Gently, this time - as though for once he might even keep it safe. 

You dry off together, and you settle back on to the bed. 

Already, you can feel Santiago packing this away. 

Putting his heart back inside his chest like a folded map.  

You drag his lips to yours and you kiss him. You’re not sure if you’re trying to kiss him to death or kiss him to life; but you know that you have to kiss him with everything you’ve got regardless.

You know that you have to beg him, without words. With touch. The language you two have always shared, your bodies moving symbiotically through this world, as a team - no matter the distance between you. One of you incapable of being read without the other. 

You know that you have to beg him. 

Stay. 

Stay. 

Stay. 

Stay; ‘til the sun comes up. 

Stay; forever. 

For every new day. 

He could never run towards you, he insists. Not yet. So, instead, you reach for him, your arms wide open. You soften your lethal hands. You relax that killing grip. You make him feel safe. Feel loved. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, if only he would let you try. 

“Turn over,” you whisper, with a soft curl of your lips, and he does so. He lets you wrap him in your arms, chest to his back, and he hums - a low, resonant sound - as you plant a lingering kiss to the back of his neck. You stay like that, until the both of you fall asleep. 

It turned out to be a beautiful night. The most beautiful night of your life, in fact, with the person you love most in all the world. You held him all night. Kept him safe and warm. 

But, when you wake up, you feel only cold air at your back. Cold sheets under your palm as you reach for him. 

Maybe he did stay, at least until the sun came up. But now, he is gone. 

In truth though, you’re not even upset. At least, maybe… you’re not even surprised. 

He’d promised you something that didn’t feel like an ending. He’d given you that, but in many ways it had still felt like a goodbye. 

At least this time, you had said the kind of goodbye you would have wished for. Not an angry, bitter thing. At least this time, you did all you could to let him know how you feel, in all the ways you know how. 

You sit up on the edge of the bed, and you tug in a long slow breath, releasing it into the quiet solitude of the room. 

Is it true that there are some people who you can only ever love in fragments? 

You don’t know, honestly. For now, you only know that you feel broken into pieces too. 

It always hurts when you say goodbye to him, doesn’t it? 

At least this time, it was a more beautiful thing; just like he’d promised, right? 

And, as you stand and move to begin your day, you remind yourself that he hadn’t promised you any more than that. 

[starsfic]

Murder on the Candy Cane Express: Chapter 1- The Trip Begins

Summary: After Pomni makes the mistake of liking a murder mystery adventure, the next adventure sees her cast as the detective... with Gummigoo as her assistant. Notes: This is based on a discussion on Discord with @vegalocity and a few other people. The colors of Pomni's outfit mentioned are based on @hootbon's Freakshow AU

It was Pomni's fault.

It started with an adventure based around CLUE, or at least the circus’s knock-off version of CLUE. Each circus member had a role to play, with Jax being the victim, lying in a puddle of strawberry jam- 

("Good riddance."

"Zooble!"

"WHAT?!")

-to Ragatha being the detective.

Unfortunately, the issues started there.

Pomni had been a private investigator back when she was a human, one of the few facts she remembered about herself. She hadn't been sure how to bring that fact up to the rest of the group, since she had been hired to investigate at least the last two of C&A's string of disappearances. (It could have been worse. At least the company wasn't murdering people like she suspected when she saw the list of names.) She had a long string of successes under her belt, with people trusting her more than they did the police.

And her pride as a private investigator screamed at her when Ragatha did not follow procedure.

("RAGATHA, YOU CAN'T JUST BLOW INTO THE EVIDENCE BAG, IT'LL GET YOUR DNA ALL OVER IT!"

"Pomni, this is... the most impassioned I've ever seen you get for an adventure."

"What, you might as well LICK it if you want your own germs all over it!"

"...this is personal- and I don't like seeing you like this. It scares me.")

Pomni had ignored the sting of that comment and took over the detective role, ignoring her role as a knock-off Ms. Peacock. Some part of her had relaxed as old muscles flexed. Sure, the chaos of the circus made her have a weekly breakdown, but this chaos? The chaos of investigating, of putting the pieces together, of being able to point out the butler NPC as the killer?

"That was actually kinda fun," she admitted as they walked into the circus.

The next second, Caine was in her space, vibrating- literally vibrating, she could hear his teeth chattering against each other- in his spot. His fingers dug into her hands from where he was holding them, but he didn’t seem to notice. "My dear, did you say you enjoyed that?!"

"Uh..." Pomni wasn't sure why, but she decided it was best to be honest, even as she leaned away from him. "Yeah, I did."

If he had an actual mouth, she was sure Caine would have the biggest grin with how his eyes sparkled. "Nobody has ever said that they've enjoyed the adventure! This is the best day of my life!" Wow...that was actually kind of sad. She glanced around to see that everyone was looking away, looking a touch awkward, even Jax. "I have so many ideas!"

And with that, Caine disappeared.

The next few days felt normal, with an adventure a day and activities that Ragatha and Jax would set up together, except Caine would occasionally pop up to ask Pomni questions about police procedures and old cases and the pros and cons of true crime books, taking notes. He even took Zooble aside to ask about what kind of maturity they wanted

"He looks more focused than he did whenever we do a therapy session," Zooble complained once to her and Gangle when they were hanging out in their room, gently running a marker over the exposed part of Pomni’s arm, making a tattoo of a constellation. (Pomni stored that to maybe talk to them about later.)

And it all led up to today.

"The Murder on the Candy Cane Express!" Caine announced, the title popping up around him in pastel pink and blue. "That's right, folks! You are all on a train, trapped together, when suddenly, someone is horribly murdered! It's up to our master detective to solve the case!" The lights flashed, and Pomni looked down as her outfit shifted and changed, and a bundle of papers landed in her hands, like the CLUE adventure.

Instead of her jester outfit, she wore dark pants and heeled boots with a pastel pink shirt and a pastel blue vest that matched the title. Over that, she wore a dark Inverness cape, lined with pink and blue fur. She reached up and patted her head. Even the hat was gone, replaced instead by twin pigtails that were tied back with what felt like ribbon to her still-gloved hands. Next to her was a dark brown leather satchel that she tucked over her shoulder, feeling a familiar weight from her old bag. It all looked and felt so mature.

Despite herself, she loved it.

“Wait, you can change our outfits in here-”

“Ugh,” Jax groaned. “I’m not gonna be the victim again.”

“Of course not! That would be boring!” Caine said, snapping his fingers. A red wig plopped down on Jax’s head. “You’re playing the femme fatale!”

Silence dawned on the group. Between strands of hair, Jax’s eyes went wide. Then they got even bigger, with sparkles and everything. “Oh squeak yeah,” he said. “I’m gonna seduce everyone on that train!”

“Jax no!” Ragatha called, her eyes getting wide.

“JAX YES!”

“Anyway,” Caine said, pressing a hand to Pomni’s back. “Get through your portal and catch your train!” And with a push, she stumbled through the portal, right into a bustling train station.

Caine always put a lot of work into his worldbuilding, and he hadn’t skimped here. The floor resembled marble, with gold sprinkles shot through solid white sugar, and the trend continued to the ceiling, held up by huge lollipops. The ceiling was decorated with hard candy and icing, creating a fresco of Caine and Bubble doing various things. Various NPCs, both candy and otherwise, rushed about to get on gingerbread trains. Pomni’s script, however, told her to head to the biggest train.

It was beautiful. It looked delicate, made of candy glass and spun sugar and gingerbread and a bunch of other things she couldn’t recognize off the bat, but it looked luxurious, the type of train with sleeping cars and dining cars fancy enough to be five star. Despite herself, despite the stress of her situation, Pomni felt a grin form. Sure, the nice train ride would be ruined by a murder, but she was going to enjoy the ride to the best of her abilities.

Then a hand landed on her shoulder.

“There you are, Poms!”

Wait. No, it couldn’t be.

She turned.

Gummigoo smiled at her as a screen, one of the ways to introduce the characters in these murder mystery adventures, popped up.

Your best friend and sidekick!

[abardnamedreginald]

im a wolf-demon-salamander-grey treefrog-katydid-cricket-luna moth-klingon-trad vampire-cat-romulan-harry potter wizard-gnome-drow-orc-wood elf-high elf-werewolf-twilight vampire-chihuahua-android-bard-druid-sorcerer-d&d wizard-lotr wizard-mind flayer-kraken-owlbear-genetically modified human-andes mint-harry potter merperson-h20 mermaid-great white shark-raven named nevermore-amontillado-sewer clown-animatronic-ink person-reality bender-ringwraith-chicken-fairy-telescreen-multibear-manic pixie dream girl-d class-horcrux-dragon-unicorn-pegasus-among us crewmate-among us imposter-game master-sharpie king size marker-dwarf-dragonborn-toothbrush-rock-paper-scissors-lizard-vulcan-politician-god-phone guy-icebreakers ice cubes pineapple-a doctor not a miracle worker-troll-ent-poodle-rabbit-Bear.-orange zombie-purple zombie-green zombie-professor plum-col. mustard-in the library-with a knife-hoola dancer-fish-villager-pelecan-defense against the dark arts professer-mafia boss-peep rabbit-peep chicken-gymnast-hairbrush-philosopher-music freak-school teacher-kidnapper-police lieutenant-farmer-trash can-dumpster out back-turtle-tribble-my little pony-kratt brother-high diver-pearl diver, dive, dive, deeper-chef-fire-earth-water-wind-wasp-bee-hornet-yellowjacket-mud dabber-grasshopper-rattlesnake-armadillo-cowboy-flashlight-starfleet science officer-harlet-elephant-gater-muppet-emo-goth-preppy-teabag-loser-sucker-mouse-rat-a puppet-a pauper-a pirate-a poet-a pawn-and a king-father albert-the pope-a nun-pastor jeff-gambler-metalhead-death rocker-the grim reaper-angel-lighthouse-paw patrol dog-hobbit-starfish-sponge-crab-squid-shrimp-jellyfish-chipmunk-hammerhead shark-nurse shark-humpback whale-blue whale-orca-sexual harrassment panda-south park character-jakoffasaurus-scrabble board-ouija board-pillow-toilet paper-period pad-tampon-baby diaper-elderly diaper-martian-touch tone telephone-starfleet operations-starfleet command-kirk-spock-bones-sulu-chekov-uhura-scotty-yeoman rand-KHAN!!!-mudd-the uss enterprise-the uss reliant-botany bay-v'ger-valeris-saavik-sybok-surak-sarek-the abbreviation 'idk'-sheldon-leonard-penny-howard-raj-amy-bernadette-mary cooper-george sr-george jr-missy cooper-meemaw-tam-dr sturgis-dr linkletter-dr jack bright-dr clef-dr gears-dr kondraki-dr mann-dr iceberg-dr crow-dr rights-dr sherman-scp 049-scp 3008-scp 4231-scp 166-scp 682-scp 2521-scp 590-O5 6-bill cipher-stanley pines-stanford pines-dipper-mabel-wendy-soos-schmebulok-gideon-mcgucket-dipper goes to taco bell-sheriff blubs-deputy durland-tad strange-andy taylor-william afton-michael afton-elizabeth afton-crying child-henry emily-charlotte emily-dave miller-jack kennedy-dee kennedy-peter kennedy-steven stevenson-aragorn-sam-frodo-merry-pippin-boromir-legolas-gimli-gandalf-faramir-denethor-sauron-elrond-thranduil-harry-hermione-ron-voldemort-pettigrew.-moony-padfoot-prongs-snape-edward-bella-alice!!-carlisle-charlie-cthulhu-greg heffley-pennywise-bendy-sammy-norman-jack-alice (susie)-allison-henry stien-joey drew-bruenor battlehammer-raskolnikov-heather-heather-heather-veronica-jd-kurt-ram-martha-kurt cobain-david bowie-freddie mercury-hozier-mitski-lemon demon-jack stauber-tally hall-hamilton-burr-jefferson-madison-washington-phillip-angelica-eliza-peggy-king george iii-king henry viii-ben franklin-catherine of aragon-anne boleyn-jane seymour-anne of cleves-katherine howard-catherine parr-dracula-𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂-evan hansen-conner murphey-john adams-raymond barron-fred randall-jane doe-ocean-noel-mischa-constance-ricky-karnak-vergil-alternate-thatcher davis-ruth-dave-cesar-mark-adam-sarah-jonah-evelyn-gabriel-trump-biden-sunny-basil-kel-aubrey-hero-mari-vanessa (the mean girl that kinda likes u)-tux the linux penguin-perry the platypus hybrid princess...dont fw me

[xxdemonicheartxx]

Most common funerary burials by flight:

Putting this one below the cut due to death mentions and burial descriptions I understand this can be a topic of discomfort no matter how vague one is when speaking on it <3

Arcane: opalization, the body is taken and layed in the shallows of intensely magic rich pools in a resting position, where it will rapidly opalize in a matter of weeks or months due to the volitile arcane energy of the land, sometimes individual scales are opalized instead and the rest of the body is cremated to be scattered amid their favorite place of study

Earth: mummification, the body is taken and embalmed, richly doused in spices, oils, and linen wraps, the organs removed are in canopic jars that resemble the dragon's own visage. Some earth mages practice petrification of the body as well upon request. Another practice is glass blowing cremated remains into colorful works of art, often colorful globes of glittering glass or glass sculptures of the deceased's visage

Shadow: the body is often cremated and the ashes greatly compressed into logs or bricks, before being soaked in spores and water to allow the mushrooms the the tangled wood to reclaim them and take them home. Other practices include burials or creating wrought iron burial markers. Celebrations of life are held around these burial sites

Light: due to the.... emperor problem.... graveyards have rapidly been destroyed and the fear of merging with Luminax sits like a stone in the heart of every imperial. Cremation is the most common practice as of now but celestial burials used to be common practice where the sun would always be able to touch you even in death (also known as sky burials) a new practice adopted from the earth flight includes taking these cremated remains and turning them into glass suncatchers

Plague: plague dragons believe that returning to the land you've survived is a must, dying of old age is a great achievement!! Often the body is returned to the land, buried or laid to be reclaimed by the ecosystem. Some more sentimental dragons or close loved ones will save scales or tan parts of wing membrane to carry close to their heart

Nature: burials are the most common practice, continuing to feed the shrieking wilds, some pathways have small markers or idols where loved ones frequent so that they can continue to pay homage in the labyrinthian jungle

Ice: ice dragons actually do not freeze their deceased, instead they take parts of membranes and tan them before tattooing a depiction of their loved one into their own hide, complete with a name, date of birth and date of death, its too cold to dig in this land so they cremate the remains and scatter them amid the tundra so in spring they can help the flowers return. The tanned memento is kept with a clan's priest, shaman, or spiritual leader with the rest of them, under expert care

Fire: forge pyres, often when fire dragons die their own heat resistance can make cremation a difficult process. So their remains are given to forge masters who are capable of reaching intense heat, working bellows and feeding the flames until the body is reclaimed by the flames. Other practices include caldera funerals, where the body is taken to be sunk in the lava of volcanoes or lava floes. Sometimes blackened skeletons can be reclaimed by loved ones in doing this

Wind: sky burials. The body is taken high up and laid under open sky for the sun and the wind to reclaim, it is believed that in doing this their spirit may continue to soar. Also refered to as celestial burials

Water: sinking of the body in designated graveyards is a common practice, often referred to as a burial at sea. Tiny tiny fragments of the dragon are often kept to be artificially put into oysters so that a pearl can be formed from their loved one's remains. Another practice is water cremation or Alkaline hydrolysis is another practice that is starting to gain traction

Lightning: the desert sand is not suitable for proper burials and grave markers aren't reliable in the shifting expanse, often the body is dehydrated first before undergoing electrical cremation, with no fluid the body will burn rapidly, the ashes then mixed with sand are placed amid one of hundreds of electrical storms with a tall metal rod in the center of the remains. To be struck by lightning turning them into "fulgurites" or "fossilized lightning" these unique and intimate structures are then returned to loved ones to be kept similarly to an urn

There are always exceptions to funeral practices. Dragons like obelisks and imperials often require additional care in the event the obelisk returns to stone or cremation is not an option for the imperial but these are the common or most popular practices in each region (non cannon)

As always I'd love to hear your own headcannons and takes too!!

[cielwritings]

If it's okay could you do something with yandere! Ciel and yandere! Sebastian x timid reader who develops stockholm syndrome? 👀 There would be no escaping them theyre too powerful rip.

! Yandere!Sebaciel x Reader !

say less :p

tw: mental abuse, physical abuse, emotional abuse, neglect

Ciel and Sebastian were both partners before you came around, but when you did, something clicked inside the two of them. They didn’t need to verbally express it. All it needed was a mutual look in the eye to know what each other wanted.

Ciel being a yandere is troubling, but both? You’re in for a ride.

They’re two different yanderes. Sebastian likes to tend to you, keeping you as safe as possible. Ciel likes to mark you, to make you his territory.

Sometimes Ciel will go over the top. Of course he won’t do things you explicitly tell him no to. Though if he can, he’ll bruise you, bite you, or write on you with permanent marker.

Sebastian treats you like you’re his master/mistress, except, times 10.

..This scares you. A lot. You can’t go anywhere with the feeling of Sebastian lurking over your shoulder. Ciel’s presence is threatening, you have to walk on eggshells with him.

And at the end of the day, you couldn’t bring yourself to entertain them. It just lead you to be punished.

Sebastian’s punishments are emotional anguish. He’s the most caring, so you’re drawn to him more than Ciel. Admittedly, you don’t mind the way he tends to you. It’s the way he does it. So when he randomly stops tending to you snd gets Ciel to do it, you panic.

This continues until you beg for him to keep going. Even then, he won’t continue if you don’t say you’re sorry.

Ciel’s can be physical and mental, albeit not straight up punching you, he will make you constantly feel uncomfortable. Being a bit too close, wearing textures you find unpleasant, and wearing clothes colored to make your eyes sore.

One of Ciel’s punishments, he had you on your knees in front of him. He was slowly stroking your cheek, breathing softly through his mouth. He was close enough that you felt the heat on you, and it made you quite uncomfortable.. especially with how close his thumbs were to your eyes.

The moment you began to fall in love, was the moment you broke. It was the same night Sebastian found you trying to escape the manor.

“Whatever do you think you’re doing?” he states, tray to his hip. “My, my..”

He ordered you to sit on the couch, being guarded by Baldroy. He told Ciel what had happened, and they both agreed on a punishment.

You were in an old room the household rarely ever touched. It was completely cleared out, perhaps originally going to be used for storage or a guest room. They sat you in there. There was nothing to do.

You sat in there for who knows how long. None of them told you an exact timeframe. Though, Ciel said it was between a few days and two weeks.

The only way you survived was being given water and plain food. White bread with unsalted, dehydrating crackers. The way they gave it to you? They waited until you were passed out from exhaustion to put it in the room. Even the plate and utensils were bland.

They wanted you to have as little stimuli as possible.

Ciel was delivering your food one day, but you weren’t completely passed out. You were spread out on the floor, eyes just barely open, facing the door. He placed the food and drink down, then sighed through his nose. Even waking you up with noises was something they couldn’t have.

You noticed that there were extra portions this time, something out of character for Ciel. He probably missed you.

Just barely, you croaked out a ‘thank you’ and a ‘you’re kind’.

Even in this situation.. you thought he was kind?

Ciel called off the punishment and had you in his arms those same ten minutes. Somehow, that was the weirdest part of all of this. Being neglected stimuli for potentially weeks and then suddenly feeling warmth and comfort…

It took you a while to get back to your old self. You were still nervous around them, but you noticed more about them. Whenever Sebastian looked at you, his eyes would momentarily light up with love.

Whenever you looked at Ciel, his jaw would unclench, and his shoulders would relax. Something about knowing these facts comforted you. They had their guard down around you, so why shouldn’t yours be?

Sebastian was the first you kissed. He was bathing you, asking for permission to touch your chest or groin. You gave him a kiss mid question, right on the cheek.

“You don’t have to ask to touch when you bathe me..” you mumble. “If you don’t get spots, they’ll be dirty and infected..”

He was in shock, though softly chuckled at your words and nodded. “You’re very right.”

Ciel was more forceful. Not in a mean way, but when he heard you kiss Sebastian, he grabbed your cheeks and kissed your lips.

“That bastard better have not taken your first kiss. Did he?” “…N-No..” “Good. You’re mine. Stay in this room with me until I excuse you.”

You sat on his lap the whole time.