#purring artist satisfaction

[autemka]

The artist goes: *purrrrr purrrr purrrrr purrrrrrr*

Night posting cause why not

Been thinking about holding their hands lately

Awghhaagggg

Okay goodnight chat

La creatura

[milkpup]

✧ tattoo artist!sukuna thoughts...✧

@g00miato (god bless this artist)

ʚ ao3 ɞ / ʚ kofi ɞ / ʚ fic masterlist ɞ

›› sukuna x f!reader drabble / thirst

‹𝟹 tags: au- no powers, au - tattoo artist, praise, sukuna is actually nice wtf???, pet names, implied oral, being called a good girl

‹𝟹 notes: ty to pookie @navi-n0 for the idea and for beta reading my shiiii :3 didn't think this would be hot but DAMN O_O sry to my readers for the ending :3 should i make it a full oneshot? tysm to @g00miato god tier jjk artist, im a simp fr

the way you were utterly excited to be inked by sukuna, not only because of his innate artistic talent, or even his good looks, but the fact that he was a sweet talker… or so you heard.

he would always take extra time prepping the skin, making sure it’s smooth and ready for the placement. he would meticulously place his stencil on, making sure you were satisfied with the placement but that ultimately he would be too. he wanted to be proud of it.

although he looks intimidating, and maybe he is a little, he’s ultimately super sweet when he’s in artist mode. constantly checking in on you every 20 minutes, momentarily stopping the buzzing of the tattoo gun to ask if you’re okay. you would always answer yes, this was nothing honestly. sukuna would grin and praise u, purring out things like “good girl” “you’re taking it so well”…

this. this was why you booked him. you were basically locked in at that point. every new tattoo idea you had, you came to him first. you would never admit it, but his little praises had you addicted.

it got to the point you didn’t even come up with the ideas anymore, you just asked him to ink you. you wanted to be his canvas. you would let him put anything on your body if he praised you for it. and he always did.

you always tried your best not to squirm or move around, but every little praise or comment had your body feeling. you couldn’t even feel the sensation of the needle pressing ink into your skin— all you could think about was the way his hand meticulously gripped the tattoo gun, how his bicep would flex, how he’d look up at you sometimes, studying you. one particular comment, “such a good girl, yeah?” had you softly whimpering out and jolting momentarily. his rough hand gripped your thigh, holding you into place. “be careful, princess” he warned. his sessions were usually private, no one else around to hear the glorious praises he would purr out with his sultry voice, every word dripping with tension.

he loved the complete and utter trust you gave him. sukuna loved that you were his personal project, his canvas, his toy. his gloved hands would linger a little too long when wiping the ink. he always admired his work, but this time he’s just admiring the canvas in front of him. it fills him with satisfaction seeing evidence of your trust in him literally inked onto your body.

“it looks amazing, ___” but he wasn’t talking about the tattoo. he was looking at you, every part of your body covered with him. he made his final wipe on the fresh tat, revealing the intricate design. “you were such a good girl this time.” he wraps your tattoo after cleaning it.

you smiled, “thank you~”

“you’re welcome, doll. on your knees so you can pay me now, sweetheart~”

‹𝟹 notifs: @vvxxccaa @arylaa @navi-n0 @starshipxoxo @comicalgrievance

ʚ join my notifs ɞ

(･ω･)つ divider creds to @/cafekitsune and @/eloquentreverie

[joannasteez]

conejita (2)

pairing: damian priest x reader warning: smut. nsfw! use of pet name and descriptions of pet play. "conejita" means "bunny" in spanish authors note: feeling a little scandalized, no one look at me! this man is keeping me from the tanks of blood update btw word count: 1200 tags: @333creolelady @harmshake @kill-the-artiste

he'd told you about this, about breathing. about pleasure being a reward for patience. the pit of your belly sore from that terrible delay of satisfaction. shallow breathes forcing your core to tighten..."fuck"...a bright break of a whimper..."fuck"...

and you feel it there, the slight tug against that gentle length of fur, because...

..."a bunny without her tail is a sore sight, only paints half the picture"... 

thats what he'd said. purring and deep along the shell of your ear. tongue slipping up thereafter, as if to solidify the sweetness of it. so you'd done it. honeyed your skin in the scent that pleased him and sunk delicately into the domineer of his desire. pretty sage lace adorning your body as you settled into his lap. deft, manicured fingers — sage french tips to match—taking the clean end of the plug to stroke it along your lips. peaks of kitten licks before suckling the tip. his palm easing along that supple take of skin that rounds out along your bottom. metal rings cool to the touch. 

he'd taken to your jaw with his other hand. swept his thumb along your chin to pull your lips in..."you're just the prettiest thing aren't you"...thunder of a voice. rippling skin and taking hold strong at your bones. you'd shivered along his lap. fingers weak and your temperaments weaker. belly clenching about nothing. needful and anxious. and of course he'd led. guided the sticky wet end of the tail to trail and venture till it'd found it's way at that puckered little hole. a slow press in of a maneuver, till it'd been seated perfectly. wispy little songs from your throat and a needy rut of your pussy along his thigh. his mouth smiling before he took you in for a kiss. 

and you couldn't help it then, to make it sloppy. to suckle his tongue messily and grind into the tough fabric of his jeans. the friction of it causing that delicious build in your belly. but that was a while ago. the charming fit of your lace bra, now, undone and stretched else where. desperation corralling beautifully well in the blood. your fingers digging into the sofa. eyes tightened to a close. 

you're a mess to say the least. panties soaked through and your clit tender. pulsing still. belly knotted up and waiting for bliss. 

..."ruttin' that messy pussy all on me, soaking through my jeans"...groaning into your mouth before his tongue sweeps in for another kiss. soft, full lips pushing in to mesh and pull. his legs spread wide as you ride him there. an arm thrown along the top of the couch leisurely as the other kneads and caresses your hips. your nipples hard and sitting just right along his chest. the thin, linen fabric rushing in a friction that catches firmly. 

"...so gorgeous..."

"...God you smell amazing..." 

"...fucking perfect..."

drawling songs of praise about your ear. his spiced cologne thick in your nose and pulling full in your lungs. lip bitten between your teeth and a twisting grind in your hips. but it isn't enough. the ache in your belly sitting at the edge of relief, but never fulfilled enough to break away freely. a whine in your throat playing desperate. fingers rushing into his skin. forming over trembly and sharp. that patience you'd clung to in attempt to please him, drawing thin and unusable. but this is what he wants. always. delays in gratification for a better thing. thinning your resolve till your wits warm over and melt into nothing. amendable.

and he sets out cooly, undoing the hard silver buckle of his belt. thumbing the button out of the loop before the zipper purrs. revealing his briefs and the hard ache he'd done well to hide and ignore. caught up in your wispy noise and soft skin. and he won't discard your panties. won't do away with the soaked fabric, even if the absence makes for less of an inconvenience. the messiness of them speaking to just how ruined you've become. shallow breathes and tired moans. his hands gathering you up into him, lips parted over yours to steal what air remains, a gentle peck of a kiss as he guides, un-rushed, thick and pressing in. 

that slow, simple first taste too delicious to wait..."yes"...a delirious hiss through your teeth..."fuck yes"...feeling that pressure unfold as he makes to slip in hot and stiff. the sweet noise of it lewd and binding, your legs pulling up lazily to bend, feet planting flat against the couch. something broken and airy drawing up from your throat, your cheek running up against his till your nose knocks over. an urgent bite to your blood, the fullness good there as he shifts his weight to grind up shallow. 

but its unbearable still. not enough. your nails cradling his nape for stability, to feel the heat in his skin. a throb in your spine. effort fully making to sink over hungry, to take more, to feel that delicate splitting open that numbs the ache. his hand clutching over again, curling in till the cool metal of his rings kiss in to impress, stopping your delirium to exact some control. his words tumbling on your lips..."take it easy"...commanding soft. groaning and prying at your hips till he's nailing dull to cup under your ass. steering the pace to a lax little thing...."don't over work yourself"...he hums. lips trailing into the fold of your neck. the bass of his words settling in at your pulse. hips hitching again to feel that throb of a sensation as your clit rubs into him tight...."m'not going anywhere"... another deft upstroke that lets him feed in deeper. trailing along the wet clutch of your pussy. filling in full. 

his tongue peaks, a curl of a lick at your neck. suckling his lips there to taste the saltiness. his palm soothing over till he's tugging short at your tail again. caressing the fur about his fingers. a chorus of sensations burst everywhere. your mouth parting to breathe, to whine..."feels so good"...a tender bounce setting in your hips. a lazy take to the hilt till you're winding up to the tip of him before he's filling in thick again. 

..."s'all you needed right?"...mouth at your cheek again. lingering kisses that flow to the corner of your lips. his words breathing in as you manage the gentleness of this pace. arrested in the ease of him..."a little care, attention"...the back end of a finger rolling at the under curve of your breast, sweeping up to cup tenderly, thumb rolling to sooth in against your nipple...."you can get so restless sometimes, greedy"... his thumb hooking into your mouth to slip at your tongue. gathering wet there, stroking in as you suckle, before returning to press in at your nipple... "we can't have that right?"... his breath at your jaw still. teeth baring to prick, pulling you from your daze of pleasure for an answer..."right?"

"...y-yes...yes..."

he hums. suckles your bottom lip in for a kiss before shifting along the couch again for more comfortability. the maneuver leaving him to rut roughly into you. a stiff drag along the tight drool of your walls..."show me then conejita"... his arms slipping away to relax and spread leisure against the top of the couch..."wanna see you work yourself real nice"... a deep drawl that crawls up to flutter your hot body. quivering and rutting still as you fight the burn in your legs. sweat breaking damp at your forehead. the soft bunny tail bouncing to follow the tender rhythm...."make it pretty for me"...

[prickly-paprikash]

Something cool about Blue Eye Samurai is how sex is juxtaposed with the end-goals.

I really love how our three protagonists are all obsessed. And that obsession defines them, torments them, and are subsequently reborn through their obsessions.

Mizu, of course, is obsessed with the concept of revenge. It's not even about getting even or getting justice as some might use to justify the bloody road taken—it is simply about seeking satisfaction for Mizu. She cuts a bloody swathe across Japan because of what the Four White Devils did to her mother and herself. She does not concern herself with the ramifications of her wrath but merely charges forward, leaving behind a trail of viscera and gore behind her.

Like I said before, her vengeance and obsession with satisfaction is not painted by the show as wrong. It is how she allows it to affect others along the path. It's why the episode with Madame Kaji is so enlightening; Mizu should not tackle this quest as a vengeful revenant; an onryō. She has let the world define her as a monstrosity and so she embraced it, when Swordfather and Madame Kaji knew what the correct path was to satiate her need for vengeance. Treat her sword as the Artisan's tool it truly is. Treat her body the way an Artist would treat their canvas.

Madame Kaji and Swordfather are both outcasts, for being a woman and a blind man. Yet they found strength in their exclusion, becoming single-minded in their fields of art. Because sex is art and swordsmithing is art. It's what makes Mizu's body writing scene so fucking good.

Artistic vision becomes stagnant when one pulls from only one source. They become rigid and unbending when Mizu, like her namesake, must be fluid. She has shown fluidity in her use of her gender and her morals, but cannot apply that same flexibility towards her goal. Throughout season one, she was becoming an uninspired artist, merely painting the world in hues of scarlet. In a world that forces Women to be either Wives or Whores, Mizu chose to be a Warrior—but a warrior fights for a cause, whether it be just or otherwise. A soldier fights in an army. Mizu is neither of these things. She is an Artist first and foremost, and her medium is Death. Sex, something Mizu was at first hesitant before her failed marriage, and something she actively avoided afterwards, is what gives her a new perspective. Like an Illustrator studying life to better draw their intended worlds, taking inspiration from wherever one can find it.

Taigen and Akemi are also equally affected by the artistry of sex, as befitting of Mizu's fellow protagonists.

Akemi is quite obviously Mizu's narrative foil. Mizu chases after revenge like a bloodhound whereas Akemi longs for freedom like a bird in a cage. Both are fierce women who are unsatisfied with their lot in life, with their sex and gender being used against them in their lives. Literally, the episode "The Tale of the Ronin and the Bride" is a fucking triple entendre:

Mizu is the Ronin as well as the Bride.

The play showcases the tale of the Ronin and the Bride.

It is also Mizu as the Ronin and Akemi as the Bride.

And when Mizu finds her center as she melts down her blade and engages in body writing, this scene of enlightenment is juxtaposed with Akemi laying with her new husband Takayoshi. Both, in this moment, are taking control of their lives through sex. They are both taking control of their futures through the ways Madame Kaji taught them. Mizu and Akemi are both rebels against this oppressive society, and are both talented artists with their body. Whether that be sex, politicking, or ass-kicking.

Taigen, like the two women before, finds freedom through it but in a more subtle manner.

Where Mizu and Akemi are narrative foils, both using sex as a form of art and escape, Taigen finds liberation through his awakening.

Like the closeted bisexual man he is, he begins his journey of self-realization when he first encounters Mizu at the Dojo.

Every single battle these two have is purposefully rife with sexual tension. All his life, Taigen has been taught that a man must live with honor. That he must take control of his life and his identity, or he will have failed and that he is better off dead than to live with such shame.

Taigen is just as much a victim of the Patriarchal society around him. Mizu rails against it violently. Akemi seeks to run away from it all. And Taigen, with the privilege given to him by his manhood, chooses to become a perpetrator, enabling the vicious wheel of society to keep moving forward.

His obsession with honor leads him to hunting down and even protecting Mizu. Mizu is no doubt the better warrior, but even she knows she owes so much to Taigen. The blockhead not only did everything to protect her in the valley, but also sealed his lips shut even under the duress of torture. His obsession with honor becomes an obsession with Mizu.

His regrets over tormenting her over her looks and ethnicity as a child. His shame in having lost so decisively in his own dojo. Taigen was a man born with nothing and climbed up to the top with every advantage he could muster, and suddenly it's all ripped away by this one vengeful spirit passing by.

Taigen learns to surrender control around Mizu. He begins to discover his own sexuality and purpose around Mizu, redefining what honor really means to him now that he, as a man, has a budding attraction towards the man who beat him.

Mizu's Vengeance. Akemi's Freedom. Taigen's Honor. In all three, Sex becomes a catalyst in redefining what each of these concepts truly mean to them all. It's not just sex of course, but it is undeniable how the writers keep juxtaposing sexual acts and thoughts with massive character moments.

It changes how Mizu chases after her Vengeance. It recontextualizes how Akemi can be Free. It showcases the absurdity of the Honor forced upon Taigen.

It's so fucking refreshing seeing Sex not used as fanservice or shoe-horned in just to further a stale, poorly written cis-heterosexual romance; but used as a plot point that cannot be ignored. An impetus that fuels the narrative.

Moving forward, I'm curious as to how sex will be used.

The next few ideas aren't as sound or organized because I'm neither Asexual nor Genderfluid, so please if anyone reads this who understands it better, feel free to point it out.

I think it'd be cool if Mizu met the inverse of Madame Kaji. A person who is apathetic to sex. Sure, Swordfather has shades of this, but I'm tired of the person with disabilities also being on the Asexual spectrum. And I'm not saying that Ace or Graysexual people with disabilities don't exist! But they always tend to be written as having some form of disability (Varys from ASOIAF) or a Robot.

Just as artists need a variety of sources to pull inspiration from, I hope in the next seasons we get to see different perspectives on sex and gender. In London, it feels like Mizu finding the other half of herself, and with that having a better way of tackling her own identity. Whether it be gender, sex, combat, etc.

Basically what this inane rambling amounts to is that Blue Eye Samurai tackles sex and violence and revenge and obsession in ways that most media has yet to truly do. So that was pretty cool.

[airybcby]

Hello! In regards to your Spotify Wrapped writing theme, may I have a request? My top artist is Sabrina Carpenter with the song 'Espresso'. I feel like this could be a good writing prompt?

Thank you kindly!

hi!!

if your top artist was sabrina carpenter / top song was espresso, i’d pair you with…

shidou ryusei

જ⁀♡⊹｡° dream-came-trued it for ya

♡ a/n — for my spotify wrapped event!

♡ content — shidou ryusei x gn! reader, gn! reader, nicknames like 'baby' and 'sugar' used, situationship

♡ synopsis — shidou ryusei wasn't someone you could forget easily, and he was going to remind you of that

The café wasn’t packed, but the faint hum of quiet chatter and clinking mugs made the space feel alive. You were seated by the window, stirring your latte absentmindedly, eyes focused on your phone when a flash of platinum blond entered your periphery.

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Shidou Ryusei’s energy was impossible to miss, a wildfire in a room full of candles.

“Hey, sugar,” his voice cut through the calm air like a bolt of lightning. He didn’t wait for an invitation, sliding into the seat across from you with the casual audacity only he could pull off.

You sighed, glancing up at him. He wasn’t supposed to be here—not really. This was your space, your quiet little bubble away from the chaos of everything he brought into your life. “How did you even know I was here?”

He smirked, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table as if the world revolved around this moment. “You’re not that hard to find. Plus, I had a feeling.”

A feeling. That’s what Shidou always called it—his instinct. Whether it was on the field or in your life, he had a knack for showing up at the exact moment you least expected, or wanted, him to.

“Shidou—” you started, but he interrupted.

“Relax,” he said, that cocky grin of his never wavering. “I just wanted to see you. You’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you?”

Your fingers tightened around your mug. “I’ve been busy.”

He tilted his head, watching you with those sharp eyes of his, an unreadable expression flitting across his face. “Busy, huh?” His tone was light, teasing, but there was something deeper beneath it, something that always made your heart race.

“Why are you here?” you asked, leaning back in your chair, trying to put some distance between you and the pull of his presence.

He shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “You know why.”

And you did. Shidou wasn’t the type to be subtle, and the way he was looking at you now—eyes glittering with that dangerous, electric intensity—spoke louder than any of his words.

“Shidou, this… whatever this is, it’s exhausting.”

He raised an eyebrow, his grin only widening. “Oh yeah? You sure it’s not the most exciting thing you’ve got going on?”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Not everything has to be exciting. Some of us like things… calm.”

“Calm’s overrated,” he shot back, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a low, almost purring tone. “You like the chaos. Admit it.”

You hated how easily he could get under your skin, how he made your pulse race with just a look, a word. He was sharp, bold, addictive.

And he was best in small doses.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, looking away, but his laugh pulled your gaze back to him.

“Impossible’s my middle name, baby,” he said, and there was a softness to his grin now, something almost boyish peeking through his usual bravado.

And that was the worst part about Shidou. Beneath all the cocky grins and wild antics, there was something real, something raw and vulnerable that kept you coming back no matter how many times you told yourself you wouldn’t.

“Just… don’t make this a habit,” you said, your voice softer now, almost resigned.

“No promises,” he replied, but there was a flicker of sincerity in his eyes, a momentary glimpse of the man behind the chaos.

As he leaned back in his chair, his grin never faltering, you couldn’t help but think that Shidou Ryusei was exactly like espresso—intense, overwhelming, and impossible to forget. And despite yourself, you knew you’d take another sip, even if it left you reeling.

i have no rationale for this one, he just gives the vibes of this song

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!

[stanislawkowalski]

[ con. from HERE with @kisumitenderly ]

Nastka’s lips meandered over Kisumi’s skin with a deliberate, almost reverent touch, as though he were tasting the essence of each delicate curve and contour. His kisses were not mere contact but a symphony of sensation, a tender exploration that seemed to savour the very texture of his rival's flesh. Each kiss was like a brushstroke on a canvas, a caress that was as intimate as it was intrusive. He was the artist, the maestro of this sensual overture, his lips tracing paths of warmth and intrigue that left Kisumi’s senses in a disoriented haze.

In the gallery of their entwined existence, Nastka was more than mortal; he was a dark angel, a seducer who whispered sweetly tainted promises into the ear of his unsuspecting saint. There was no collar around his neck to signify restraint or submission—he was beyond such mundane symbols. That raw presence was a paradox of allure and enigma, a devil clothed in the guise of an ethereal being, weaving spells of temptation with each languid movement.

As his lips traveled from Kisumi’s pulse point to the tender skin of his forearm, Nastka could almost taste the simmering frustration radiating from his counterpart. It was a delicious contrast to the composure Nastka himself maintained, each deliberate movement a carefully orchestrated play of provocation and solace. His touch was a teasing reminder of the power he wielded, a power that seemed both sensual and torturous.

When Kisumi’s voice, strained and laden with desperate need, cut through the air, Nastka paused, his lips hovering tantalisingly above the exposed skin. He lifted his gaze, meeting Kisumi’s eyes with an expression that was a blend of amusement and something far more inscrutable.

“Ah, lisku,” Nastka purred, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Always so eager to put a price on everything, aren’t you? But you see, the true value isn’t in the payment, but in the life itself. The thrill of the chase, the sweet torment of anticipation. Don’t you find that much more rewarding?”

Nastka’s thumb brushed against Kisumi’s cheek, a fleeting ghost of a touch that left a persistent warmth in its wake. His eyes remained locked with Kisumi’s, reading the depths of his turmoil with unspoken insight. “You ask if my silence can be bought. Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply enjoy watching you squirm, hearing the frustration in your voice. There’s a certain pleasure in knowing people can hold the power to make others feel so… conflicted.”

Leaning closer, Nastka’s breath was a warm, raw whisper against Kisumi’s ear. “what is it you truly desire? The silence you demand or the satisfaction of knowing you’ve won something from me? Either way, I’m quite content to keep you guessing.”

With a final, lingering kiss near the edge of Kisumi’s jaw, Nastka drew back slightly, his eyes glinting with unspoken promises and concealed threats. It was evident that the game was far from over; for Nastka, it was only just beginning.

[greensweethome]

Ted Raimi's characters as cats (Part 3)

21. Artist cat

The same bastard who breaks your things by looking you in the eye. It is because of him that every year you come up with new ways to secure the tree for Christmas and began to buy all decorations made of unbreakable materials. He can not stand the order in the house and arranges a garbage dump. Everywhere pops muzzle and paws, leaves traces at crime scenes. Your hand will not rise to punish him.

22. Cat of the main villain

Every self-respecting villain should have a furry purring friend who adds aesthetics, easy humanity, or vice versa demonic nature. If you're planning on being villainous, this curly version will suit you. Obedient, playful and well trained. However, still a kitten. If you make sure that nothing happens to him, then you can have a wonderful four-legged helper.

23. Artificial cat.

'Detroit: Become Human' would never have happened if people started creating not androids, but synthetic cats. Smart, adjusts to your needs, and doesn't require food or water. And also he does not require sleep, so at night he has too much freedom. Do not forget that synthetics have the ability to connect to the network and this cat is no exception, because it has a usb cable in its tail. Trust me, you don't want your cat to know your browsing history. Protect yourself from the gaze of judgment.

24. Trained kitten He is a very smart boy and knows a lot of commands for such a small kitten. Non-conflict, peaceful and calm. With proper development, it will grow into an amazing friend and pet, which you will film and show to all people around, saying "look what a smart cat I have"! It may seem cowardly, but in case of danger it will be the first to rush at the offender to scratch out his eyes.

25. Adventurer cat

The same moron who climbs everywhere, and then cannot get out and will yell until you come and help him. You got better at keeping an eye on him when one day he was trapped inside the couch and you literally had to destroy him to free this fool. Playful and energetic, can sometimes hiss but quickly makes cute eyes to be forgiven. Sleeping in funny positions.

26. Vandal cat

You didn't want him in your house, but somehow he ended up here. It brings prey, but does not share, but leaves behind bloody footprints, and then watches with satisfaction as you clean up after it. Often hisses and hides so that you will not find him, no matter how hard you try. Sleeps on your face at night, trying to choke.

27. Loud cat

Here is such a little rubbish, and the sound is like a Jericho trumpet. the brightest star in the house and he knows it. If you wish, you can take it to various exhibitions and get decent places. He pretends to be proud and impregnable, but soon lies on the floor and tries to get your attention by meowing loudly. Loves to be brushed. Spoiled.

28. Distrustful kitten

Tired cat, but a mini version. Unapproachable and hissing loudly, he can even attack you and start scratching, and then he will hide from you throughout the house, fearing punishment for what he has done. When he gets used to you, he will be able to be near you. And somewhere in a year, he will also stick to you and will resist your attempts to remove him from you.

29. Frightened cat

He's seen all sorts of shit. Quiet and sleepy. It is better not to leave the baby alone for a long time, he begins to get scared and naturally cry when you return home. Sleeps with you in the same bed and likes to hide under the covers. When guests come to you, he immediately hides, and if someone finds him, he meows loudly and runs away. Sometimes he looks into empty corners and meows at them.

30. Therapist cat

Always there for you when you need it. Purrs soothingly and massages sore spots when you lie down. Guests do not like him, but he will still be next to you or on his knees. If they try to remove him, he will hiss and even wave his paw. Very dedicated. Recommended for people with anxiety.

>> Part 1

>> Part 2

[dreaming-in-prose]

to tremble on a new beginning

Summary: After training with Rhys to hone her powers, Feyre is exposed to parts of herself she would rather not face. At least, not just yet.

Read on AO3

I’ve always known this tradesman to be chatty, but with a few glasses of wine in him, Cassian seems only to be making matters worse. No training session with your favorite teacher today. We will train tomorrow.

The paper had appeared on the table in front of me as I read on the roof. I had been just about to pack up and go inside as the setting sun began to drench the skyline in a deep golden light.

Rhys had been away all day on errands. He promised to train with me when he returned, but as the day ticked on, the chances of having time to train became slimmer and slimmer.

With the paper, as always, appeared a pen.

I was planning on finding a way out of it anyway. My “favorite teacher” has too much of a tendency towards sadism.

The paper disappeared from my hands as I added the final period. I grimaced, thinking about it. Yesterday, we were practicing winnowing in the woods, and I had miscalculated by a few steps and found myself lodged in between the two arms of a bisected tree. Too exhausted to winnow out of the predicament, I had to ask Rhys to winnow us both out. Rhys had teased me mercilessly before using his own honed skills to transport us both back home. He had to take hold of my lower body to do it, hands gripping my hips, his hips pressed against mine to make enough contact to transport me safely. He managed to contain most of his jokes.

I meant no harm. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would think you did that intentionally to get me into that position. If you need, we can keep practicing it until you’re comfortable asking for it directly.

I scoffed. 

I think you and your hand have developed a story quite different from reality.

The paper disappeared for longer this time. I had made my way down to the kitchen to put together a meal when it appeared on the counter in front of me. This time, in addition to Rhys’s careful handwriting, was a drawing. A crude depiction of two stick figures, one on all fours on an elevated platform, with the other behind it. Like how you see animals mate. A position not dissimilar to the one we had been forced to take the night before. An arrow pointed to the image, and accompanying the arrow was the text:

In case you need something to keep you and your hand occupied tonight in my absence.

I felt a smile widen on my face. His drawings were effective in their depictions but rudimentary.

If High Lord doesn’t work out for you, I think erotic artist could be your next vocation.

~~~~~

I felt a warm body press against me. His chest was hard and welcoming as his arms wrapped around me gently.

His tongue licked lazily along the outer shell of my ear as his hands ventured over the outside of my bra. I shuddered involuntarily at how good his touch felt.

Deftly, a second hand joined the first around my chest, unclasping the bra that I was wearing and helping me slide out of it fluidly. The bonds on my wrists unfurled to let the now useless item of clothing hit the floor and then immediately resecuring.

He inhaled sharply at the sight of my bare chest, and his familiar voice flooded my ears softly, gently, “You are so beautiful,” he purred, a glimmer of authenticity and directness I wasn’t used to from Rhys.

His hands continued their languorous touch around my breasts, heat building between my legs. I wanted him to touch me. Badly. But with my arms bound behind my back, I was powerless, and he was free to play with me as he desired.

His soft lips grazed my neck, and I gasped. Such a tease. He knew how he was unraveling me; I could tell by his sanguine chuckle in response to my squirming.

"Eager for more, Feyre dear?” his voice was just barely above a whisper, but I could feel the way it resonated in his chest.

Yes, please, more, I wanted to say, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I bit my lip to keep from speaking.

"Well, if you won’t say so, then I have no reason to increase my pace.”

His fingers grazed my breast, achingly slow as they spiraled into my raised nipples at the center. He must have seen the flush on my chest that gave away how turned on I was. Or maybe it was the way my breath hitched with every touch.

I didn’t have to look at him to know that he wore a mischievous smile, reveling in my wanting. The fingers of his left hand finally, finally took hold of my nipple and gently flicked it. The sensation was so overdue I nearly moaned even at the slight touch. The sound I did make garnered a response from him. Against my backside, I felt a new hardness meeting me. Through layers of clothes, I wish he would take off. Maybe I could speed him up, and get what I wanted from him.

I let my head fall back on his shoulder, my chest raising more into his hands, and didn’t hold back my moan as he repeated the action with my other breast. Though I was bound by him, that hardly made me powerless.

My mind slips away at the pleasure I want so desperately to allow myself to become my lust and desire. I want to give into the fire that beckons me from between my legs, but his hands don’t let me. They drift up from my breasts to my neck, my chin, turning my face to kiss me. I feel it resonate through the kiss, through the bond of our bargain.

Through that bond, I felt a whisper resonating in my mind, “This is more than lust. I want all of you. Everything. And I won’t stop until I get it."

Our lips didn’t break apart as his hands slid between my thighs, caressing so softly his touch was hardly noticeable. Well, it would be if all my focus wasn’t on it, plotting how to get more of it.

His fingers played lightly over my thighs, and the contact sent electricity up my body. I squirmed, breaking our kiss to let out a hard breath. My chest pounding like I had just been training, despite the fact that I couldn’t move. Was bound into place. My arms behind my back, pressing against him.

I wanted, needed, to feel him. If not inside me, then against me. My hands began making quick work of the buttons they could access. Bound at the wrist, I managed to undo the bottom buttons of his shirt before my reach gave out.

I felt a purr behind me as his shirt disappeared magically.

"If that’s what you wanted, you could have just asked.”

My body ached at all the new places we touched skin-to-skin as if to say, “I want more than that. I want all of it. All of you.” But I wouldn’t let it speak. Just allowed my hands to venture even further down until they reached that bulge in his pants.

Unfamiliar and yet, so familiar. Had I really never touched Rhys like this? It felt like I had a million times. More. It felt natural as I slid my hand up and down the hardness I could feel and felt him shudder against me.

"Please,” I whispered softly. So softly, I doubted he could even hear the word that I found it so difficult to give up.

"Hmmm?” He managed, putting on a disguise of aloof coyness that barely concealed his want, the madness the contact was driving him to. I felt him stiffen in my hands, impossibly. I felt him contain gentle bucks of his hips at the contact. It seems we were both trying to play cool.

Louder this time, I managed, “Please, I need you."

His fingers pressed firmly into my sex after I said it. The contact was enough to send me into a frenzy, one which I didn’t care to contain.

His breath hitched as I bucked up into him. His fingers moved calmly as they slid up and down, touching that electrifying spot between my legs and then moving away from it so that I was left wanting, still.

I whined, bucking more furiously into him. Through that mental connection we had, the one that we forged together Under the Mountain, I sent him the need and the want and the fire. How much I craved him. I felt his hips against my back, suddenly fully exposed against me. The same magic that had undressed him had removed my panties, and I lay bare against his body, our combined body heat and lust and desire mingling into an intoxicating cocktail that somehow drove me even deeper into my body, further from my mind. I needed him. Now.

"Rhys, I need you to fuck me. Please. Don’t make me wait anymore.” The words quivered on my lips, and I could feel him swallow at the sound of them as if he had been salivating for me.

"As you wish.” Was all he said as he gently repositioned me - getting me onto my knees at the edge of the bed.

I heard his feet gently make contact with the floor as he stood behind me, hand caressing my back and my ass, which was exposed to him now in a way that wasn’t before. I could practically feel the way his eyes raked over my form, my no-doubt glistening sex, that part of me, too, begging for him.

My shoulders pressed into the bed, arms still firmly bound together. I felt his cock teasing my entrance. I didn’t want to wait anymore - I couldn’t. I was about to implode at the thought of him when he finally let me have what I would completely unravel for him.

He spread my wetness over the tip of his cock. My hips pushed back greedily, but he maintained enough distance to keep me from getting my way.

I felt his hands grab my hips, leaning down to give my shoulder blades a kiss before slowly filling me with his member. My breath left me in a whimper, overwhelmed by the long-awaited fullness and the pleasure that shuddered through me. He let out a breathy moan...

I shot up in my bed as the wind clattered against the windows. The haze of the dream washed away as I took in the details of the room, scanning it the way I did back at home in the woods. Nothing was there. A storm raged outside, with winds picking up to match.

I was safe.

I was suddenly aware of the wetness between my legs. I had been having a dream about Rhys, about him and I….

I got up on shaky legs and walked to the bathing room. Splashing water on my face. As I made my way back into bed, I noticed the sheet of paper on my nightstand, Rhys’s drawing from earlier. A person on all fours being fucked by one standing behind them.

Is that where my dream had come from? I tried to shake off how turned-on I was by it.

"No more flirting before bed," I murmured to myself, snuggling back up into the still-warm covers. Sleep came easily.

The next morning, though, I awoke with a pit in my stomach. I had to train with Rhys today.

As I went through my morning, endless half-baked excuses flooded my brain: I didn’t sleep well last night, I want to paint today, I think Mor needs me for a fashion-related emergency…but none of them were good enough to convince Rhys. Our training time ticked closer and closer without an adequate thought entering my mind.

“Shall we?” Rhys said gently, appearing behind me with shocking quietness. I could feel the heat of his breath on my neck and detested the molten reaction it caused inside of me. His smell, sea salt and jasmine, threatened to lull me into a mindless haze.

I clenched my teeth and nodded, resigned to my fate.

~~~~

“We can have our lesson here today,” Rhys said, gesturing to the sitting room at the front of the house.

I blinked the confusion from my face. I could hardly control my powers enough to risk being near civilization when I practice, let alone inside a home in the middle of a bustling city.

With an eyebrow cocked, I said, “If you want to get a house I think you can go ahead and buy it, you don't need me burning down this one as an excuse.”

He looked at me and chuckled softly, those violet eyes wandering over my confused face.

“We’re going to be practicing a different kind of power today, Feyre,” he said languidly. “I’d like to practice some of your daemati abilities.”

My eyes narrowed. We had been practicing my mental shielding since I first started visiting night court. I thought I had gotten decent at it, maybe not good, but I practiced it constantly. Keeping my shield up at all times.

As if reading my thoughts, Rhys said, “Something more advanced than shielding.”

He sat on one edge of the red couch that lived at the heart of the space and beaconed me to join him. I did. The sofa was comfortable and well-worn in. Its back was just low enough that a pair of Illyrian wings could be draped over it and rest comfortably against the back. Instead of facing the rest of the room, we faced each other.

I gave the room an instinctual glance. The temperature in here was perfect, even considering what I imagine was a crisp late-winter morning outside. Even so, the hearth across from the couch had not been lit. The smell of smoke still lingered from the fire I had created the night before.

The light shone in large panes from the large windows, illuminating the beautiful man before me.

Rhys was positioned towards me, with his ankle resting on his knee and his hands casually joined in his lap. He waited for me to settle in and then began speaking.

“I’d like you to practice inserting false thoughts into my mind. It can be anything you’d like. The most difficult part of false thoughts is to make them convincing to the person who you are giving them to, so please, Feyre darling, try your best to produce something believable.”

He smirked, and I felt the runway of our bond widen as he lowered his mental shield just slightly, opening a small chamber in his mind. I knew why he was doing it; creating this sort of mental openness felt like being exposed to someone who had not trained to guard their mind. Most people felt like this, unintentionally and unknowingly exposed. Completely open. Just waiting to meet a person who had reason to play with their thoughts.

I guess I could be one of those people.

I sat for a moment and tried to think of a compelling story to share with him, but my mind kept wandering to catch glimpses of those long fingers. So casually binding to each other, a familiar warmth began pooling in my stomach as I tried to convince myself not to get lost in the memory of my dream the night before. I closed my eyes to concentrate. Shutting out all other information tended to help, and picked my mind for a vision to send to him. I started it gently:

All of us together, laughing over a glass of wine. He and Cassian sitting on opposite sides of the little dining area of the kitchen, with everyone else populating the space in between. Their eyes make contact as the chatter continues. Cassian holds his gaze, not looking away for even a moment.

Solid and beautiful like a mountain lion, Cassian puts one knee on the table. Disregarding everyone else in the room, he crawls over the space between them, glasses shattering to the ground in his wake.

With an unnatural swiftness, Cassian makes his way to Rhy’s lap. Cassian’s weight is warm and welcome as his best friend, his commander, straddles him. There was no hesitation as Cassian laced his fingers through Rhy’s hair and pulled them into a passionate, shared kiss.

I felt his laugh before I heard it. It prompted me to pull out of my mind and his. My mouth was dry from the effort.

“Good first attempt,” he purred, his cunning eyes smiling at me. I felt his mental wall lift back up, blocking my access to his mind. “That seemed like a well-rehearsed fantasy. Is that what you think about when I’m off on business, and you’re left to entertain yourself?”

I responded with a rude gesture.

He let out a soft, low chuckle. His eye contact didn’t break when he laughed, inviting me to answer his question.

When it became apparent I wasn’t going to respond, he spoke again.

“It does help if you know something about the context of their life. Though not necessary, disguising the artificial thought in a common one can make it more …. convincing.” He encouraged. I felt that mental wall lower again, inviting me to try again.

I sat back again and closed my eyes, trying to decide what to place in his mind. What does Rhys think about?

Probably not Cassian, fair enough. Did he think of me?

We flirted often, sometimes even so much that I could have believed there was sincerity behind it. Sincerity from me, that maybe I wanted him. But was there any sincerity from him?

When we were teasing each other last night, drawing those lewd pictures, did he come home after and think of me in that very position? The fantasy formed in my mind. I could picture it perfectly:

Him winnowing home from his mission and walking into his bedroom, assuming I was asleep in my own, but when he opened his door, I was there lying on his bed. With only the light of the fire to see, he would take one, two steps forward before it became clear what exactly I was doing.

My body covered in the smallest bits of red lace, eyes glazed with lust. His eyes would slide down my now fuller form. Admiring the curve of my breasts and the contour of my waist before finally venturing down. Slowly, like honey, his eyes would land to see my hand gently and indolently touched between my legs, a moan passing from my lips as I purr, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Moving hungrily to my knees, I would lift my body so we were face to face, pulling his face in for a kiss. Leaning into him, I could smell him, salt water and jasmine and nighttime and his sweat, musky and manly and…

I felt a cool, midnight laugh from Rhys and was brought back into reality. My focus widened until I was aware again of my body. I was suddenly cognizant of my teeth biting on my lip and could once again feel the soft nap of the velvet couch under my hands.

“Prick,” I hissed at him, hoping the heat in my cheeks his injected fantasy had caused me wasn’t too noticeable.

“If you know someone well enough, you can pursue latent fantasies as a strategy, too.” He smirked, his chest moving gently, accompanying his soft laugh.

His eyes sharpened as they landed on me, my anger still bubbling under my skin. “I haven’t read your mind if that’s what your thinking. If that was similar to what you were contemplating about doing last night,, it’s a testament to my skill of knowing you, not any amount of mental invasion.” He blinked the bit of genuine softness at the admission away before saying, “But I’ll leave my door unlocked tonight just in case.”

I let out a sharp breath, not letting him get the satisfaction of a full laugh.

Our training session continued for some time, as I injected ideas of things mundane and exciting into his mind. Each time he gave me feedback, and we started again. It was a dance that I felt more and more comfortable partaking in the longer we did it. The ideas I was sending down the bond, I could tell, were still too me. In order to master this skill I had to be convincingly him. Not just present a thought, but masquerade it as one of his own.

Like fire catching, the idea developed in my mind and I recentered to send it down the open runway between our minds.

A thought of wanting to go out and fly. Looking out the window, the sky was beautiful and cloudless, with a hint of spring warmth had made its way into the winter chill. I could feel the tug it would have on his heart, wanting to go out there and enjoy the world from above, feel the cool breeze and the warm, direct sun. The smell of winter tinged with the freshness of spring and new growth. To look down on the bustling streets of Velaris, his home, from a perfect blue sky.

I sent that to him - with urgency.

Across the couch from me, Rhys’ back straightened. I saw his breath hitch as his eyes flitted to the window in the door to observe the day outside. And then, as those same violet eyes turned back to me, a half-smile gracing his face.

“Well done,” he said, eyes glittering with pride, “you have made a good point. I think I would like to go out for a flight.” He stood to leave, the couch creaking as his weight was lifted from its edge. I could feel the cold metal return at the end of our bond as his wall went back up.

“Are we done for the day, then?”

“Yes, I suppose we are. Good work today.” He turned to walk towards the stairs, exposing the back of his tunic to me. No slits for wings. He must be going to change.

“Oh, and Feyre,” he turned to face me, his eyes half-lidded with mischief, “you may want to work on keeping your mental walls up when you sleep. Though your dreams are delicious to wake up to, you may not want to expose…” he paused, a smile cracking through his face before continuing “that side of yourself to just anyone.”

The heat in my cheeks was immediate. Oh, Cauldron, I sent him that dream through the bond?

“Don’t let it go to your head.” I clenched my jaw, trying to come off as ferocious instead of defensive, “It was just because your messages were the last thing I looked at before sleeping.”

That wasn’t as good of an excuse as I had hoped. In fact, it sounded like an admission to rereading our messages.

I got up, too, unable to meet Rhys’ gaze, as I stormed up the stairs to my room and slammed the door behind me. The familiar coziness of my room felt like the perfect escape.

My mind was tired from the lessons, but still I double-checked that my mental barrier was up. Settling inside of myself, I checked that that concrete wall had no cracks or crevices that someone could use to access those parts of me.

My entire body was flushed. My heart was beating so hard I could hear it in my ears. But, at the same time, in the depth of my stomach was liquid heat, stirring deliciously at the thought of Rhys experiencing that last night.

Was that why he sent me that vision today? As a nod to the dream? He was such a merciless flirt. I couldn’t even dare to consider that it may be genuine. Of course, he took the opportunity to fuck with me. That’s what Rhys does.

I sat down on the edge of my bed. As I did, a paper note appeared next to me, with Feyre written in delicate, well-practiced script on its back—Rhys’s handwriting.

I opened the letter, the page containing a single line of text:

I’m sorry, Feyre. Can I make it up to you?

A goading prompt. I didn’t even deign to touch it. The pen that came with it clattered on the ground, filling the silence of the room for a few seconds before the quiet settled over it again like a heavy blanket.

I spent the rest of the day reading. On the roof, in bed, on the couch, but I didn’t see Rhys by the time I went to bed that night. After the sun had set, I tucked myself into bed. Training my magic caused even my body to become exhausted from the effort, like I had just run a marathon just from the training time I had put in with Rhys. But still, I forced myself to expend the extra effort of fortifying my mental block.

~~~

Rhys and I are on the rooftop of the townhouse. I’m sitting in his lap like I did at the Court of Nightmares, body splayed over him, legs spread. We’re both fully clothed, but one of his hands has glided up my skirt. He is touching me in a way that feels so good I think I might combust from all the heat building. He begins whispering in my ear, telling me how good I am doing and how much he wants me. Every word from his mouth is another convincing argument for my lust to spill over. And then it does. I try to remain as silent as possible as my body tenses on him. The wash of pleasure is intense and eclipsing. His breath is hot against my ear, brings me back to this world. He purrs, asking me if I want another one. I swallow the dryness from my throat and nod. His hand begins anew, and that heat begins building again until-

I woke up with a start. Bolting up in bed, my eyes automatically honed in on my desk. Like I was a starving hunter and had finally found my prey.

My body was moving before my brain caught up. The room was still dark, and my eyes not yet adjusted; I navigated based on memory alone. I walked to my desk where Rhys’s letter from earlier sat, still untouched. The pen that came with it had rolled to the edge of the desk. My eyes had begun to adjust, and I quickly grabbed it and scrawled,

Were you serious about your door being unlocked tonight?

I held my breath, waiting for it to disappear. In my depths, I hoped it did before I decided to turn around and throw it into the embers of the fire still crackling at the foot of my bed.

The paper dematerialized from my hand right when the argument to throw it in the fire seemed to take the lead.

The next few moments felt like a lifetime. They moved impossibly slow, and in each passing moment, I managed to conjure and consider the possibilities I had not given my time to consider before writing the note: What would I do if he said no? What would I do if he said yes?

I felt the singe of magic in my nose as the paper appeared back in front of me, a new line added:

Come find out.

My heart beat so hard it drowned out my thoughts. Even the ones telling me I shouldn’t.

Stripping off my silk night court pajamas, I reached into one of my drawers and pulled out the smallest, laciest things I could easily grab. I put them on my body in a rush and walked to the door to my bedroom and down the hall before I could reconsider.

My heart paused as I palmed the doorknob. What if it was locked? Was I crazy for doing this?

Before I could convince myself otherwise, I cracked open the door, willing my bravery to last for just a moment more. In the mute lighting of the room, I caught a glimpse of him.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but black, silk sleeping trousers. He looked up at me with something mischievous twinkling in the familiar purple of his eyes.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“I can’t stop thinking about you. I-” I hesitated, clenching my fists by my side, “I want you.”

He stood from the bed, and I was dazzled by his form. Even with the goggles of familiarity, Rhys was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Seeing his chest exposed and his hair mussed from sleep, I felt myself swallow hard before I could contain the reaction. At that, he smiled and closed the space between us. One hand on my lower back and the other gently leading my chin up to look at him. He looked down at me with those beautiful, starry eyes. The points of contact sent bursts of light through my veins, pooling in my center into molten heat.

“Are you sure about this, Feyre?” He asked, purring my name. I watched as his eyes roved around my face, taking in my features. I caught the twitch of a smile tugging at Rhys’s lips as he awaited my reply.

“Yes. I want you.” I said, my voice deceptively confident.

“As you wish.”

His fingers guided me up to a kiss.

The contact was hesitant at first. Timid. Our modest kissing quickly grew ravenous, and I felt my hands begin to travel of their own volition, gliding up the rich skin of his chest and into his hair. My fingers navigated their way through his dark hair with remarkable ease. Like they had done that very action endless times. Like his body was my own and that I had been cultivating a familiarity with it in every moment, knowingly or not.

His hand had dropped from my chin, winding around my waist and pulling me closer. His heat, the feeling of his arms wrapped around me, I would melt in his arms before we got to the bed. My body acted of its own accord as my mind ceased to function: all my thoughts became dedicated to memorizing the points of contact, the feeling of him against me, as if I may never feel it again.

I knew magic was real; I could weld it, but there was something different about this. Touching with him, being with him, it felt outside of me. Created for me. Divine. Magic took concentration, cultivation, practice, but this felt like it was tapping into a part of me that I hadn’t even dreamed of being there.

Rhys picked me up, hooking a hand under my thigh to rest my entire weight on his hips, never breaking the kiss. My heels hooked together behind his back - at least I could possibly pretend it was for security and not just to satiate that need that was screaming from inside of me to bring him closer, as close as possible. After a few steps, I felt one of his hands come behind my back to lay me down on the bed.

I could feel his hesitation to let his hands wander. His jaw clenched in a signal of self-control.

“Please, I want this,” I said, finally breaking the kiss.

His eyes were scanning my face, double-checking that there was truly no hesitation. On his own expression, it was a combatting of lust and… something else. Worry? Apprehension? Caution? His mouth smiled hungrily, salaciously, while his eyes betrayed it, revealing that something else existed under the surface.

Like a cloud passing in front of the moon, he blinked, and it was gone. What replaced it was a look of unmistakable desire. His eyes locked on mine confidently, and it was a moment of stillness before he resumed the kiss.

But I could tell this time it was fleeting as he began kissing down my neck. He placed a languid trail of kisses on my neck, stopping to suck greedily on the area where neck became shoulder.

He broke the contact long enough to say, “Is this all you want? Or would you prefer I tied your arms behind your back?”

I could feel myself blushing at the remark. But my words caught in my throat. I wouldn’t say no to any of it, not with him. I wanted him in every way, everywhere.

After a moment of silence, the sound of his laugh washed over me like a wave.

The blush crept down my chest as Rhys's hands moved swiftly behind my back to unclasp my bra. His eyes, movement somnolent with lust, traced my now exposed form. After a beat, he leaned back over me to lick lazily around my breasts. Fire surged through me when his tongue flicked my nipple. I gasped, and my back arched into the touch.

He took his time with one and then moved to the other, flicking lazily and palming my needy chest. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I pushed him off my body and sat up, Rhys doing the same. Before he had time to say whatever vulgar thought he was formulating, I pulled him back in for a kiss. Urgently.

My hands now were the ones wandering, over his chest, down his stomach, and over the hardness at the front of his pants. I caressed the length of him through the silk, and he moaned gratefully at the friction. His breath grew ragged as I continued stroking him, soft but persistent.

Had I really never done this with him before? It felt so... natural. Easy. Being with him this way felt as instinctive as breathing or eating. My hand stroked up in such a rhythm of familiarity I could have sworn was innate. Where being with Tamlin or Isaac had felt like feeding an urge, it never felt like satisfying the hunger entirely. Even a kiss with Rhys felt pure, satiating. For him to be inside of me? I could only imagine the bliss of being fucked by him. A renewed heat surged inside of me at the thought.

"How do you want me?" I said, pulling out of the kiss.

"However you want to be had, Feyre darling." His eyes were glazed, chest heaving. Despite his attempt at repose, I could tell: Rhys was being unwound by me.

Without as much as a thought, I turned to position myself on all fours, the way I had been dreaming about, literally, since Rhys got back.

I felt him move to his feet behind me. One of his golden hands glided up the curve of my hip. He inhaled sharply.

My hands gripped the satin sheets, trying to ground myself back to my body as my mind threatened to give out after bathing in the cocktail of embarrassment and excitement that was flooding it.

Slowly, slowly, I watched his form move, featureless in the dark. He kneeled behind me, and I felt as, instead of his cock, sloppy, soft kisses along the backs of my thighs. Magic singed my nose as I felt my panties disappear, and I was fully exposed to him. For him.

His breath was hot against me as he moved closer and closer to my sex. I could have sworn I was quivering in anticipation. I wanted more. I wanted all of him inside me.

My words were slurred on the lust, “I want you inside of me, Rhys.”

I heard him grunt at the words, pulling off from my body long enough to say, “We have a lifetime for that, Feyre. Let me treasure every step of it.”

His tongue, broad and warm, licked languidly up the entirety of my sex. I groaned at the relief of the touch.

That sound seemed to awaken something in him. Something less controlled. He buried his face in me, his tongue undulating against me in a way that caused my knees to tremble and my breath to turn shaky.

He feasted on me on his knees until I felt my release wash over me. Again and again and again. Until I could not speak and could hardly move.

Only then did he crawl into bed with me, pulling me into his own body. I felt his hardness against me, but it was unspoken between us.  We have a lifetime for that .

He kissed my temple gently and then snuggled into my neck, pulling me impossibly closer to his own body.

“You don’t have to put your mental shield up tonight as you sleep. I’d love to get inspiration for the morning.” He teased in barely above a whisper.

I smiled. For the morning.

Sleep swept over me, and the day ended for the first time in a long time with an optimism of the day, of the life, to come.

~~~

[fuckmeyer]

Come Nightfall deleted scenes: Bobby Vinton

[in which Edward and Bella are listening to music in her room negotiating a deal to get her to the birthday party]

“What the hell is this?”

Edward glanced down at the laptop like he’d forgotten what he was doing. “I’ve embarked on a quest.”

Already, I could feel the tension melting out of the air. Again, I tipped back in my chair and looked at him from over my shoulder. “And that is?”

His eyes glittered, trailing down the screen. “I need songs that make me feel how you make me feel.”

“I’m sure there’s a song called ‘Stick In The Mud.’”

“I already added it,” he said, throwing me a wink.

As the singer’s vibrato trailed to the end of the measure, I leaned back further in my chair and roamed the ceiling with my eyes, musing. “So, what, you feel ‘Blue Velvet’ about me?”

“What’s with the tone? This is a classic.”

“No tone.” He studied my face. “It's just. Tony Bennett, The Clovers, Gene Ammons—fantastic ‘Blue Velvet’s. Out of all those great covers, you pick Bobby Vinton?”

Edward’s campaign to get me to like Bobby Vinton was about as aggressive as his campaign to get me to love Elvis Presley’s Girls Girls Girls. If he liked something, he tended to be unrelenting about it. And he loved 1950s crap.

He could never know about the painting I’d made listening to only Bobby Vinton. (Bobby Vinton Sings for Lonely Nights, obviously. It fit the theme of my life.) I couldn’t give him the satisfaction. Bobby Vinton was one of the least inspiring artists of the 1950s. I would die on that hill.

“What is your problem with him? You’ve never given me a straight answer.”

I scrunched up my face like I’d eaten a lemon. When he rolled his eyes, I reached out to him. The chair’s two legs slid out from under it. I squealed as I plunged to the floor.

Edward caught the backrest. His head looming over me eclipsed my bedroom light. He raised a brow.

“Oh, Edward. He’s melodramatic trash.” Edward let go of the chair. I yelped and seized him by the shirt to catch myself from falling. “Stop! It’s truth!”

He’d already caught the backrest again, grinning at my reaction. Our bare skin brushing together felt like fire had erupted in my veins. My head swam.

“The first line of your favorite Simon & Garfunkel song is ‘Hello darkness my old friend’—”

“No, ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water,’ duh.”

“Please, talk to me about melodramatic trash. I’m all ears.”

With one hand on the chair, Edward held out his other hand to me. I took his hand, crawled out of the tilted chair and settled into his lap, peering back at his laptop screen.

“Bobby Vinton is a total square.”

What little rift remained dissolved when I cuddled in next to him, when our skin met, when we melted into each other. No iron curtain. Just us, grazing each other’s skin and kissing and nuzzling, something second-nature.

“Bobby Vinton had more Billboard 100 hits from 1962 through 19—”

“You only like him cuz he wrote ‘Mr. Lonely.’”

“—than any other male voca— Not true.”

“So true. Oh my god. You’ve played that song like fifty billion times. You’re a sucker for melodrama.” The sparkle in his eyes dulled and a grin cracked over my face. “What? I’ve been listening to your fifties garbage all summer. I’m allowed to have an opinion.”

He flipped me onto my back and pulled me by the hips into him. “You seemed to like my fifties garbage,” he purred in my ear, “as I recall, Miss Swan. And I’ve listened to plenty of your six-minute 70s rock-operas, so shut your mouth.”

As if on cue, the dream-pop song dissolved into Elton John’s ‘Tiny Dancer’.

“Oh, Isabella, get your lips off me, for god’s sake, I’m trying to be mad at you…”

I didn’t stop nipping at his neck. Edward hips shifted underneath me; I could feel him swallow back a moan.

Yeah. That song was on our summer playlist. Back in an era when Edward was, as he called, “reckless with his boundaries.”

“Hm. That’s a good trade,” I mused to myself.

He was “reckless with his boundaries” when I listened to his fifties garbage, too. But I knew he’d prefer for me not to bring it up.

“What, listening to your crap music?”

“No.” I combed my fingers through Edward’s hair, twisting the locks into their usual wild shape. Pondering. Another little negotiating trick I’d picked up.

The fact that Edward knew I was plotting but couldn’t hear my thoughts drove him crazy. Anticipation killed him. Give him a mystery and he got huffy with impatience—another cute trait of his and, in situations like these, it proved very convenient.

Edward huffed.

My lips trailed up his neck; his gruff turned into a sigh. “So if I can’t bring up the change—”

“You can’t.”

“—can I negotiate for something else?” Softer, in his ear, I said, “Including but not limited to a kiss?”

My hot breath on his cold neck made him shudder instinctively. “Kiss, singular? I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten that request.”

“My expectations have officially hit rock bottom.”

“Quite the charmer, Miss Swan.”

Most days, I didn’t have trouble convincing him for one measly kiss. And one always carried on long, so it was really more like one and a half. If he had just hunted or if I had just said something sweet or if we kissed during a song he liked, we could push it to two and a half. And since two and a half was basically three—

By the time he leaned closer and pressed his icy lips to mine, my head spun with the smell of him; the spicy, warm scent on him intoxicated me. I wrapped my arms around his neck and locked myself to him. The hunger for more energy—more intoxication, more power, more of him—tore through me.

When he tore himself away, we breathed ragged against each other’s lips.

“I can’t discuss—that,” he said. “The change. Not now. Please do not ask me again.”

I nodded. My hands roamed the sensitive parts of his exposed skin, reading his reactions like a map written in braille.

Edward growled low and deep; it rolled out of him like a warning. I stroked the side of his throat with my thumb; his tongue flicked across my skin.

He continued in a low voice. “But if you’re hellbent on getting a good deal out of your birthday—” I chuckled softly at him. “—I’ll do my best to meet your terms, whatever they may be. I will try.”

I kissed his cheek.

“Be good,” he said, his fingers roaming down my chest. He took his hand away and it settled on my hip. A promising reaction.

“Okay,” I murmured.

He kept my forehead glued to his to prevent me from attacking his neck. His bare skin touching mine felt like someone was pouring effervescent champagne over my brain and letting it run down the rest of me.

We stayed there, holding each other, for a long while.

[agreeeeeeeeeee]

hiii <33

first i want to say that i absolutely ADORE your page on here, your writing is just wow, perfection!! i really liked your sirius story (even tho i strayed off a bit and started liking rabastan too ahahahah-) it's amazing omg

and i was wondering would you be up for writing for barty? anything with him honestly lol, but if you don't have any ideas feel free to ignore this!

SAY LESSSSSSS (I've been dying for someone to request Barty or rosekiller pls send all the requests). Also! so glad you enjoyed that fic! (I played myself and kinda fell for Rab too 😬)

I Wanna Be Yours | BCJ

feat. Barty Crouch Jr. x blackcat!reader

SUMMARY: Barty is determined to win your affection, but due to his larger-than-life personality and your aloof nature, you find it difficult to trust his intentions.

CW: MDNI 18+, smut, pov switches once, a little angst and a little fluff, blackcat!reader, artist!Barty, only soft for each other, mentions of drinking and drug use, strong language, sort of insecure!reader, Barty is a giant simp

AN: i'm having my scene music renaissance, and something about that era is so Barty-coded. I have a few other songs that suit him in my mind, but I'd love to hear any ideas you guys might have!

masterlist

“Honestly, I don't know what Slughorn’s problem is. If I want to make a love potion that makes Xeno hard for four days, I can—”

“Four days and I would die of deprivation,” Xenophilius chuckled, his arm draped over Pandora's shoulders.

“Sure, but what a way to go.”

You walked beside them, half-listening to their sugar-dipped conversation, equal parts disgusted and deeply jealous. You'd never admit it, but you so badly wanted what your best friend had. Devotion, affection, complete and total acceptance. But you walked through life like a spring-loaded trap, biting the fingers off anyone that dared come close.

“Should we grab dinner before heading to the library? I'm starved,” Pandora said, turning her attention to you.

“Sure, it's probably quiet this early anyways—”

“Going to dinner, are we?” Evan bound up between Xeno and Pandora, throwing his arms over their shoulders. “I'm fucking ravenous.”

Two arms looped around your waist, hauling you back into a solid chest. The familiar scent of clove cigarettes and paint enveloped you, as if you needed any clues to know exactly who had the audacity to handle you so boldy.

“As am I,” Barty purred against the shell of your ear.

You wriggled in his hold, slapping at his forearms until he released you. “Not in the mood, Junior,” you warned, ignoring the way your stomach flipped when you met his dark eyes, eyeliner smudged along his lashes.

“Aw, don't be cross, gorgeous. You looked like you needed a hug,” he teased, falling into step between you and Pandora, slowing his natural gait considerably. He snatched your books from your arms, ignoring your protest and cradling them against his chest. He was dressed in a white dress shirt and a Slytherin vest, his tie loose and sleeves pushed up, hand-poked tattoos sprawling and dark against his forearms.

“I'm fairly certain she needs a hug as much as she needs your dumbass in her space,” Pandora said, rolling her eyes. “Which is not at all.”

“Oh, she needs me.” Barty grinned. “She just doesn't know it yet.”

“Give it a rest, Crouch,” Xeno cut in. “Keep pushing her and you'll end up on the bottom of the Black Lake.”

“Oh, how exciting! How will you do it, treasure? Stabbing? Maiming? Choking? Oh Merlin’s fuck, please say choking—”

“Maiming sounds about right,” you bit, attempting to get your books back, but he was far too tall, holding them way above your head. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of jumping for it, and crossed your arms over your chest with a huff.

“You can maim me whenever you like,” he said, a cheeky smirk on his stupid, handsome face. “Will you do it now if I ask nicely?”

You ignored him, looking forward again.

Barty Crouch Jr. loved nothing more than fucking with you, finding the gaps in your armor and trying to pry them open. But no matter how attractive you found him, because saints was he attractive, or how endearing he could be in the in-between moments, you refused to play his game.

You would not be made a fool of, not like every other person he set his sights on and got bored with a week later.

“So are we eating or what?” Evan asked, walking backwards at the front of the group. Any student unfortunate enough to be in his path quickly scurried out of it, cowed by the Slytherin's reputation for retaliation.

You watched them shrink away from Barty too, who clearly got some sick sense of pleasure from it. He even bared his teeth at a Gryffindor that veered to close to you, flipping your bodies around so he was on the outside and you were next to Pandora again.

“I'm actually going to head back to the dorm,” you said, slowing so you fell out of line with them. “See you later?” You said to Pandora, who gave you a tight frown.

“Are you sure?” She asked, tilting her head like an avian.

“Yeah, you guys enjoy,” you said, pretending you didn't see the disappointment flash across Barty’s face as you turned on your heel, letting the opposite flow of students sweep you up and away from your friends.

The truth was, Barty scared the shit out of you. He was everything you weren't: outgoing, bold, rebellious, and just charming enough to get himself out of whatever mess he and Evan made. And for whatever reason, he was obsessed with pushing your buttons. And he did, with infuriating efficiency.

Pandora insisted it was all in good fun, that he was harmless, but you knew better. You saw the way he manipulated others to get what he wanted, the way he masked his calculation with charisma.

Barty Crouch Jr. was far from harmless, and even if he had his friends fooled, he would not fool you.

Barty's POV

Barty watched your head bob away through the crowded corridor, your books still heavy in his arms and guilt gnawing a hole in his chest.

Why couldn't he just fucking control himself? He felt like a noxious ball of energy, filling whatever available space he could, unable to contain his own impulses, a slave to his own existence.

He just wanted you so badly. You occupied every part of his mind, owned every thump of his wretched, ruined heart. He was irrevocably, intrinsically yours, but you couldn't stand him, and it was largely his own damn fault.

Because he was broken. Couldn't hold a normal conversation. Couldn't flirt in a way that wasn't deeply vulnerable, or obscene and intense. For Merlin’s sake, he'd begged you to choke him just now.

You were a fix he couldn't get, so he was suffering withdrawals from a drug he never had. He was going mad with it, the desperation for your attention. He would do anything to hear you say his name, to occupy an ounce of space in that beautiful brain, even if meant looking like an idiot. Like a psycho.

It was worth it just to have you look.

After dinner, the four of them returned to the Slytherin common room, Barty still carrying your books with a wrapped bundle on top. Every step towards your shared dorm with Pandora made his heart beat faster, a nervous sweat collecting along his spine.

Nothing made him nervous like you did.

Barty walked into the room last, his eyes immediately drifting towards your bed even though he tried to resist. You were curled up against a pile of pillows, surrounded by parchment and open books, your quill scribbling furiously across the page in your lap.

You glanced up when they entered, meeting his eyes for a split second, low-lidded and disinterested, per usual, and turned your attention back to your work.

The dismissal itched like a bug under his skin, his blood going hot and tingly. He needed you to look at him again.

He set your books on your desk and kicked off his shoes, flopping onto your bed before he really thought about it. It was softer than his, covered with quilts and pillows, and he noticed a little stuffed cat tucked away under your covers. He could smell you all around him, so sweet and warm, and whatever rationality he had left dissolved into goo.

“Who invited you?” You snapped, shoving at his shoulder with little success. A swell of affection at your pitiful attempt made his heart beat quicken, you were just so fucking cute.

He set the paper bundle on your chest. “Thought you might be hungry, sweetness,” he said, hugging one of your pillows to his chest.

Merlin, you were so beautiful when you glared at him like that. He filed the image away for later, mentally sifting through his paint collection for the perfect shade to match your pout.

You looked a bit perplexed at the package, almost angry, and his anxiety returned, fighting through the haze caused by your proximity. “You brought me food?”

He nodded, biting back ‘and dessert too’. He wanted you to actually eat the food, not throw it at his head.

Hesitantly, you unfolded the bundle, as if he'd given you something rotten, or was pulling a prank. It made his lungs squeeze with guilt. He was shitty to a lot of people, most people. But not to you, never you.

Your brow softened with relief when you realized it was just a sandwich, before quickly furrowing again. He wanted to smooth it with his lips, kiss you until it never creased with worry again.

“I'm not hungry,” you said, setting the bag on the side table. A twinge of hurt stabbed between his ribs, but didn't let his smile falter. He knew that's what you would say. And he also knew you would eat it later, when no one was around to see you accept a small gesture of kindness.

That was good enough for him.

You slid out of your bed, leaving his side cold, and he stretched out against your sheets, wallowing in your residual warmth like a niffler in a pile of gold.

The others chatted around you, Xeno lighting up a joint by the cracked window, but you sat down at your desk, turning back to your work and tuning them out.

Barty sighed, letting his eyes flutter closed so he could pretend he was wrapped in you body instead of your sheets, his nose buried into your hair instead of your pillow.

Reader's POV

You and Pandora walked arm in arm into the library, chatting about the idiots in your Transfiguration class. You were headed to your usual spot at the back of library, a collection of over stuffed chairs by a stained glass window overlooking the Forbidden Forest, and stopped short when you saw Regulus, Evan, and Barty already there.

Barty was reclined in the window, his long legs propped up against the other side, a sketchbook in his lap, quill between his teeth.

“Excuse the hell out of me,” Pandora said, startling them all from their abnormal quiet.

Barty's head snapped up, his eyes immediately landing on you, and he about fell out of the window.

“What? Like you own this table?” Evan drawled, not looking up from his book,his expensive loafers propped up on the table.

“Yes,” Pandora shot back, dropping down beside him and pulling out her books with clear agitation. "So if you're staying, keep your mouth shut."

Evan mimed zipping his lips and crossed his heart. Barty just turned back to his sketchbook instead of sauntering over to you with some cheeky quip on his tongue.

A prickle of uncertainty climbed your neck. Perhaps you really had upset him about that sandwich. You wish you hadn't said you were hungry as soon as it came out of your mouth, but you were too proud to apologize. You were so stunned by the gesture, so overwhelmed by his body pressed against you, his warmth mixing with yours, that you clammed up. Shut him down.

But even now, you couldn't bring yourself to approach him and apologize. Thank him. So, you sat down beside Regulus, the only other member of the group you found tolerable most of the time, and he greeted you with a dip of his chin.

You pulled out your work, determined to pretend Barty wasn't there at all.

Of course, you failed. Your eye kept wandering back to him, his sharp jaw silhouetted by the light, his pierced brow furrowed in concentration as his hand moved across the page, silver rings adorning ink stained fingers. He was dressed down today, jeans and Slytherin sweater, the collar of his shirt underneath it crooked.

After an hour or so of quiet, he dozed off, his head lolled against the window, quill dangling loosely in his fingers. Barty did that a lot, slept in unusual places at unusual times when the quiet dragged on a little too long. Evan mentioned once that Barty struggled to sleep at night, insomnia or something, and even the draughts Madam Pomfry made him only worked sometimes.

Unable to quell your curiosity, you got up to retrieve another book, brushing past him and sparing a glance down at his sketchbook. Your own face stared back at you, framed with rough sketches of your hands, your eyes, the bow of your lips.

Your heart gave a painful lurch, a burst of affection making your bones soften, and you nearly stumbled over the carpet, catching yourself on the bookshelf at the last second.

You hurried down another row, praying none of your friends saw you, and braced yourself against the shelf.

Did Barty like you? Like, actually like you? You couldn't fathom it. It didn't make sense. You weren't kind to him, or outgoing, or special. He was all of those things and more, the most fascinating, maddening, all-consuming person you'd ever met in your life.

Surely, he didn't see all of those things in you? But why would he draw you if he didn't see something of interest? Something he liked?

Fuck, you couldn't breathe in this stuffy library. You needed air.

You steeled yourself and walked back to the table, collecting your things.

“Something wrong, y/n?” Regulus asked, always too perceptive, and Barty stirred, picking his head up from the wall to peer at you through drowsy eyes.

“Nothing, I—”

Barty slid off the window and you lost your train of thought, heat scorching your cheeks. “Rushing off to hang out with your more interesting friends?” Barty asked, his voice a little gruff from his brief nap.

“More interesting friends? Not at Hogwarts,” Evan chuckled. “We're as interesting as it gets.”

“If you're bored, babygirl, all you had to was say so,” Barty hummed, striding up to you.

You placed a hand on his sternum to stop him from coming any closer, ignoring the flare of heat that accompanied the contact. “You were asleep five seconds ago,” you argued.

“Asleep and dreaming of all the ways I could keep you entertained.” He grinned, wicked and sharp, and the simmering heat spread to your lower belly, your heart beating fast.

“What are you, a fucking court jester?” You bit, unable to stop your arm bending as he pushed closer, the smell of ink and his cologne making your mouth water.

“I'm whatever you want me to be,” he flirted, and Regulus and Pandora groaned in unison.

“Will you leave her the fuck alone?” Regulus snapped, tugging Barty back by a belt loop. “She's not interested in your act, Junior.”

“Act?” Barty quirked a brow. “I’m dead serious.”

“Don't talk about his brother that way!” Evan shouted, far too excited to make the over-used joke once again, and you rolled your eyes. Apparently, the rare quiet time had come to an end.

“I don't give a fuck about his brother!”

“I don't give a fuck about you!”

“Oh, so you're a bitch and a liar?”

“I'm not a bitch, you cunt!”

“I'll see you guys at the party later,” you said, using their bickering as your window of escape. You all but fled the library, desperate for some fresh air and clarity.

If Barty sincerely liked you…did that change anything? Was there a way to know for sure how he felt? You didn't even know how you felt, not really. You'd never let yourself really consider it for fear of inevitable disappointment.

Sure, you found him attractive, everyone did. And yes, despite yourself you thought he was funny and sweet, in his own, odd way. And he was especially sweet to you. He never brought your other friends food, or waited for them after class, or snuggled in their beds. Well, besides Evan.

He didn't really touch anyone else either. But if you were close enough, as he often ensured you were, he was touching you whenever he could. Knocked together knees in the Great Hall, leaning on you during class no matter how many times you shoved him off, throwing his arms over your shoulder when it was cold, wrapping his pinky around yours in a particularly crowded hall.

Yes, his words were often obnoxious and bordering on insane, but his actions…his actions were sincere, thoughtful, almost tender.

Was that the real Barty?

Maybe you had been fooled just like everyone else into thinking he was nothing more than a joker, a rowdy troublemaker, when the reality was so much deeper.

Had you been all wrong about him?

By the time you and Pandora left your dorm room to join the party, the common room was a madhouse. Green lights flashed in time with the thumping bass, bodies dancing and mingling in every available spot on the dancefloor, a haze of smoke and glitter over their heads.

You were wearing a black mini dress and heels, held together by string and a prayer. Your hair hung in loose waves down your back, your eyeliner sharp and lips painted. You knew you looked good, lethal in the best way, but all you could think about was Barty's reaction.

Would he like it? Hate it? Or even worse, not even notice?

Together, you and Pandora moved through the crowd towards your friends usual place at the far side of the common room.

Of course, you spotted Barty first. He was leaning against the bar, dressed in all black, tailored trousers and a sleeveless undershirt. Apparently he ditched his actual shirt before you arrived in favor of displaying his countless tattoos, most of them done by his own hand. His hair was dark with pomade and pushed off of his face, glitter clinging to the sweat along his lean chest and shoulders.

He looked like a wet fucking dream.

Xeno let out a low whistle when you and Pandora stepped out from the crowd, drawing Barty's attention from Evan and Dorcas.

His jaw dropped instantly and with a dramatic flourish, he pretended to faint into Evan's arms, clutching at his heart. Despite yourself, you giggled, and Pandora shot you a surprised look through a gap in her boyfriends embrace.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Barty gasped, sliding out of Evan's arms and onto his knees. “Look at—baby, look at you!”

You flushed under the attention, your blood heating as it raced through your veins, but you just rolled your eyes at him, a new confidence blooming in your chest. He loved it.

You strode over to the bar, closing his mouth with a finger, and leaned against the counter. “Firewhisky?” You asked the student bartending, and they stared back at you, dumbstruck, before rushing to collect your drink.

Barty leaned against your legs, his cheek against your thigh. “What are you doing to me?” He whined up at you, feeding into your surge of confidence.

You pushed his head away, tugging at the roots of his hair before releasing him, and he groaned, a low, panty-melting sound. “I'm not doing anything. You're just insufferable,” you chastised, accepting your drink.

“And you're beautiful,” he said, sounding almost reverent, and you nearly choked on your drink.

“Fuck off and drool on someone else, yeah?” You snapped, overwhelmed by his candor, even though it was exactly what you thought you wanted.

Fuck, you didn't know what you wanted. And even when you did, it seemed your subconscious wasn't always in agreement. You had wanted him to drool over you. He was literally on his knees, but some broken part of your brain couldn’t accept it. So you pushed him away.

“C’mon, you simpering mutt,” Evan said, hauling Barty up. “I think I saw a kegger over there.”

Barty started to protest, but Evan and Regulus dragged him away.

“You should have some mercy,” Xeno said, leaning on the bar beside you.

“Oh?” You raised a brow at him, taking a sip of whisky.

“Poor prick is besotted,” Dorcas supplied.

“He's full of shit,” you bit, that panicky feeling crawling up your spine.

Pandora shook her head, and your eyes widened. “It's true, I’ve never seen him so fucked up over someone before.”

“He's not the obsessive type. Not when it comes to dating, at least. He loses interest as often as he changes his underwear. But he's been stuck on you for months,” Dorcas said.

“Yeah, he usually obsesses over like quill tips, and arson—”

“You guys are serious?” You asked, cutting off Xeno. “You think he actually likes me?”

They all stare at you, dumbfounded.

“You can't tell?” Pandora asked, grabbing your face and shaking you. “Babe, he's absolutely gone for you.”

“Like, gone gone,” Dorcas added.

“But it's Barty, I mean—he’s never serious—”

“Exactly, that's what makes it so obvious!” Pandora cried, exasperated. “I thought you knew!”

“Why would you think that!” You shouted back.

“Because he says it constantly!” Your friends yell in unison.

“He was on his knees, y/n. Like literally on his knees,” Xeno said, shaking his head. “It doesn't get much more devoted than that.”

Devoted. It clicked then, the signs you'd been brushing off, refusing to see clearly because of your own veil of distrust. Because you didn’t allow yourself to accept the truth out of fear. Barty had been showing you for months how he felt, and not just in his words, in his actions. Bringing you food when you were hungry, walking you from class to class, meeting your barbs and verbal lashes with a smile.

He’d been wearing his heart on his sleeve this entire time, and all you’d done is punish him for it.

Oh, fuck. How could you be so blind?

You set your drink on the bar and pushed through your friends, ignoring their calls as you forced your way through the crowd, searching for Barty in the sea of green. You found him standing with Evan and few other members of the Quidditch team, cheering while a fifth year shotgunned a dandelion draught.

“Barty!” You shouted over the roar, grabbing his wrist.

He turned, his eyes widening in surprise. “Y/n? Are you alr—where are we going?”

You dragged him into a shadowed alcove, slightly hidden from the party. Your heart was pounding in your ears, tears already burning behind your eyes. “Be honest with me,” you said, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.

“Always,” he said automatically, brow heavy with uncertainty.

“How do you feel about me?” You asked.

Understanding dawned, and Barty's expression melted into something painfully soft, painfully sincere. “I just wanna be yours.”

The admission stole the air from your lungs, made your heart freeze in place. "M-mine?"

“Yours,” he breathed, his hands finding your waist, grip tight as desperation filled his eyes. “Please, let me be yours.” He lowered to his knees again, his head by your navel. “I promise—I promise I’ll be good, if you’ll just give me a chance too—”

You leaned down and grabbed the silver chain around his throat like a collar, dragging his mouth to yours in a fervid, frantic kiss. He surged upwards, lifting you into the air and crushing you between his body and the wall, forcing air out of your lungs. You wrapped your legs around his narrow hips as his tongue pried open your mouth, desperate to taste you. Desire pumped through you, scalding hot and more potent than the whisky, making your head spin, your skin tingle.

You tugged at his hair, drawing him closer, and he whimpered low in his throat. Your cunt clenched at the sound, your thoughts turning singular: make him beg. Your tongue traced his lips, tasting beer and cigarette smoke, and you sucked his lower lip between your teeth, biting hard before soothing it with your tongue.

His hips canted up into your core, his hands moving down to squeeze your ass beneath your dress and grind your core against him. You gasped, breaking the kiss for a moment, and he seized the opportunity to pillage your mouth again, licking at your teeth and the roof of your mouth.

“Your dorm,” you panted, yanking his head back by the roots of his hair.

He didn’t hesitate, throwing you up and over his shoulder in a startling feat of strength.

“Barty!” you squealed, giggling and slapping at his back while he carried you to the stairs, his hand keeping your dress in place so you didn’t flash anyone. He couldn’t have made it any more obvious what was happening, and you found that you didn’t care. If you were going to be with Barty, you were going to have to get used to being loved out loud.

“Look at her ass again, see what happens!” You heard him bark, his voice a rumble through his ribcage, and you rolled your eyes, smiling to yourself as he carried you up the stairs.

A moment later, you were being tossed roughly onto his bed, the door slamming shut with a muttered alohomora. Barty crawled up your body, his dark eyes flashing with a feral hunger that made your pussy purr, and he dove into your neck with his teeth and tongue, making you gasp and arch into his body, your whole body alight with pleasure.

“Easy, baby,” you cooed, petting his hair to try and settle his frantic affection. Poor thing couldn’t seem to control himself, so worked up he was rutting against your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere, darling, relax.”

He whined into your neck, clutching at the fat of your lovehandles. “Need you so bad,” he groaned. “M’sorry, can’t help myself.”

You rolled over him, straddling his hips with yours. “I know, love. Just sit still and be good for me, yeah?”

He nodded vigorously, watching you kiss down his body with heavy-lidded eyes. You pushed up the hem of his undershirt, licking a stripe between the valley of his abdomen muscles, admiring the tattoos you’d only gotten glimpses of.

“So pretty, Bat,” you purred, and felt his cock twitch against your chest, his head falling back against the pillows. “Been wanting me this whole time?”

“Yes, so badly—fuck, treasure, please—” he moaned when you grazed your teeth along his hipbone, sucking the skin into your mouth to leave a mark. His hand tangled in your hair, rings cool against your scalp, and you released his skin with a pop, admiring the plum-colored bruise left behind. “I’m getting that tattooed,” he panted, dragging a thumb over your spit slick lips. “Swear to Salazar.”

You giggled, shifting further down to undo his trousers and finding that he apparently skipped boxers. His cock sprung out to slap against this stomach, rigid and flushed, a bead of pearly precum dripping down to his navel. Gently, you traced a finger over the protruding veins along his shaft, admiring him.

Barty hissed through his teeth, his muscles tensing to keep still.

“Good boy,” you praised, wrapping your hand loosely around him, pumping once, twice without any real pressure. He was long and slightly curved, gorgeous, and you couldn’t resist dragging your tongue up the root of him, feeling the velvety texture against your lips.

“Fucking shit, you’re going to kill me.” His fingers tightened in your hair as you lapped at the head, savoring the salty taste of him.

You looked up at him through your lashes, his head thrown back, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths, every muscle flexed tight. Fighting for his life to hold still.

“Baby,” he whined when you stopped, picking up his head to look down at you.

“Say your mine,” you ordered, hovering just over his cock, holding his wild-eyed gaze.

“I’m yours. I’m so fucking yours.”

You smiled and wrapped your lips around him, swallowing down as much of him as you could manage and he cried out, rough and breathless with relief. You bobbed up and down on his length, tongue pressing against the root of his cock and using your hand to stroke what you couldn’t reach, and you watched his soul leave his body.

“Baby, baby, baby,” he chanted, using your hair to lift and lower you a little faster, his control starting to falter as you pulled him apart. “Bloody hell, you’re way too good at this. What the fuck—oh saints. Your mouth feels like fucking heaven.”

You hummed in response, letting him push you further down, gagging on his length before he released you and you pulled off of him to catch your breath, a trail of drool connecting your lips and his head.

Barty groaned. “Never mind, I’m getting that tattooed. Right on my fucking forehead so every time I look in the mirror—”

You climbed back up his body and draped yourself over him, silencing him with a sloppy kiss, his tongue laving across your lips to taste himself. “Do you ever stop talking?” you teased, kissing the corner of his mouth, his cheekbone, his temple.

In a quick movement, he flipped you beneath him. “There’s one sure-fire way to shut me up,” he purred against your ear before kissing and licking down your neck and chest. Every pass of his lips was electric, a bolt of pleasure straight your weeping pussy, swollen against your panties and desperate for attention. “This dress,” he murmured, tracing the swell of your breast with his tongue. “Wear it for anyone in particular?”

“I wanted to see your reaction,” you admitted, gasping when his big hand came up to knead your tit, fingertips still a little stained from sketching. His rings were harsh against your skin, and you arched into him, relishing in his greedy touch.

“Sent me to my knees, sweetheart. Damn near killed me.” He pulled the top of you dress down, your tits spilling free, and he took one pert nipple into his mouth, lashing it with his tongue while he teased the other with his hand.

You keened, hands flying into his shaggy hair. Every pull of his mouth went straight to your cunt, making your hips buck against his thigh. He shifted to press his leg harder against you, letting you chase your pleasure, and hummed in approval against your chest.

The friction was amazing, buzzy heat spilling under your skin and making you moan and cling tighter to him, trembling with unspent energy. “Fuck, Barty—please.” You weren’t sure what you were begging for, but he seemed to understand you perfectly.

“Say your mine, treasure,” he said, biting at the side of your breast, and you yelped.

“Yes, Barty! All yours! Just please—”

He pushed two fingers into your mouth, silencing you while he shifted down your body. Without warning, he buried his face between your legs, licking and sucking at your pussy through your panties with an eagerness that made your eyes cross, your teeth sink down on his digits.

“So fucking sweet, baby. Melting like sugar f’me.” He yanked your panties down your legs and returned to his feasting, laving his long tongue through you before sucking hard at you clit. He slipped his fingers from your mouth, needing both hands to spread you open for his consumption.

Your mind was wiped clean, erased completely by all-consuming bliss as he practically mauled your pussy, vicious in his pursuit of your pleasure. His tongue fucked into you, the slurping loud and lewd, while he massaged your clit with his thumb. You dug your nails into his sheets, trying to stifle your screams into his pillow.

"So responsive, baby. Ready for more?" He asked, easing his middle finger inside of your clenching channel, curling against the gooey spot behind your pelvic bone that made you melt into the mattress. Adding a second finger, he started nursing your clit again, letting his dexterous artist’s fingers coax you open.

Once you were moaning, loose and languid against the mattress, he ramped back up, working your g-spot like it stole something from him he was hellbent on getting back. He dragged his teeth against your clit, soothing the flare of pain with his tongue, and you felt yourself draw tight, teetering on the edge of oblivion.

“Barty—oh God, I’m going to come—oh fuck, oh fuck!” You lifted almost completely off the bed as your orgasm slammed into you, ripping through sinnew and bone to consume your heart, devour you entirely.

Barty slowed his ministrations, dragging his tongue through your spasming pussy with long, lush licks, his hold tight on your thighs when you started to inch away from him, your body twitching and shaking as you came down from your high.

“That’s my treasure, so fucking gorgeous when you come for me,” he hummed, smiling against your skin, and nuzzled his nose against your clit while he withdrew his fingers, making you jump and whine. “Not so mean now, are you, sweetness?”

You shook your head, trembling and weak, completely boneless beneath him.

"So soft for me, hm?" He dragged you down the bed, throwing one of your calves over his shoulder while he swiped the head of his cock through your messy slit. “Better hold onto something, darling. You've got me at the end of my leash.”

You wrapped your hands around the bars of his headboard and he grinned, a wicked slash across his handsome face.

“Fuck, I knew you were perfect for me.” He notched his cock at your entrance and with a smooth roll of his hips, buried himself to the hilt. You both cried out, the fullness, the stretch more intense than anything you’d felt before. “I was fucking made for you, baby,” he groaned, dragging his hips back before snapping them forward, your pussy fluttering around him.

“Fuck, B, feels so good,” you mewled, rocking your hips to meet his thrust for thrust, the bed creaking loudly beneath you.

He used his hold on your elevated leg to lift your hips off the bed, ratcheting up to a punishing pace, making you scream and thrash on the bed while he fucked you with every ounce of desperation and determination he’d harbored over the last few months. His teeth sunk into your calf, hard enough to send a bolt of pain down your leg and make you cry out, heightening the pleasure radiating from your core until you were teetering on the edge again, every graze of his cockhead against your cervix winding you tighter, higher—

“Shit, baby, I’m gonna come soon,” he grunted, his thrusts growing sloppy, erratic and rough, and you could only nod. “Can feel it, tres. C’mon, babygirl, come with me. Please, need to feel you come around me, m’dying for it, please, please—”

You came with a scream, your vision whiting out as sunlight blazed through you, eviscerating every ounce of tension, trepidation, fear, and leaving you a beacon of light, nothing but giddy, delirious stardust.

“Fuck, yes, that’s it—fuck!” Barty came a heartbeat after you, the swelling and throbbing of his cock as he painted your inside white prolonging your release, wringing every drop of pleasure from you until you both collapsed onto the bed, chests heaving and sticky with sweat, the glitter from his skin decorating yours.

You reached for him, trembling and raw, and he gathered you into his chest, kissing your cheeks and forehead with a dizzying gentleness. “Barty,” you breathed, hands curling against his chest, too overwhelmed with feeling to say anything else.

“I’m yours,” he whispered, cradling your face to bring your gaze to his. “I’m yours.”

You nodded, leaning forward to kiss him, taste him again, letting the warmth of his body, the heavy beat of his heart, ground you in the reality of this moment. Barty was yours, and you were his. And you were safe. He wanted you despite your attitude, your armor, your callousness. He wanted you exactly as you were, more than happy to lay in the shadows with you, or draw you out into his light to dance.

“And I’m yours,” you breathed against his lips, and he smiled.

“I'll be right back,” he murmured, pressing a delicate kiss to your head before flying out of bed and wrenching open the door, his cock barely stuffed back into his pants. “SHE’S FUCKING MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNEEEEEEE!” He screamed down the stairs to the party.

A chorus of cheers rang out, reaching you from the common room. You buried your face into his pillow, laughter bubbling up despite the embarrassment scorching your cheeks.

Barty whirled around, a maniac’s grin on his face, and he dove back into bed, determined to stake his claim as many times as possible before sunrise.

Thank you for reading!

[bhajanmandalilucknow]

Jagran/Chowki Group in Bankatbahadur Pur Deoria

"Sargam Jagran Party" is the best in Jagran, Chowki, Bhajan & Sai Sandhya, Khatu Shyam Bhajan, Ladies Sangeet & all Devotee type program in Lucknow, UP, India. ☎+91-9919805315. "Sargam Jagran Party" has been conducting Mata ki Chowki, Mata ka Jagran and Bhajan Sandya from last 10 years with lots of memories and with great success.Blessing of God and Goddess is needed to overcome every rough course of life. Everyone should conduct Mata Ki Chowki and Mata Ka Jagran to get blessing and her devine power and all the needs to be fulfilled.

" Sargam Jagran Party" is very much devotional event organiser, as it is done with full devotion and respect towards the God. The work of the "Sargam Jagran Party" has been appreciated and acknowledged in many State Newspaper like: UP, Bihar, Rajsthan and Hariyana etc. At the very first place it was started with the same group but, now it has expand upto 30 plus people. All the facilities are provide which are needed to conduct Mata ki Chowki, Mata ka Jagran and Bhajan sandhya like: Singer's, Instruments, Sound facility, Jhanki etc. We are often called by the people again and again who have used our services.

Poeple mostly like to call us at the time of Weeding, Engagement, Birthdays, Anniversaries or during Ganpati Pooja and Navratri festivals and we promised to serve a memorable Jagran or Chowki. Working for over a decades, we are having the experience to make it more devotional and memorable when we organised it. Our party has experienced chorus group, vocalist, musicians and artists which are required to make it successful. Its main origin is based in Lucknow and we operate almost all the States in India. Pooja Sargam is the Director and also a Lead Singer of the "Sargam Jagran Party" organiser. Starting from the Pooja Aarti to the Bhog or Prasad everything is done by our organie team.

From last 10 years we are providing the best Mata Ki Chowki, Mata Ka Jagran and Bhajan Sandhya also currently dealing in the Lucknow (Uttar Pradesh) and to the another State's.

So next time whenever you are planing to conduct Mata Ki Chowki, Mata Ka Jagran and Bhajan Sandhya, make sure to contact us and make your spiritual experience more devotional and delightfull.

With the grace of God and good wishes of devotees, our team of Sargam Jagran Party are growing day by day. Now we can count us as one of the best Spiritual event organiser party in the UP state. Our Balaji Jagran very famous in LKO and Outer Areas. We have done a no of Balaji Jagrans most of the cities in Up and we got very nice compliments too. Balaji Jangran is the story of Ramayan’s Sundarkand where whole story is based on Lord Hanuman and their Lanka Visit. We organises the whole event in such a way that you can feel the event in reality with a lots of emotions. You will find yourself connecting with the God. Our Sargam jagran Team always take care our devotees on every single step of the event and organise the all things in such a way that you will find 100% satisfaction from us within your decided parameter of budget. So Please give one chance when you are making plan of Balaji jagran.

Sai Baba is one of the most famous and kind hearted lord of Hindus and Muslims both. Hindus and Muslims both religion devotees are bending their heads on Sai’s royal court. For such kind hearted Lord, we are doing special bhajan and kirtans or Sai Sandhya. Multiple places in UP we did Sai Sandhya’s. From a long time, we providing Sai Sandhya services to our Sai devotees in Lko and other cities of UP. We know that Sai Kirtan playing a very vital role in our Sai devotee’s life, they have special affection and love towards their Sai Baba on every steps of life. We always being take care of your emotions for Sai BABA. We doing all the the work that is necessary to make your Sai Sandhya evergreen or long term memorable. We have a very simple mission that is make the event very special for our Sai devotees and they can remember us for life time therefore we always sargam Jagran party always gives their 100% in Every spiritual event. We become one of the best Jagran party in the Up. So If you are thinking about Sai Sandhya so please once contact us.

Mata ki chowki represent the ancient culture of Hinduism society. Mata ki chowki means praising the stories of Gods life time experiences in the form of singing. It is generally sung in Sanskrit and Hindi. It is a devotional programme conducted specially for occasions like Weeding, Engagement, Birthdays, Anniversaries or during Ganpati Pooja and Navratri festivals. In Mata ki Chowki Short time kirtan is conducted in Mata Ki Chowki and it is mostly for 4 to 5 hours. Prayee devote their respect through their prayers in the form of singing. Garlands and Matajis bhet (red color chunni) coconut and shingar with bheta. After that Aarti is done by the devotee who has kept Mata Ki Chowki. Bhog Prasad to Mataji of Kher has been offered followed by Amrit Varsha and Phoolon Ki Varsha of flowers and petals. At last prasand is shared to all people who have been there as the samapti of Mata Ki CHowki.

[the-bar-sinister]

Lucifer Was an Angel As Well (48204 words) by thesavagesabretooth

catch up here

Summary: A sheltered young artist with a tragic past finds herself caught in the web of dark affection by a beautiful and sinister murderer, and his carefree rockstar brother.

-

September 4, 2028– 2:00 pm

Vera had been asked to meet with Simon Blackquill at the prosecutorial office, and right on time she stood outside of the door that bore his name.

She’d been dreading it. Not to insult Mr. Blackquill, but the very idea of talking about her emotional state with an expert gave her a bone-deep anxiety that pinged every nerve as she knocked at his door.

She’d heard of him– the legendary prosecutor prisoner. The man who mauled people with his hawk at the slightest provocation. Miss Cyke’s weird boyfriend. 

"Enter!" a sharp voice barked from within. She opened the door on a dimly lit chamber that looked less like a prosecutorial office, and more like the set of a movie.

There was a tatami mat rolled out over the floor, and several kimono– and several framed swords– hanging on the walls. The electric lights were low, and most of the room's illumination came from several flickering oil lamps.

Simon Blackquill was sitting on a cushion on the floor in front of a long, low table with a steaming pot set on a hot plate, and several cups.

He was an imposing man. Obviously tall, even sitting on his knees on the floor as he was, and scarecrow thin. He wore an old japanese style coat over his dark suit, and he had a barely tamed mane of hair pulled roughly back that made him look like a player in an old kabuki show.

Vera shut the door behind herself, wearing her recently laundered frilly ‘gothic lolita’ dress and her striped stockings again. 

She felt like a woman out of time, or at the very least, half a world away during the time period Mr. Blackquill seemed to have stepped out of.

Quietly, she got out her pad from her bag at her hip, and drew a smiling face and a waving hand to hold up at him. 

Simon smiled. His smile contrasted sharply with that of her guardian angel's beatific one. Simon Blackquill's smile was the keen edge of a knife on a moonless night– wicked and amused.

"Misham-dono, I presume," he purred. "Welcome to my office. Would you care to join me for coffee?"

Vera thought for a moment, hugging her pad to her chest before she nodded and inched closer while looking for a place to sit opposite him.

She thought for a moment, and started to sketch again. 

There was a large, comfortable looking cushion set in front of him on the opposite side of the table.

"I can find us some chairs if you prefer," he offered. ||

Vera shook her head, before she knelt down on the cushion before him on her knees. She held up her drawing of a hawk with wings outstretched and a question mark. 

He touched his chin thoughtfully and grinned. "Ah, you're wondering about Taka. He's become more famous than me, it seems."

Blackquill whistled sharply and a dark shape descended like an arrow from high in the room. The prosecutor raised his arm, and Vera watched an enormous hawk alight on it, like he was the branch of a tree.

Vera gasped, her fingers covering her mouth as a delighted little sound escaped her lips.

“...cute.” 

"She's very friendly," he said, reaching up to pet the bird's head, much to its seeming satisfaction. "Only eats a few fingers a week."

He smiled that wicked, mischievous smile again, and his eyes sparkled.

Vera jolted briefly, but her dark and serious eyes stared into his. She finally smiled, and started to laugh quietly behind her hand .

“I…hope he’s had his fill. I need my fingers to work..” She gave him a tentative smile “sorry for my silence.” 

"Hah! Better that you think before you speak than speak before you think like so many idiots today, eh, girl?" He held his arm out for her, and Taka the hawk with it. "He's had his fill for now. Your poor fingers will be spared if you chance to pet him."

Her thin fingers reached out after dropping her pen on her lap to try and pet the hawk’s head with a thoughtful tilt of her head.

The bird made a soft noise, and his feathers ruffled as he leaned into her touch.

“He’s very, very pretty.” she murmured. “Besides, I don’t recommend eating any part of me. Too much poison.” 

"I'll keep it in mind for when either of us gets a taste for human flesh." He nodded very seriously. 

“Thank you, Mr. Blackquill.” She chuckled softly as she opened her pad on her lap again. “I hope this visit isn’t too much trouble for you..” 

"Not more trouble than the endless paperwork my slacking detective leaves on my desk," Blackquill said wryly. He set Taka down on the table, and picked up the steaming kettle instead, pouring dark liquid into the two teacups beside it. "I'll consider it a break– unless you really try my patience."

Was he teasing her, or serious? It was impossible to tell.

“I used to be told that I could be a little…” she trailed off “...trying. So I’ll try to behave, sir.” 

He waved his hand. "Just be yourself. That'll do the job."

Blackquill pushed one of the cups of coffee toward her.

Eagerly, she took one of them and raised it with a quiet ‘thank you’. 

The dark, rich flavor of the coffee washed over her tongue without any sweeteners or embellishments. It was nutty, and fragrant, and Vera's discerning nose and tongue picked up floral elements. A complex cup of coffee.

He raised his glass to her and sipped as well.

She made a quietly satisfied hum. 

“...this is quality coffee, Mr. Blackquill…” she tilted her head “floral…It doesn’t taste like something just picked up off the shelf.” 

"One of my fellow prosecutor's special blends, in fact," he nodded. "A man of discerning taste as much as I am. I'm quite impressed that you would notice."

Vera flushed with a duck of her head. 

“My senses are pretty honed, sir. Thank you. I can pick up small details easy…it’s kind of why I was good at my ‘job’ .” 

"Ahh, so it's not only your vision that's so acute," he nodded. "How do you feel about that, if I might ask?"

“It’s every sense..” she murmured. “a perfect forgery cannot be created if you just make it look the same. It has to feel the same– smell the same, sound the same– have all the right little flourishes…”

Her eyes grew distant, and Taka and Simon became a blur in her vision as her attention twisted back into the past.

“The smallest detail being left behind makes the work useless. Useless work doesn’t get us paid…and means bad men will come for me.” She tightened her fingers around the cup “...huh? About my senses? They’re…fine. Natural.”

"Ah," Simon nodded. "So you say, but it sounds as though there's something more complicated at work. Would it be right to say that you've been used, in the past, as a tool more than a person, Misham-dono?"

Vera frowned slightly and began to draw again with a thoughtful hum. 

“You are correct, yes. My father saw my talent for art and …” She frowned and fell silent for a long moment as she sketched furiously. 

He politely waited as she sketched, watching her quietly and sipping his coffee. Taka curiously clipped his way over the table to peer at what she was doing.

Vera smiled, charmed, at the bird before petting the top of his head and giving him a sneak preview, before she got back to it. 

“Tool. Tool is a good word for it. Machine, perhaps. A forgery with the veneer of a person.”

She held up the picture with a smile. It was a picture of her, younger, bent over the work table and a partially completed forgery with strings connecting her to a system of pulleys cranked by the paint speckled hand of Drew Misham.

“Machine.” 

Blackquill nodded solemnly. "When I was in prison, I came to know a man I later discovered had been treated very similarly. It did deep and lasting damage to his very soul."

Vera’s eyes widened very slightly. 

“...to his soul?” she asked quietly, leaning forward. “...how did he heal from it?” 

"With great difficulty," he said seriously. "And with help from those who cared for him. Who understood him and treated him as a person, rather than a tool. I hope that you have people in your life who treat you as a person, and not a tool, Misham-dono."

Vera bit her lip. 

“I do. I have more than I had back then. Mr. Edgeworth treats me as a person…and Pearl is perhaps my best friend…and Trucy. Mr. Wright even if I don’t see him often…” Her voice dropped low “and ..and, well…”

Simon cocked his head. "Do tell. What you share with me won't go beyond this room."

She smiled weakly. 

“...the secret’s already out…but Kristoph and Klavier Gavin. I’ve been writing with Kristoph for two years now, and he’s only ever treated me like a person. Even when I was younger…he spoke to me about one of my few interests…and since my coma has been teaching me a lot about facing the world after what my father did.”

Her fingers brushed the edge of her mug as she took a sip. “and Klavier…we’ve only just started spending more time together after our…our occasional meetups had lapsed. But he treats me like a sist...he treats me well.” 

The edge of Simon's lips quirked. "It sounds like you're building quite the firm support network for yourself then. That's good. Kristoph Gavin– I met him while I was in prison. His brother, of course, is my noisy neighbor now."

Simon jerked his thumb in the direction of the other offices.

Vera laughed into her hand. 

“He is pretty loud huh? And he likes loud places…not my usual sort of thing, but he makes it fun.” She nibbled on the edge of her thumb “...you met Kristoph in prison? W-what did you think of him?” 

"I found him a very interesting man. An excellent conversationalist. A very different sort of character than the typical ruffians and louts with whom I was housed. A man of impeccable form," Simon chuckled. "And to think, he had more homicides on his sheet than I. And how do you find him, Misham-dono?"

Vera brushed her hair over her ear with a quiet laugh. She looked down.

“I care about him very much, Simon. I won’t lie to you. He’s polite and kind as an angel. Intelligent and well spoken. He has a charisma I can’t shake. Yet when I was younger and even now, he’s happy to talk about things I loved without judgment. He’s– he’s impressive. And he’s taught me how to care for myself, how to assert what I want, and suggested becoming a detective, which I’m eager to do.”

She wound her fingers through her hair, twisting it around her fingertip, as she continued. but he’s also the devil. He has…he has a way with people. He’s done terrible things in the name of his personal sins, yet I can’t hate him for any of them. ...after all, he killed my father, but it saved my soul.” 

She glanced up at Simon, whose dark eyes seemed to glint in the firelight.

"He killed your father, but it saved your soul," he repeated. "A fascinating kind of devil's bargain, as you describe him. Do you believe that some people deserve to die, Misham-dono?"

“Deserve is a strange word…” Vera murmured, looking down into her coffee ��who am I to deem what’s deserved and what isn’t? I’m not Justitia.”

She set the coffee aside and began to draw again “...but some people, people like my father– like the people who hurt your friend– like the people Edgeworth shivers when he mentions the names of…”

She looked up at him mid stroke of her pen– “their lives come at the cost of someone else’s soul. As long as my papa lived free, I wouldn’t be anything but an automaton. And they, the rest, likely all had someone or someones of their own who’s souls are wounded like mine.”

She held up her drawing– a set of Justitia’s scales tipping very slightly. One one dish, the rough image of her father looming over herself as she hunkered over the table in chains. On the other, a figure meant to be her and Pearl under the LAPD Detective Division’s badge, with Vera smiling in the light. .

Drops fell from above from sketched fingers tilting a crystal bottle and weighed the scales in the favor of the latter.

“I can’t say who deserves to die, Prosecutor Blackquill. I can only say I won’t cry for my father’s death…and that sometimes when a person is taken through death or Justitia’s gavel…another life is saved.” 

Simon had listened quietly and attentively as she spoke and drew, his expression placid aside from his obvious, keen interest.

"That's quite the nuanced answer, Misham-dono," he nodded. "I applaud your consideration and self-reflection. The great state of California, of course, believes that some people do deserve to die, and that it is the court's job to determine who those people are."

The death penalty. That was what Simon Blackquill was speaking of. And she knew from her research that he had been subject to it– and very nearly had been executed by it.

“It’s not an easy thing.” Vera murmured as she looked down at her picture. “Everyone is human. Judges, Prosecutors, Defense. I was nearly executed for a crime I had no part in…the death of a man who destroyed me. I never even got to hear my verdict when the poison took me.”

Her hands shook on her lap. 

“I wish…” She cut herself off and laughed. “I…wow, I sounded cruel. Sor–”

She picked up her pad again, and sketched out on a new page a simple frowning face with a tear that she held up instead of finishing verbally. 

"Sometimes a cruel remark can be valuable, Misham-dono. What were you going to say?"

“I wish… I wish someone had taken me away when I was younger. I wish there was another way…I wish Mr. Gavin did anything except kill papa. But not for my father’s life– for Mr. Gavin. He threw away everything in that moment. If there was another way to save me, he wouldn’t be in this situation! Maybe he could have saved Trucy from her– her abandonment– without blood too and could be here now.”

Her fingers tensed against her pad as tears welled in her eyes “...I don’t know if I believe some people deserve to die. But…” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to go back to the darkness again. I want to be a person like you, like everyone else. My father’s death was a blessing. Don’t you think that’s cruel?” 

Simon pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and he passed it to her. "I think that we can accept blessings, even if they're cruel, perhaps. I understand your earnest wish."

Vera took it from him with a pensive frown. ".....I suppose we can.”

She sighed and started to wipe at her eyes. 

“All I know is papa’s death allowed me to try and become a person. I’m not good at it…but his killer has always smiled at me and offered to help me find my way.” The paper crunched under her fingertips “is it wrong to love him for that? Or want to…I don’t know…repay him?” 

"Those of us whose lives are marked by death respond to it in sometimes strange ways," Blackquill shrugged. "I can't tell you what's right or wrong. You say you love this man– your father's killer. Is that right– yes or no?"

Vera twitched, but looked up at him with a firm conviction written on her face that matched the emotion burning inside her.

“Yes, Prosecutor Blackquill…t-though I ask if maybe you don’t tell anyone outside this room.” 

"You have my word," he nodded. "How do you feel about those feelings? Do they make you perhaps confused? Ashamed? Proud? Defiant? Something else?"

Vera brushed her hair over her ear. 

““Warm...like they’re drawing me in. But I also– I also know that others won’t quite understand it, so I know I need to stay quiet. The less you say, the less they can use ag–” She grimaced, dismissing the old lie her father told her to isolate her further from the world. She took a deep breath. “I’m not ashamed, but I know some people may see it as some elaborate manipulation.” 

"You hesitate to be open with your feelings because you're worried that people will question their validity. As if they would expect to know your own emotions better than you, yes?"

Vera grimaced. 

“Yes.” She wrung her hands together. “...I know how people can be. And I know to some, I hardly come across as a ‘whole person’.” 

"You're worried they'll see your feelings as a tool being manipulated, rather than a person experiencing and expressing their own desires. So you hold those feelings back."

Vera sank a little lower. Simon Blackquill really was an expert. His analysis was like a knife she kept trying to dodge, failing each and every time.

“Yes sir.” 

"Do you think that doing so will make you less of a tool, and more of a person? If you hide your true feelings, and perform the role that you think others will expect?"

Vera looked up at him with a puzzled frown. 

“I don’t know, Mr. Blackquill.” she tore at the edge of her pad. “Pro..probably not…it’d just keep me as a tool.” 

"Then perhaps if what you want to be is a person, doing so isn't the best course in the long term." He smiled at her from across the table and sipped his coffee. "Misham-dono, I sense that you come from an environment where any disapproval had to be avoided at all costs, or suffer the consequences."

Vera twitched again, and for a moment her father flashed through her mind once more. The criminal in meek clothing. The threats of the ‘outside world’ and kidnappers– the physical reprimands and nights without food or the few comforts that shack allowed.

“Hh…” she whispered softly, “huh-uh…y-yes.” 

Simon reached out and stroked Taka's head. 

"Indeed. But you must become comfortable with the disapproval of others, Vera. It is absolutely vital to becoming a person, rather than a tool who shapeshifts into whatever is the safest identity in which to hide. In the world you came from, disapproval was anathema. But here, in this world, the world of people– if someone disapproves of you, you can simply separate yourself from them and live your life. And if someone harms you due to their disapproval– that is a crime. "

Vera tightened around herself. 

"Oh.” She took several deep, nervous breaths as the advice sunk in “you..you sound like you’re speaking from e-experience. Or someone’s e-experience at least.”

She pulled her notepad to her chest with a bite of her lip “How do you get comfortable with their disapproval? I ..I mean, hiding it’s gone well until now, until they found the letters…” 

"The only way that you become comfortable with anything," Blackquill smiled again, and toyed with a lock of his long hair. "You have to practice. There is actually a developmental stage that most people go through where they start to practice this that you have unfortunately missed, and must catch up on. The so-called 'teenage rebellion' phase. You must do small things that you know people will disapprove of– in order to test boundaries and learn to draw boundaries of your own."

“Oh.” Vera chewed on her lip. 

“...alright uh..” Her brow furrowed in thought. “Uhhh…will I get in actual trouble if I send a slightly more ah…romantic? Letter to Mr. Gavin? Will the prison withhold it?” 

"Speaking as a former resident of the same fine clink in which Kristoph Gavin now sits, I can assure you in good faith that you will not get in trouble, and the prison will not withhold it. I often conversed with a number of prisoners who were quite proud of forcing the staff to read through lurid and graphic fantasies which they shared with their partners outside." Simon's sword-curve grin reappeared, nasty and amused. "So long as you suggest nothing that is illegal– they'll pass it right along."

Vera turned a vivid red. 

“Alright. I…ah.” she cleared her throat “that’ll be one of my first acts of ‘rebellion’. I’m certain it’ll surprise him…” She put her hand to her chin in thought “...and maybe I’ll dress a little less…less plainly too? This is my most ‘exciting’ outfit but most of the rest is…is what I was told was ‘popular and average’ “ 

"An expressive method of dress is often considered a good method of rebellion," Simon nodded in approval. "As you can see, I never quite removed myself from that phase."

Vera put her hand on her cheek with an amused smile “I think it looks good on you…why should you bother not looking the way you w-want, right?” 

"Indeed. I'm lucky in a way. I cared little about the disapproval of others before my imprisonment– and I care even less now. I am perhaps a good example for you, and others like you." He chuckled, as if in a private joke. "You asked me, when we began this part of our conversation– if the feelings you have for Gavin-dono are 'wrong'. This I tell you in all honesty, Vera– no feeling you have is ever wrong, as long as it is true and honest. You can take the wrong action in response to a feeling. But the feeling itself is never wrong."

She placed her hand to her chest thoughtfully, feeling the beat of her heart. 

“I see… You’re a very smart man, Mr. Blackquill…I..” she bit her lip. “I promise my feelings are genuine and honest…so knowing it’s not wrong helps a lot.”

She looked up at him with a smile “..I’ll be around the prosecutor’s office a lot more in a few months. So maybe you’ll see me looking up to your example.” 

"I'll be pleased to see you flourish, Misham-dono." He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table. "You're becoming a detective, isn't that right? And hoping to be the loyal watchdog of your imprisoned darling."

Vera flushed, brushing her hair over her ear with a timid nod.

“Yes.” she whispered with a happy smile as she finally picked up her coffee again “...I’m entering the academy tomorrow. At…at first it was so I could be in a position to do some good with my talents on the other side of the law…and to establish a life where I could feel confident in myself.”

She tilted her head to the side “...while looking for any evidence that could stay the executioner if they ever finalized his death date– but hearing this, getting the chance to be by his side helping him directly when he prosecutes…” 

Simon leaned his chin on his hands and looked at her mischievously. "When you put it like that, it sounds quite romantic."

She sipped her coffee with one eye open and a note of the impishness she felt with Klavier leaking into her expression.

“I think that’s what was worrying poor Mr. Edgeworth at first…because I…I think it’s very romantic.” 

"Well, if, in a few months time, you achieve your goal, and find that you need to manufacture some, shall we say, private moment with your charge– I may have a few tips for you." 

Simon;s grin was wide, and mischievous. Vera had to wonder if Mr. Edgeworth would have sent her to talk to him if he had known thai would be his advice.

Vera turned a deep red, her hand over her mouth as her joy practically sparkled behind her dark eyes. 

“...in a few months time, I may take you up on that, Mr. Blackquill…I’ve never been one to say no to a little extra wisdom.” 

[missamyrisa2]

What do you think about tickles with a paint roller?

I think about them every time I use one, or really any time I see one~

Her friends called her Genki Cat, probably because Catherine was always an overly spritely instigator in their academy - a pet name for this little center for adults to indulge in some low stress artistic activities.  Any time there was a prank, whether the fake worms in the paint or the covering wall outlets and sculpting lookalikes on the wall, she was always at the root of the shenanigans. But today would be remembered for when that distinctive jingly pixie-like snicker took on a whole new angle. Julia and Jules ran point, they worked themselves busy with their brushes supposedly crafting two sides of a large painting. Apple and November watched for the signal as they wielded their long rollers applying primer to the room's giant canvas. Just as Professor Nessa stepped out for her coffee break, a snap cleared the air.

"Paint fight!!" Julia squealed out, attacking Jules with her brush painting up her smock. Catherine looked over bemused. She thought this her plan, having suggested this project for today when she knew Nessa would be stopped by the tour of visiting college students. Jules faked an outrage, backing up to lock the door with a quick flip. As Catherine moved to start taking video with her phone of this paintbrush fight wherein the twins were covered in streaks of paint, she found herself squeaking. "Careful, Nova you got Genki all painted~" Apple purred, holding her roller on one shoulder. November smirked and stepped closer. "I don't know what I was thinking~" she spoke as the roller applied again, rolling up Catherine's arm setting off giggles. She protested, backing up. "Heyyyy the fight's over there not mee! And that's primer you goon!" Just as the pranked prankster said it, she looked down and realized the multicolor tingling her inner arm was not the primer, but the body paint. Panic started in just as Apple safely plucked away the phone and tossed it aside.

"Oh nooo no no noooo! You can't do this to meee!" Catherine was backed up, her long locks gathered lovingly by Julia and pinned as her body was pinned to the canvas by her studio mates. Jules was happily dipping his paintbrush and twirling it teasingly on her neck. November merrily lifted her victim's undershirt and snickered as Apple began rolling up and down the exposed twitching curvy belly. Catherine exploded with laughs, struggling while the painter brush circled her neck and collar and her tummy was crested again and again by the soft roller applying a lovely coral streak. The newly minted prankters took turns, with Apple pulling her roller back to reapply in the pan while November moved in, rolling a new coat over the bouncy plump tummy. 

Julia kept watch, but couldn’t help darting back, picking up a mini roller and using it to perform the edgework on Catherine’s sides up to her ribs. As the paint spread, more canvas was needed. Catherine’s white undershirt was soon lifted over her head and the tickly painting crew went to work around her chest. The mini roller spread tickly sensation over her girly mounds, the fine-point brushes of Jules and Julia ensured those cute buttons were painted up to satisfaction. Catherine blubbered with silly giggles, taking her painting as much as she protested it. 

The painting fight went on so long and Julia was so occupied now using the mini roller on Catherine’s waist for patchwork as the big rollers spun over a third coat, that they didn’t catch Professor Nessa reappearing. “Ahem.” She cleared her throat, a look of disapproval over the giggling writhing full figured topless girl against the wall, streaked with paint. “Looks like we started a new project, mmm?” She paced around the painting crew, and hummed, picking up the last big roller and gesturing to Catherine’s bottoms. “Well, then. Let’s get this human canvas completed!” 

[pretchatta]

REBELS APPRECIATION WEEK, DAY 2: FAVOURITE CREATURE

It was a rare day off for the Ghost crew. Hera had skillfully tucked the ship out of sight of Imperial eyes, amongst the rolling hills of Lothal’s grassy plains. 

Kanan was helping Hera with some repairs in the cockpit, Zeb was watching Sabine create her latest artistic masterpiece in the gun turret (“Non-permanent!” Hera and Kanan had both yelled in unison, and she’d rolled her eyes and groaned an “Of course.”) and so Ezra was free to do whatever he felt like.

And he felt like practising Jar’Kai.

With Kanan out of the way, it had been easy to sneak into his room and borrow (not steal!) his lightsaber. No-one was around to see him slip out into the long grasses, and then he was alone. He held Kanan’s lightsaber in one hand and his own in the other. With two simultaneous flicks of his thumbs, twin beams of humming blue energy swept out in front of him. 

Kanan hadn’t taught him any of the training forms for Jar’Kai, despite asking several times, so he made up his own, twirling the blades around himself. He imagined his Jedi robes flaring dramatically as he leapt and spun, looking just like the old forbidden holos his parents used to let him watch. This was so cool, Kanan only wanted to make Jedi training as little fun as he could, why else would he not let Ezra do this–

The blades struck each other above his head, and he was unprepared for the way they bit together. He managed to hold onto his, but in his off-hand Kanan’s twisted out of his grip. The blade retracted into the hilt as the metal cylinder spun through the air and vanished into the grasses.

“Karabast,” Ezra muttered. “I guess that’s why you need the proper forms for this.”

He took a step towards where the saber had fallen, but before he could get there, the blades of grass twitched. A loth-cat leapt out, looking inquisitively up at him. Gripped between its teeth was Kanan’s unlit lightsaber.

“Hey there,” Ezra said, grinning at the creature. “Did you fetch that for me?” He reached out to take the saber back, but with a sweep of its tail, the cat turned and scampered away.

“Wait, come back!” Ezra chased after the loth-cat, but it flicked his ears at him happily. Its eyes were lit up with the fun of the game.

“Oh man, Kanan’s gonna kill me! ‘This lightsaber is your life, Ezra,’” he said in a poor imitation of his master’s voice, “and I’ve just given his to a loth-cat!”

Ezra took off again, racing after the creature, but it stayed ahead of him easily. Each time he got close it would leap gracefully away before turning its head back to make sure Ezra was still playing. 

He tried every trick he knew; running at it quickly, approaching slowly and then pouncing, even walking away to see if reverse psychology would bring the loth-cat closer to him. Nothing worked. He was dreading facing Kanan, and worse, asking for his help to get the saber back.

Ezra watched the loth-cat happily curling its tail as it looked right back at him, lightsaber firmly grasped in its mouth. He could swear it was grinning at him. He could almost feel the creature’s satisfaction... 

Wait.

What if he tried to connect with it? 

He still wasn’t convinced he could do this, but by this point he was desperate. He closed his eyes, stretched out a hand and emptied his mind, focusing his senses forwards towards the loth-cat. It was smug, pleased that it had won the game to hold onto the strange stick. Ezra used this to form a bond with the creature; they both wanted the stick, and they both loved playing under the open sky. They were friends, right? And now that the game was over, it was okay for the loth-cat to bring the stick back to Ezra. 

He could feel the cat warming to him. It agreed with his logic, and a few moments later Ezra felt soft fur under his outstretched hand. The cat purred, happy to have made a friend, and Ezra opened his eyes and retrieved Kanan’s lightsaber hilt. That hadn’t been so hard. He scratched the loth-at under the chin and smiled at it – maybe it was pretty cute.

He should probably return the lightsaber to Kanan’s room before his master realised it was gone...

---

In the cockpit, Kanan sipped his fresh cup of caf as he watched his apprentice through the viewport.

“See, he got it back!” Sat next to him, Hera had her perpetually cold fingers wrapped around her own cup. “I told you you didn’t have to go down there.”

Kanan’s brow remained creased in a disapproving frown. “I’m still going to discipline him for losing it. And for stealing it in the first place!”

“No, dear, that’s a terrible idea,” Hera said, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. “The fear of you finding out will do far more to make sure he never does it again.”

Kanan huffed out a sigh. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I always am. And speaking of being right, we really do need to fix the proximity sensor, I think there’s a whole frequency band it doesn’t pick up.”

Hera leaned over to bring up the results of the latest diagnostic scan, and Kanan finally turned away from the viewport to give his captain and the repairs his full attention.

---

“Pay up, big guy!” Sabine crowed from her perch on the turret gun’s controls.

Zeb grumbled from the gunner’s seat as he handed over the last blue cookie from the packet. “I still can’t believe you chose to root for the kid.”

“Not for the kid – Kanan’s training,” she said through a mouthful of cookie. “Had to kick in sometime.”

“Hmph. Fair enough.” Zeb glared through the transparisteel bubble to where he could still just about see Ezra, who was now walking back towards the Ghost with two lightsabers in his hands and a loth-cat on his shoulder. “I just wanted to see telling-off he would’ve got if Kanan had found out.”

A cunning look came over Sabine’s face. “Maybe next time we can engineer that...”

[unholyhelbig]

Artifice | Chapter 10: The Escape

For previous chapters, click here | To Read on A03, Click here

The leather was cool under Beca’s fingertips. It smelled of oil paints, and clove, and the faintest bit of smoke. There was salt and sun all at once. She had carried the bag everywhere with her, strung against her shoulder. There were only ever a few cotton shirts, and pants that were worth well with dirt and blood.

She kept her sketchbook, bound in the equally fine leather, close to her heart. A small section of charcoal was folded into a cloth. It was hard to come by, nearly impossible, but Beca knew the right people. Emily Junk knew the right people. She pulled strings for fine clay and even finer parchment.

They were simple gifts, but intricate. When Beca’s stomach was rolling and the ship rocked steadily against black waves, she would sit and sketch Emily, focused so fully on the maps, the charting, and the stars that they followed. Moonlight would dance across her features in pale magnificence.

She kept the sketchbook, the one that reminded her of the ocean before she met Christian and felt the sting of his open palm against her cheek, at the bottom of the bag, away from Chloe, and Aubrey, and Garrett, and the rest of the prying eyes of the world. It was her solace. It made her sick to her stomach.

Beca peeled the bag open. She didn’t’ care much for folding the clothes that she had strewn across the room in her time at the Beale Estate. They had fit just fine when they were pressed and smelling of fresh linen, they would fit just fine now.

Sadness pricked at the back of her eyes. She thought of betraying her own unspoken rules as an artist and tearing the cleanest page from her sketchbook out. She would scrawl a note in charcoal on the back, dirtying the pads of her fingertips and forgetting herself fully.

Unlike her first night here, she could navigate the hallways that were meant for staff with her eyes closed. Stacie had pressed the lanterns hours before Beca returned from the pub. The wax had hardened and the scent of ash hung stubbornly in the air.

Moonlight flitted through the kitchen. She figured she could slip through the back doors into the warmth of the night without anyone missing her too much. Her throat stung with two mugs of brew she had downed to quell her emotions at the pub. It spurred her on, told her to press forward.

Forget the commission, forget the billionaire that had wronged the seven seas, forget his siren wife with hot copper ringlets, and fair lambskin.

“You’re leaving without saying goodbye.”

The statement had no infliction behind it. Beca felt her heart in her throat and her fingers numb against the strap of her leather bag. She hadn’t moved yet, hadn’t gotten past the threshold of the patio door. She hadn’t estimated how long she stood there, counting the blades of grass, but the voice startled her.

“I have to go,” Beca said.

She turned to face Aubrey Posen. A tin mug with water rested at her side, half consumed. The blonde may have watched her as she watched the world, those cold apple-green eyes. They gave her away as human instead of an animal, focused instead of sure.

A silk robe covered her shoulders, the lavender material rich, and rarely seen by someone of her caliber. The whole estate was like that, fancy vases and sculptures, and iron workings that Beca had seen from the outside, looking in, but never the other way around.

“You’re a coward.”

She scoffed “A coward? No soy un cobarde.”

Even as she said it, she knew she was wrong. Someone who didn’t’ shy away from confrontation would have kneeled in front of the woman in the house by now- they would have told her about the band of looters, and pirates that intended on storming her personal palace.

Her face must have softened and given her away. Aubrey quirked an eyebrow, raising the mug to her lips before humming in satisfaction. It made Beca’s skin burn and her heart prickle.

“Leave, then. Making Chloe suffer by contemplating your own actions is doing more harm than good.”

Beca hated to swallow her words twice in one sitting but found herself taking the remaining three steps towards the kitchens island. Aubrey seemed to tense at the movement, dry-mouthed and thick with contempt.

“It’s for the better.”

“For you, or for her?” Aubrey lowered the mug and let out a sigh “Listen, you being here… has been good for Chloe. I thought you would be like them all, the artists. They waltz into the estate with their oils, and charcoals, and parchment, and think that they have the world at their fingertips. Instead of painting her, they use her. And she lets them.”

“I understand your hand over her, Aubrey,” Beca said.

“Hand over who?”

The two women glanced towards the opening to the kitchen. Chloe stood under the archway, her hair caught the moonlight like the rest of the kitchen, but in a deeper, cherry-colored way. She looked sleep-worn and content. That soon shifted against her features as she took in the leather satchel, the swept way Beca stared, and the fingerprints on the glass sliding door.

“You’re going,” She murmured.

The shatter of her words cut deep against Beca’s skin. She felt as if she might bleed there, bite her tongue until she swallowed mouthfuls of red. Her shoulders slumped, her resolve nearly broke. “I don’t have a choice.”

“A choice… Beca you’re here to paint. Have I scorned you that horribly with my antics that you’ve given up the fight?” She scoffed “I’ll ease on the chase. We can start tomorrow>”

She turned and glanced towards the backyard. The moonlit the path beautifully towards the ocean, and the docks, and the fire-filled lights that reflected off the waves. If she searched hard enough, she could see Emily’s ship, its red sails, and drafting architecture.

Aubrey scooped her mug up and was halfway out of the kitchen by the time Beca mustered up the courage to turn back to the woman. She hated the weight of the two of them this close to one another, standing off with nothing but a few inches between them.

“Garrett has wronged a very dangerous group of people,” Beca meant to sound powerful, strong, and sure of herself, but she wasn’t.  There was a meekness to her words. “They’re planning to storm this place, to take back what is rightfully theirs.”

Chloe pursed her lips, frowning as she stared at the terracotta tiling. She had her own silk robe wrapped tersely around her, her blue eyes hard and unreadable. “My husband does not speak about his business and I am kind enough not to ask.”

“He’s robbing people, Chloe. Good innocent people.”

“Pirates.” She snapped back “the last I checked they’re the ones that pillage, and murder, and go entirely feral at the sight of a pint of ale. Garrett is doing this world well.”

“They do what they can to survive. I don’t expect you to understand.”

It came out harsher than intended. Chloe snapped her gaze up to the woman with such ferocity that it chilled her to her bones. She steadied her hand against the island, fingers white as they pressed into the countertop. “Excuse me?”

“Rich, and stubborn enough not to go with me if I asked you to.” Beca whispered, this time sure of herself “I know these people, grew up with them, love them. And they are more merciless than many. Yet you would stay to defend your home, your possessions. Your paintings.”

The words felt bitter against Beca’s tongue. As if her saliva had turned to acid. She would never speak out against the lady of a house, much less one that had offered to pay for her services. But Chloe’s world was sheltered, and it was close to crumbling.

“You never asked.” She snarled, taking another step forward, closing the gap between them. Beca could feel the anger rolling off her in waves. “You packed your things and were going to escape into the night.”

Her breath came out in a shudder, it pressed against Chloe’s collarbone, making goosebumps rise against her skin. Blue eyes flicked to her lips, to her jawline, and to her own chest heaving up and down. It would take nearly nothing to push forward and escape the space left between them.

She swallowed the hot taste in her mouth “Would you have gone?”

Chloe met her question with silence. Maybe the words were stuck in her throat, or maybe they had no place where they were to begin with. Beca frowned, fretted, and took a step back. Chloe could have held her there, tethered her to one spot. She had enough power to convince her to stand against Emily and her intent. But nothing was said. The silence dripped heavily between them.

“Give Garrett my apologies.” She said, “I pray he can find an artist to capture your likeness one day.”

Before the tears that were welling up in Chloe’s eyes could escape, Beca had turned, opened the patio door, and began to walk across the moonlit grass. There were clouds in the sky, prominent against the dark backdrop, covering the ball of light enough for her to slip through the trees that turned to swamp and swamp that stretched into an alcove.

Garrett had spared no expense, the jutting cliffs that dropped straight to the docs and choppy waves had a staircase carved into it. Metal for the same lanterns that lined the Beale estate was set up in sporadic intervals. Beca had trusted only her instinct and anger to get her down to the docks.

Emily’s ship sprouted with blue and amber lights. A man grizzled and half-drunk with the swells of the sea stood as Beca approached. He drew his sword with a slick sound of metal upon metal. The tip of the weapon found its home under her chin, close enough to slice the hair from her head.

“State your business.” He purred, lilting his head at his prize.

“Jasper,” Emily’s voice came from the deck of the ship. She leaned over the railing, having shed her leather coat, and her captain’s hat, simple and beautiful in the moonlight. The man never hesitated. “She’s fine. Come up,”

She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, running her finger over the raw spot against her throat. He could have easily sliced through the skin, could have made a meal of her before the night had even begun.

Beca scaled the rope ladder leading to the main deck of the ship. By the time she had reached the top Emily had a grin on her face, nothing short of pride and warmth. There was a subtle rocking beneath her feet that reminded her so fully of home.

“Do my eyes deceive me delicately?”

“They don’t,”

Emily furrowed her brow and lilted the woman’s head up with the curl of her finger, the opposite of the blade with her softness, and tender stare. “You’re sure about this? I can get you off the island.”

“I’ve already turned my back once tonight. No puedo hacerlo de nuevo. I wish to join you.”

The captain withdrew her touch, worry etched into her features, catching every spare light that the night sea had to offer. Her eyes flitted to the last remaining glow in the kitchen of the Beale Manor, entirely visible from the docks. Past the trees, and the hedges, and the swamps, she could have sworn she saw a woman, backed by a lantern, and forlorn with fear.

[sunnynii]

Screen Time

 Tamaki x reader

ft: phone sex, masturbation, whining, subby tamaki

(I couldn’t find the artist for this one.. if anyone knows please dm me!)

// tama find himself missing you while you’re on a business trip, a little more than he feels he should

~~NSFW below~~

He sat with his back to the wall, head ducked down to avoid the glare off the screen staring him down from his desk. His puffy lips quivered silently and his eyes glimmered, rosy at the edges from unshed tears building in the corners of his eyes. Slight movements were all that could be seen, and his hips bucked up discreetly under the sheets as his hand slides up and down his shaft. His eyes were glued to the picture of you on the dashboard of his laptop, imaging how you’d look up at him beneath those pretty lashes as you suckled on his tip. He could feel the whimpers building up in his throat at the thought, spreading his pre with his thumb. His breathing was shaky and he could practically hear the way you purred out his name, he wanted you here. 

All he had to do was pull up your name and call, all he had to do was show you he needed your touch and watch the way you devoured him with one look from the other side of the screen. He groaned and crawled forwards, letting his desires lead the way as he clicked. One moment, two, and then there you were. Your eyes were bright and your expression soft, expecting a completely different sight than what was before you. Instead of seeing a shy smile from your precious lover, you see him pressing himself against his headboard, eyes filled to the brim with desperation; sweat forming on his brow. His uniform shirt, usually buttoned up and crisp, now open and falling off his shoulders to show his toned chest and some of his arm. The same arm shifting helplessly behind his bent legs, all to hide the painfully obvious erection he’d been trying to work off on his own for the past half hour, but to no avail. The dim computer lighting let you see the way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth before letting out a small whine. Your expression turned dark and you smirked, teasingly slow in the way you unbuttoned your own blazer and top, reveling in the way he hungrily drank in the sight of your breasts spilling out the delicate black bra you’d put on this morning. 

“Well hey there baby” you drawled out, eyeing the way he shivered at your tone

“B-Bunny” he panted and licked his lips, his cock twitching in his hand,  “I m-miss you..”

He rolled his hips up and groaned at the friction, bringing his eyes up to your beautiful lips- you were toying with your bottom lip? God, the boy didn’t know what to do with himself, but he felt some shame and guilt swell up in his chest again thinking he was disturbing your trip. As if you knew, you mockingly cooed out his name and toyed with the straps of your bra to bring him back, just one move away from bearing yourself to him. He whined louder and mumbled out a sweet little ‘please’, expression lustful once more. You hummed and unclasped the flimsy material, letting your breasts free. He watched intently as you pulled at your nipples and kneaded the soft mounds, sighing in satisfaction.

He felt that need surge through his veins again and he threw his head back, this time letting go of all his anxieties and stroking himself freely for you to see, finally letting his legs slump down. 

“I was t-thinking of you all day bunny, spread out just for me” his pace quickened and he dared himself to look up into your knowing smirk, “letting me t-touch you anywhere” 

“mm is that so baby? what else did you imagine?” you asked, arching slightly for the camera as you reached up to let your hair free, tousling it seductively

“i thought about,” he whimpered and swallowed shakily, his breath coming out as low pants now, “stuffing you full with my c-cock”

At this you smiled and ached a brow, amused by his attempt at controlling the scene. This did not go unnoticed by your boyfriend, and he shivered, but he needed to show you how much he wanted you at his side. 

“I couldn’t get it out my head,” his voice shook, the pleasure overwhelming now that you were here and watching his every move. His grip on his aching member tightened to try and mimic the feel of your fluttering walls around him. “when you’re on top of me,” he licks at his lips “you always look so pretty baby, so ” he let out a longer moan, “breathtaking” 

You could feel the arousal rushing to your own core at the desperation in his voice, it was clear he couldn’t take it much longer with the way he was shamelessly spread and pumping himself to you. 

“Please help me bunny” he mewled out, his wrist twisting and faltered slightly, his tip the most sensitive. His other hand gripped at the shirt next to him on the bed he’d long ago taken off, needing something to ground him even if just for a moment under your sharp, hungry gaze 

With a stuttered groan of your name he dared himself to stare right into your eyes

“I-I want you here, I want you to fuck me s-stupid” his climax was right there, “I want my bunny cumming all over me!” he moaned out, the low squelching filling the room. 

You decided just this once to feed into it

“Mmm only good boys get what they want Tama” you purred, “do you think you deserve seeing me fuck myself onto you?” 

He cried out and nodded quickly, his tears now streaming down his flushed cheeks. 

“Please bunny I wanna cum so bad, I promise I’ve been good for you, i want to see you!” he pants and tries to hold out, feeling close. You tapped your lip in fake contemplation, enjoying the way he squirmed and writhed waiting for your permission.

You smiled while you angled the camera down and spread your thighs, letting him see the way your fingers rubbed your bundle of nerves. The strings of your arousal coated all over your fingers.

“You know what to say then don’t you Tama?” this pulled a final whimper from him

“Can I please, please cum?” the way he begged sent shivers of your own down your spine and you let out a wavering exhale

“cum for me” you demanded

That was the push he needed to send him over the edge and he came, groaning your name loudly and spurting his cum just for you. You watched it spill out onto his defined abs and chest, even dribbling down onto his fingers and you sighed happily, wishing you were there. Coming down slowly now from his high Tamaki sent a loving smile to his laptop and slouched, finally exhausted after all that. 

“Thank you bunny”

Maybe you needed to go away more often if this was how he’d react. 

~~

// I was considering on giving him a mommy kink but I think I’ll save that for next time