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hitlikehammers · 13 days ago

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so maybe steve strikes a bargain with unknown eldritch upside down gods in exchange for eddie’s life, what of it? ♥️ the hell else was he supposed to do, don’t even judge him ✨what’s a hades/persephone kinda deal among soon-to-be-more-than-friends, anyway?✨

✨future fic (because somehow steve signed them up to be 💫star-crossed-adjacent guardians of the seasons ❄️☀️ or some shit)

but they’re canny motherfuckers; they can make the arrangement bearable their own

(kind of.)

They’d been lucky. They’d been lucky that Steve had come back on his own to the boathouse that first night. Had talked Eddie down, made sure he wasn’t alone—held him, a stranger at best, a pariah at worst, and never once shamed him, fucking soothed him when he couldn’t fight tears. They’re lucky that the walk through the woods somehow short circuited any remaining shred of sense in him, or maybe shocked it into overdrive as he’d grabbed Steve behind a tree thick enough to hide from either of their compatriots turning around and catching it, catching them when he carefully—those bats hadn’t been kind—but a little bit crazedly pressed Steve against the fragile-rotting bark, where Steve stilled, stared, and then closed the distance between them. Eddie’d had his taste on his lips right up ‘til the end. Not even his own blood had taken it from him at the last. He’d felt death, though, like a limbo, a haze rather than a darkness, a liminal fog and he’d screamed, he hadn’t felt quite alone, even before a voice echoed: “We are freed from him now.” Eddie’d shouted questions long after his throat started stinging for it, before realizing the echoing voice hadn’t been talking to him; most especially when he’d felt warmth in inexplicable places in the form he’d been walking around in that he wasn’t wholly sure was even really and truly a body, but then— “You can’t take him.” Eddie turned, knew it fruitless to try to find the source but it hurt so bad because that voice was absolutely tortured, and it was— It was Steve. Or: of course Steve bargains with the ancient eldritch deity beings of the Upside Down for Eddie’s life. And maybe they end up some ill-defined guardians of the seasons in weird Persephone-style twist as a result. What the hell else was he supposed to do?

rating: m ♥️ tags: post-S4, everyone loves, getting together, magical realism✨, established relationship, future fic, of course steve makes a bargain with the eldritch ancient god being things in the upside down to save eddie’s life, what ELSE what he going to do?, don’t even pretend to judge him, eddie and steve become ✨guardians of the seasons✨, it’s a task they definitely make their own, very Persephone coded, fluff, romance, softness, let me repeat that last one: SOFTNESSSSSS ♥️

for @steddielovemonth day twenty-one: “If you remember me, then I don't care if everyone else forgets.” ― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

“How can you even stand it?” Dustin whines, his leg bouncing frantically as he tries to hide how he’s scanning the edges of the park for any hint; and sign: “If Suze and I—

“You’re missing him hard, aren’t you?”

Eddie asks it from behind his sunglasses—how bright the glare sparkles off the ice is the outward sign that it could be today, that it could possibly happen today; but for Eddie, there’s no need for the kinds of hints that drove Dustin to his door, bouncy and frantic, anything but the impressive computa-chemical-whatever-nerdy-as-fuck-genius-level professional he’s grown into, with his own mini-brood of Hendersons, no: he’s immediately fifteen years old again asking Maybe today, could he maybe come today, is it close enough, like, not on the calendar but sometimes he shows up unexpected, right, so maybe today—

It would be unexpected; it’s late January. Far too early, by rights. But again: Eddie doesn’t need any outward signs.

Ever since it started, ever since the deal was struck with powers beyond their ken, with sense beyond their grasp or even want of it: they’d neither of them wanted sense if it could have cost them the chance at this, it’s just—

It’s hard, still. Easier every year but: hard. Eddie thinks it’ll always be hard. He loves too deep, like this, for even a breath without to be less than a tiny agony.

But fuck if he’d trade it for anything.

Eddie’d had his taste on his lips right up ‘til the end. Not even his own blood had taken it from him at the last.

He’d felt death, though, like a limbo, a haze rather than a darkness, a liminal fog and he’d screamed, he hadn’t felt quite alone, even before a voice echoed:

“We are freed from him now.”

Eddie’d shouted questions long after his throat started stinging for it, before realizing the echoing voice hadn’t been talking to him; most especially when he’d felt warmth in inexplicable places in the form he’d been walking around in that he wasn’t wholly sure was even really and truly a body, but then—

“You can’t take him.”

Eddie turned, knew it fruitless to try to find the source but it hurt so bad because that voice was absolutely tortured, and it was—

It was Steve.

It was Steve and Eddie recognized the warmth, then: his body on the ground being cradled close so his still-cold chest touched a living one, arms around him, and he’d reached with his own version of a hand to trace the feeling.

“We killed Vecna, we set you free. You cannot take him.”

Oh, Steve.

Eddie was right, in all that he’d wondered if he was being fucking insane even by his measure, to think he could love this man, maybe even already was a little by the time they’d parted ways. But after what he hears?

And then piecing it all together, Steve fighting something that trembled otherworldly in the air for the sake of keeping Eddie like Eddie was worth it. Like Steve cared that much.

Time passed, and then the voice had come through clearer; something shook in Eddie’s chest like an echo, and the sick taunt of a pulse to a corpse:

“This nature has been perverted. Abused. It has been tied for purposes indefensible and profane to another realm. You will take guardianship of the tempers of your dimension, in exchange.”

Eddie’d been pretty fucking sure that the words had meant as little to Steve as they had to Eddie himself, but Steve hadn’t let more than a second pass before he was all in:

“Done.”

And Eddie had gasped in a breath more painful than he’d recalled death being in the first place, save that this time it’s soothed by the way he blinks to waking with Steve’s hands on his face, fingers trailing to his neck to check his pulse thrown back to racing—mostly?

Just…Eddie’s coming to find that most things are soothed, made bearable by the fact of Steve Harrington.

Back to the point though: since the very beginning, opening his eyes when he thought he’d never do something so mundane, so human, so alive even again, and to the sight of an angel’s face at that, tear-streaked and staring at him and him alone: Eddie didn’t need tangible proof to know, coiled and warm behind his sternum, that change was on the air.

And they’d both absorbed the terms spoken only to them—a fact they later discovered, annoyingly, in trying to explain to everyone else—that they were in charge of keeping watch of the seasons, and naturally, then, they’d be apart for the work of it most of the year. Steve watching summer, Eddie manning winter—save for the middle-grounds; the overlaps inside the ends of autumn and the beginnings of spring—windows they’d know innately, though how?

Fuck if they understood the mechanics of it all.

It was heartbreak. It was a miracle.

They would have until that year’s autumn equinox to prepare for…for maybe always.

“Like Hades and Persephone,” Robin had said, horrified and marveling in equal measure, gripping hard to Steve’s hand.

“Seems worse, though,” Dustin had chimed in—typical. “Like it’d be less time, depending on what counts as overlap.”

Eddie and Steve had…not disagreed. And had made the most of the embers of what they’d started to feel in the boathouse, in the Upside Down: they leapt without looking, and fell fast—the way Steve did too often, but never like this before; the way Eddie had quietly daydreamed about every so often, all the while knowing it could never be for him.

Eddie—then to now—doesn’t think anyone ever expected the thing they make for themselves, for each other, in those scant months, when they imbued so much, trusted hearts and souls to a word as small as love.

And when the time came, and they parted—they were neither of them ever unoccupied, they realized quick, Steve feeling physically pulled across the fucking equator all the stronger by the day: but when the time came?

Dying hurt worse. Eddie swears it without a fucking ounce of doubt in him, no hesitation.

It’d been a bleak fucking season.

But they’d both known their share adversities, if dressed up different across time. They weren’t…they mourned, for a little while.

But then Eddie, in the dead of his own winter, found a bright bouquet of fresh wildflowers he’d never seen before his doorstep, from fields he’d never set foot upon.

He can remember, just in closing his eyes and breathing in, how his heart had leapt; had hoped, and he’d—

“Why can’t we take a day?”

Eddie can hold his breath and relive it right now, just how that voice had stolen the air from his lungs as he’d stood just past the solstice, so much time left before he could even hope to see the other half of his fucking heart—how he’d spun toward the sound of it but was dizzy already before he moved a single inch, how he’d slowed the distance and crashed into Steve’s waiting arms, the steady strength of his welcoming chest with enough force to shake his own heart into beating with real gusto, with an intent he hadn’t realized so so dimmed, maybe wholly snuffed out in these months without.

He hadn’t questioned the how—plane, just a plane on the credit card he still had from his dad’s account, probably a one-time opportunity but worth it, more than, and proof that they could split the difference of the time, they could find ways, make money, spend all of it on how they needed each other now just to be able to breathe right.

“We have to keep the bargain,” Steve had always held, the steel in his gaze something Eddie knew in his bones not to question even at the start, especially not when it was followed by the kinds of kisses that convinced Eddie that a human soul was a real thing, for how it got teased from his throat, tongue to tongue.

“That can’t possibly mean there isn’t any,” Steve had gasped, just as sure and unwavering, but the steel giving way to a neediness, a softer resolve, if still just as unshakable: “any flexibility.”

Eddie couldn’t have agreed more.

And it hadn’t been easy, especially not out the gate; but they’d learned. They’d both left tokens, Steve leaving flowers, Eddie bringing holly and pine, surprising Steve on hot days with icy hands on his shoulders when he packed snow in a cooler just for the sake of the bit; Dustin had found out further into their working through a balance and had declared that—

“That’s like,” he’d frowned, less from distaste and more from actually to puzzle out something unexplainable: “long-distance flirting but, metaphysical? Meteorological?”

Eddie had been the one to hear that dedication with his own ears and had felt distaste, forbade Dustin on the spot from speculating before he got to—

“Primal-magic phone-sex on steroids,” Dustin had muttered himself and yep. That.

Before he got to that.

He’d shared it with Steve, who was as entertained and appalled as Eddie in fairly equal measures, but had made a point come his own time in Indiana again to impress, in no uncertain terms, that Dustin needed to shut his fucking trap about his and Eddie’s love life, lest Steve cause the temperature of his petri dishes to unfortunately shift by half a degree and spoil his weird ass mold experiment.

That’d been a pretty effective threat, even if Steve wasn’t actually capable of delivering on it without the aid of fire.

Which he wasn’t above employing.

Regardless—

They’d worked hard, built slow, and as they learned that the only cost that time seemed to extract from either of them was missing one another worse than a limb, they had the time to invest in something lasting.

They never let another season pass where they saw nothing of each other, ever again.

Now, though.

Now, they have it down to an art. Eddie makes music—has had all the time in the world to wait until the right someone hears and understands what he’s saying in the notes, and he does. Steve teaches at a community college, flexible enough for his real job, and funnily enough—gorgeouslyenough—sells flowers. Invests, here and there, because it was one thing his father had drilled him into knowing enough about before giving up on him as a lost cause. He picks underdogs, mostly because they’re cheap and the very idea of not spites everything his father stood for. Expected of him that was all so far from everything Steve is.

A couple of those underdogs make them a pretty fucking penny. It makes their ongoing trial-and-error of how to do their jobs—to maintain their end of the agreement, to the minimum viable product, and love on each other to the maximum possible extent in every interim possible—it makes the experimenting of it all easier; quicker.

It has to cut the hurting time in half, at the very least.

They never do hear directly from those voices again, the ones who struck their bargain—but they can feel direction, displeasure, satisfaction. They know they’re kept watch of, in the same way they both somehow know how, and what to keep watch of in doing the work for themselves: they don’t change things, can’t change thing; they’re not…powerful, not that way, just some degree of timeless, ageless—which is a whole other hill to climb, and cross to bear, especially when Steve sees Robin, is part of why they made the exception that is Robin; but then increasingly when either of them see the kids, and now the kids with their own kids—but.

They learn that the winds, the magnetic poles, fucking nature magic: it pushes them when their traveling aligns with the seasonal shifts, rather than their own desires—those have racked them up significant benefits from frequent flyer miles—but if they’re pulled by their callings, the callings they can fucking feel—they could fight it. But if they’re give in to it, assent to it, they can blink and end up where they’re meant to be.

Trippy. But kinda cool.

(Would be way cooler if it’s was just straight-up teleportation but: still neat.)

They’ll feel off a day or two, queasy before they overstay their hemisphere, their season outside the natural overlaps. They both of them push it by design, by their own nature—they come to suspect the powers that entrusted them with this, gifted and cursed with this task while blessing them with each other: they think those entities appreciate their commitment to the task alongside, second only to their commitment to each other. They both assume those eldritch gods are responsible for the minor barometric oddities that crop up if they push the limits too far, not-so-subtle nudges back to what they promised; what they’re bound to.

And Steve never lets them push too far, too afraid even after all this time to risk the bargain being taken back, rendered void, quite literally; Eddie, who never shared that sense of preservation regarding his own self, sure as shit shares it tenfold when applied to what he shares with Steve so: he never argues.

He cuddles Steve harder those last days, always, because while he knows they could have languished an eternity literally split from one another for half a year at least, for always, the way he’s grown to feel differently, to gauge time both as shorter and longer and inconsequential depending on the context: it all fades away against the backdrop of how much bigger his love is, and how an hour is a day and the fortnights are a century in his chest, nonetheless.

But as time passes, as the world changes and technology shifts and he can call Steve easier, he can hear his voice, then when webcams came around—it got better. It gets better all the time.

But still: he always feels less whole, whenever either of them has to leave, no matter for how long.

“Shut up,” Dustin shakes him back to the present with the snippy tone he shoots Eddie’s way—some things truly never change—but Eddie honestly doesn’t remember what the fuck either of them had said, but then he glances over and—

Ah. Still staring at the trees. Waiting.

“Think about how Robin feels,” and it’s a little disingenuous, seeing as Robin sees more of Steve than any of them, but Eddie means it as a sympathy. A commiseration.

Dustin scoffs.

“Maybe Robin flaunts that whole capital ‘P’ platonic soulmate thing left and goddamn right,” he bites out with narrowed eyes; “but that’s my fucking brother—“

“You’ll get to see him all the time, all summer long, shithead,” Eddie flicks his ear fondly—Dustin squawks and again, it’s refreshing. No matter how old they might look in comparison now, they’re still who they’ve always been to each other.

And yes, Steve’s still his brother. Steve didn’t forgetthat, never had for a second. And Eddie’s spent all winter with Dustin and Suzie and their munchkins—Steve’s gonna lose it to see how much they’ve grown in just a few months. Eddie’s excited for it, will go straight there with them if that’s what Dustin wants, will understand if Dustin would rather some one-on-one first, this surprised out-of-season visit quite possibly a fleeting one. Eddie gets it, he’ll—

“But these are the only times I get both of you,” Dustin trains his eyes on the trees more intently, now—less to avoid looking elsewhere than to seek out what might comes out from them; “together.”

Eddie’s throat tightens a little. He won’t pretend it doesn’t swell his heart the way it does to hear it.

He swallows, clears his throat, and tries his damnedest to not trample prominent but also not actually fall into the amount of feeling that’s behind the admission, all the history inside it. He’s never been good at that shit.

Except with Steve.

“It is earlier than usual,” Eddie comments, tries to make it encouraging; “that global warming thing, think we’re both gonna start to linger longer in the overlay as a rule,” Dustin frowns and yeah, okay, maybe that part’s less encouraging.

“Might end up sucking hardcore for you guys, though,” he adds, a little sheepish. “Sorry, man.”

Because seriously: he and Steve, they don’t make the seasons. Just watch over them, as best they can. Conduits for whatever the Upside Down really is—they still haven’t ever understood the powers that had receded under Vecna and returned to make them as them are, and frankly, they don’t mind overmuch, so long as whatever that power isallows for the life they lead that, they’d never had had a chance at otherwise—but they’re mostly messengers. They can’t…fix, what’s looking like it’s happening. And the buzz they both feel from the power that made them this way is concerned, but in a distant way. Like hearing sad story about another life, a century removed from yours.

“We’re working on that,” Dustin says and, yeah. Eddie’s pretty sure somewhere in Dustin’s massive government lab of geniuses, they are. Fuck? But he’s so proud of his little sheepie, all grown up.

And then there’s how Steve feels—

“Hmm,” Eddie hums as he nods; “plus the overlap will work down south, too, so,” he muses, pulls his with his hair across his mouth the way apparent immortality never knocked out of him.

“Down south?”

Oh. Right. Oops.

They don’t flaunt how they’ve made the most of the flexibility—or those long shot investments—and perfected a schedule to live more like businessmen with long company trips every few weeks than quasi-magical beings who traded death for this, and made out so much more the richer. It’s not that they don’t love everyone, the kids, their families, the Party at large. As he made a point to notdivulge before: Robin is the only one who knows, because of course she does, but they keep houses in both halves of the world, not sprawling but not modest, comfortable and welcoming to the two of them plus one occasional platonic soulmate. They can each of them stretch their time away from their own season to near two weeks—it’s too disruptive to switch straight back with whoever is leaving their current home-turf just just returning with a stowaway, they have to rebalance for another two weeks but then, if they switch, of Eddie visits first, they wait, and then Steve makes the journey next? It holds.

And so they do exactly that.

They’re just…Steve committed them to a fantasy life, the bargains of a Labyrinth crossed with the whimsy of the fae, he’d done it without question just to save Eddie’s fucking life, okay, so it can’t be a fucking surprise that when they fell whole-heart in love, it got a little co-dependent.

Eddie actually fucking adores that about them, and Steve does, too—it’s everything they missed out on in the first part of their lives, and ached for worse than they’d realized until the space was filled, then overflowed; now they get to have it in spades, and forever.

“Oh, just musing about the state of the mortal coil,” Eddie rolls his head over to Dustin to give him an answer, even if it’s not a whole one—if he told him the full story of just how often they see each other, he’d absolutely push his way into what Eddie needs as just for him. Maybe it’s selfish.

But Eddie’s not wholly human anymore, so far as he can tell, so he’s gonna just lean into that’s a limitation no longer relevant to my being argument.

He’s honestly grown pretty fond of that argument.

“Fuck off, man,” Dustin shoves him, more than used to giving him shit when he plays high-and-mighty for serving as co-chief chronicler of the weather and still looking 20.

“Let me see him,” Eddie’s voice slips serious, because his heartburn thumping, his nerves are shivering, it doesn’t fucking matter that the two weeks apart has only been two weeks—the same senses heightened to feel his other half approaching on the breeze more than on a round trip ticket: it heightens everything.

And there is something special, unique, in the first natural shift where Steve gets to step into Eddie’s space and be held tight in Eddie’s arms because the seasons will it, because their bargain holds and keeps them.

“Just let me see him for a bit on my own,” Eddie turns to Dustin, pleading him to stay put on the bench where they’ve been waiting, Eddie knowing that this park, along these woods, is where Steve will come if he comes at all—but he has not qualms begging for just a minute alone as feels himself start to rise to his feet because the cells of his body know that Steve’s near, now, and call him to move, to run to his partner, his only.

He sees the unspoken protest in Dustin’s eyes

But you’ll have him forever.

Eddie gets it, sighs; tries to explain.

“When we,” he pauses, tries to find a better word but really there’s only one: “changed, we became something,” and Eddie, see, they were never told the details, the how’s and whys never explained. They just know how it feels.

And how much it feels is more than enough to serve as an explanation, as is.

“My heart’s got this bigger capacity to feel, now,” Eddie tries just being blunt, and not trying to logic out what transcends the concept as a rule; “my soul’s, just,” he shakes his head a bites on a grin in a battle that he’s ecstatic to lose:

“It’s just his in a way I never could have dreamed of before. It was already basically true before but that truth was a,” Eddie sighs, and doesn’t bother fighting the grin this time because it’d be a lost cause before he even starts, the very same heart he’s talking about is stretched to bursting and he, he wants, he needs him to understand that because Dustin’s become his brother, too, in a different but still profound way and Eddie loves him, so he wants him to understand it’s not about shutting him out, or denying him a single thing, but what Eddie knows a normal person can feel, like, not by choice but by design is, is—

“A fuckin’ pittance, man, in comparison.”

Dustin eyes him, and—thank fuck—reads not only what Eddie says but what he means; that Eddie also feels bigger for what they have, for Dustin’s family, for the whole Party and the sun and snow and the trees and then—

Then there’s his whole heart and soul, that he can feel is about to be waiting in those trees—another level. A wholeness he couldn’t put to words if he tried, which is how he knows it’s both real, and other; not what he was or could have been before they were given their duties; gifted their whole fucking lives.

In each each other.

Dustin finally sighs, theatrically in a way that makes Eddie chuckle as he’s shooed away with a sage “Public indecency is still a crime!” —to which Eddie offers his middle finger as he bounds through the tree line and only stops when he finds the clearing that feels right.

Then he waits.

And waits.

He lets his eyes close, reaches inward where his heartbeat’s ramping up; reaches outward to the trees, still barren but never quiet, never dead.

He feels.

Feels something slip behind his ear: a stem, petals tickling his cheekbone when nothing here is blooming yet; when everything is blooming nowunder Eddie’s ribs, blossoming in the smile that stretches across his lips as a warm breath tickles his neck and weight presses behind him, familiar arms wrapping around his waist:

“Gorgeous weather you’re a having, hmm?” Steve teases and the shell of his ear, nips the lobe and turns Eddie around at the hips and fuck yeah.

Fuck yeah

It’s gorgeous.

🌷🌺🌷🌺

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corralinesage · 5 months ago

Text

Child of September (3/?)

18+ mature content, smut

Chapter 3: Mirror, mirror

(w/c 7,3k)

“So, you know how you always paint me?” You gave Natasha a deadpan look for stating the obvious.

“Yes, I’m aware.” She rolled her eyes at your response, walking closer to you in the flickering light of the candles that sat on the dinner table, illuminating the dirty dishes that remained from your delicious dinner. You wrapped up a leftover grilled cheese into foil and placed it into the refrigerator as Natasha lingered at the table, clearly working through something in her mind.

“I wanna know what it’s like”, she hummed softly, her words causing you to turn around to look at her.

“You do?” You couldn’t help the amused, excited smile that it brought to your face.

“Yeah. I want you to model for me.” She began to clean the table to help you, collecting dishes and bringing them to the sink.

“Sure. What did you have in mind?” You couldn’t help but notice how giddy you felt all of a sudden, ecstatic to have her show such interest in you. It was thrilling to say the least because it showed you that she wanted inside your mind, she wanted to see the world through your eyes, experience the things that you enjoyed.

“I think I’d want to do a nude study”, she said slyly, your bubbling laughter following immediately.

“Naturally.” You looked at Natasha with undeniable mirth glistening in your eyes, the look in hers matching your playfulness. Natasha had some artistic skills, but they paled in comparison to yours. She had no time for silly sketches in her duty to save the world. “I have a vision.”

“Do tell me your vision”, you hummed softly, continuing to clean up the table.

“I want you to pose for me on the bed. Kind of like that one pose I did last week where I had my hand on my boob.” You couldn’t help the knowing smile that found your face. You saw her vision quite clearly.

“Oh, I know.” You nodded your head. You could barely get the image you had drawn out of your head. Natasha had been positioned on your bed, on her knees, thighs parted, one hand conveniently covering up the apex of her thighs, the other grabbing her breast. Her head had been tilted back to reveal her pale neck, her collarbones and strong shoulders wonderfully on display. You could vividly recall the placement of each vein on her forearms, you remembered the way the soft flesh of her breast had curved where her fingertips had sunken into it, you could almost see right then and there with your mind’s eye the undulating muscles that had been highlighted by the gentle lighting of the bedroom. It had definitely been one of the more sensual paintings you had made of Natasha, your mind immediately whirring with the more than enticing imagery you had going on in your mind.

“I want something similar, so that you can get the full experience of having to hold a pose and all.”

“Uh-huh, that’s why”, you said a bit teasingly, earning a huff from Natasha. She slapped your behind as you walked by with any remaining kitchenware in your hands as if to tell you off for your cocky comments, but all in good nature. You laughed, unable to contain the excitement you felt.

No more than ten minutes later you were sat on the bed with your legs extended diagonally in front of you, one knee slightly bent to create a bit more visual interest to the pose. Your left hand was propped behind you, allowing you to lean against that arm. It put your chest and abdomen nicely on display for Natasha, your other hand on your stomach waiting for further instructions from Natasha.

“Touch your left boob”, she hummed from behind the easel where your designated place usually was. You loved the confidence she displayed, loved the matter-of-fact air she had about her. She was really playing your part and doing a hell of a job at it. Her eyes returned to you again after a while of staring at her canvas, studying the result of her own commands. “Move the hand to the right, darling.” You began to move your hand. “Eyes on me”, she reminded you in that soft voice of hers, your gaze rising back up to her face as you relocated your hand over your right breast, giving it a slight squeeze. You were fully nude, stripped bare in front of her, struggling to keep your face neutral from how excited you were. You were illuminated by the soft lighting of a few smaller, warm-toned lamps in your room, the light source giving your skin a warmth that made it look soft and inviting. The entire setting felt tranquil and intimate, like a comfortable night in. The tension was somehow palpable before Natasha had even gotten to work. She looked pensive as she observed you, her left hand coming up to her lips in thought. “Switch the bent leg for me.” It was oddly exhilarating to take orders from her in such a manner. You did as told. “Now, look at me, detka. Smile.” You did your very best not to grin like the fool in love that you were, softening your eyes and smile into something more seductive and intimate. You could see from the look on her face that it was exactly what she had been looking for. “Perfect, hold that.”

Natasha began to work on her piece, a small frown on her face as she blindly started the process, not quite knowing where to begin or what to even do. She wasn’t familiar with painting, only poorly done doodles and small sketches that had been inspired by your overflowing passion for art. You enjoyed watching her immensely. It was eye-opening to be in Natasha’s shoes and get to witness the adoration that was communicated through her studying gaze. You had never before quite realized what it was like to be met with that intense gaze time and time again as she went back and forth between you and the canvas. You couldn’t help but to wonder what was going on in her head, wonder which part of you she was looking at, which detail of your body she was picking up on at that very moment. The more she looked at you, the more you wanted to move. The more those green eyes traced your figure, the more of it you wanted to show her. The hand squeezing your breast made you feel slightly too good when paired with Natasha’s intense gaze. Your innocently posed legs were just shy from allowing you to squeeze your thighs together. It was then that you realized why Natasha often began to speak when she posed for you.

“How’s it going?” You asked innocently, looking for a distraction from the restlessness of your body. You weren’t quite aroused yet, but you were awfully close, especially if you were meant to last in that position, under the burning gaze of her eyes, for another hour or two.

“It’s going okay, I’d say. Of course, it’s not going to be anything phenomenal because I don’t know what I’m doing”, she chuckled. “But it’s fun to try. I like seeing what you see, knowing what it’s like for you to look at me for ages and ages.” You huffed out a laugh, nodding subtly in agreement to avoid disturbing your pose.

“Yeah, me too.” Your eyes remained on her as she kept painting. “I never realized that you probably see every single small change on my face when I’m painting.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Natasha smirked, glancing at you briefly.

“That’s why I rarely ask how the painting is going. I don’t need to ask. I can see it from your face.” You felt your cheeks heat in a slight mixture of embarrassment and affection. It felt like an oddly vulnerable thing for her to notice, bringing a sense of exposure with it. “When it’s going well you have this certain softness to your face. It’s very subtle, but it’s most definitely there. You look at me more when you feel good about the painting”, she began to speak again when you didn’t respond. “If you’re disappointed in yourself, you don’t look at me. You only glance at me.” Her voice was so gentle and dreamy, the silence of the bedroom only seeming to emphasize the delicate tone she spoke with. “Like you’re afraid that I’m disappointed in you too.” Your heartbeat felt louder in your chest. You felt so raw. She could see all that. She could read all of those very real emotions simply from your face.

“I never realized…” Natasha gave you a soft, understanding smile.

“When you mess up”, she continued. “You have a habit of taking deeper breaths. You let out these huffs of frustration, but only through your nose. Then, however, if you have really made a big mistake, you sigh and usually say something.” Her words made you laugh because you knew her to be right.

“Yeah, I do. I go ‘fuck’, ‘shit’, or ‘fuck me’.” You both grinned.

“To which I go: ‘gladly’.” You couldn’t help but laugh at the way she imitated the enthusiastic hum she usually said it with. It was heart-warming to realize how even such little things had become a habit for both of you. It was a completely different kind of coexistence that allowed you to be so in tune with each other. “I love following the process of it through your expressions. It’s almost like a game.” She applied more paint onto the canvas, defining the shape of your limbs like she had seen you do so many times, yet her brush strokes looked nothing like your precise and well-practiced ones.

“That’s not fair. I can’t do the same with you. Your face is made of stone.”

“Only when I want it to be”, she hummed in amusement at your whiny tone. “It’s alright, darling. It takes a while to learn it. We’ll have to do this many more times before you learn to read from my expressions that I can’t paint for the life of me.” You laughed.

“I’m sure I’ll be plenty convinced after today”, you teased, amused by the gentle, defeated shake of her head.

“Do you notice anything about me when I’m posing?” Natasha asked in curiosity, going behind her canvas to hide how much she wished that you noticed her just the same.

“I think I notice first when you get cold”, you mumbled in thought, smiling a little wider as you watched her stare down at the paint palette that she held in her right hand. “I can tell before your skin turns into goosebumps or before your lips and nipples turn a cooler shade.”

“How?” Natasha had a look of excited wonder in her eyes.

“You start wiggling your toes.” You let out a little giggle that Natasha matched with one of her own.

“I do not.”

“You so do. It’s this little wiggle at first where I notice just a bit of movement in my peripheral.” Natasha couldn’t stop smiling, the front row of her pearly white teeth fully exposed. “And then you start to rub your toes together. And… This one is my favorite.” You laughed quietly, the look of curiosity on Natasha’s face only growing “If the pose allows it, you start to rub your feet together like a cricket. That’s when I usually offer you socks or a blanket.” Natasha let out a hearty laugh.

“A cricket”, she snickered in disbelief.

“Another thing I notice is when you start to daydream. Your eyes just kind of glaze over.” Natasha looked like she was both baffled and touched by your observations. You smiled smugly, pleased to evoke such a reaction from her. You knew just how good it felt to be seen. “If it’s something dirty you start biting the inside of your lip and your cheeks turn red.” Just the thought of that stirred warmth in your lower abdomen. “And if it’s something comforting or calming you relax a little more into your pose.” Natasha nodded along, agreeing with everything you were saying, shortly after remembering to focus a bit more on her work than she had in the past ten minutes. “One time you had this strange look on your face that I couldn’t figure out. You were almost as if zoned out but confused, like you were trying to figure something out.”

“When was that?” Her voice oozed amusement.

“Maybe a month ago when we did the charcoal sketch.” Natasha chuckled, her cheeks turning a sheer rose color, your interests piqued immediately. “What?”

“I thought you would’ve put that one together based on what we did after”, she mused smugly, her suggestive tone making the hairs on your body stand on end as if in anticipation. The rather sensual and downright lewd memories flashed across your mind, a creeping warmth rising up your neck.

“What were you doing then?”

“Trying to divide forty-two-thousand and five hundred sixty-three by hundred and fifty-two to turn myself off.” Your cheeks hurt from how hard you were grinning.

“Did it work?” Natasha looked at you for a long moment, the charge between you only growing stronger.

“No”, she whispered, her gaze dipping down to the breast you were squeezing with your hand, a rush of heat going through you. “I’m rather convinced that when you’ve turned me on there is nothing in the world that could undo that.” Your cheeks were blazing hot. Talk about being turned on.

“That puts us into quite a pickle then, doesn’t it?” you hummed innocently, tilting your chin down just enough to look up at her through your eyelashes. She always gave you ‘the look’ herself and acted all unbothered, it was finally your turn to do the same.

“Any other observations you make when you paint?” Natasha asked coolly, ignoring you on purpose because you both knew that you were getting to her, you and that maddeningly casual pose of yours that was somehow so incredibly sensual.

“Hmm, I can tell when you’re bored of posing.”

“I don’t get bored.” She looked at you for a long time, her eyes studying you from head to toe, clearly trying to figure out something regarding the painting.

“Your face doesn’t lie, Natasha”, you pointed out in a gentle reminder.

“What gives it away then?” She went back to her painting, staring at the canvas for an equally long amount of time.

“You fall asleep on me”, you chuckled, hearing her huff from behind the easel. She remained out of sight for a moment longer before her eyes appeared from behind it to take a peek at you. “Don’t worry, I find it adorable.” You were met with another amused huff.

“To be fair that only happens when I’ve been posing for hours on end. I like posing for you. I like looking at you.” The way she sounded and looked as she painted and spoke to you was something that you had never known you needed. The soft tone of her voice, the little rasp to it, the focused demeanor in her body, the absentminded, yet present poise she had about her was something beyond attractive. You had always shared a kind of intimacy and vulnerability in those moments spent together. You were usually so wrapped up in your work that you didn’t have the mind to slow down and take in the moment that you were sharing, but looking at it from a new perspective, from Natasha’s perspective, you realized just how meaningful that time together was.

A sudden silence fell over you, Natasha focusing fully on her work in a way that you hadn’t yet seen that day. You saw the way her brows formed a small crease on her forehead, that same confused but determined look appearing on her face shortly after. She continued to mix colors on her palette that you had helped her create, testing out different ways of bringing together the image that she was trying to immortalize on the canvas. She tried to understand the way values worked, to understand the way shifts in the warmth of the color could create. She did her best to block out shapes and sculpt with paint, something you always talked to her about, but she wasn’t sure she quite understood what it meant to push and pull the pigments. You observed her for a long time, noting that she stopped looking at you, slowly making you realize that you missed her eyes on you, missed the attention that you so craved from her. You watched her frown deepen as she stared vehemently at the canvas. There was something more to that look, more than just the painting process.

“Need help?” You asked coyly, your hand letting go of your breast to allow your fingers to play absentmindedly with your hardened nipple. Natasha’s eyes snapped to you automatically at the sound of your voice, her eyes devouring the sight of you on the bed. You circled your nipple with your finger, giving her a compelling smile, the kind of smile you knew Natasha couldn’t quite resist. “Am I no longer interesting enough to look at?” Your voice had a pouty lilt to it, purposely teasing her. “If you’re not using me as reference anymore, I could use a bit of a stretch. My arm is killing me.”

“Yes, of course, krasotka. Stretch away”, she hummed, continuing her work, but she failed to move her eyes off you as you plopped down onto the bed, stretching your arms above your head. Your back arched off the mattress, a low moan resonating in your bedroom as you allowed the tension to escape your body, all the while giving Natasha more than enough to look at. Her eyes ran over all the smooth skin you had to offer her, your breasts fully on display, your perky nipples begging to be licked and sucked by her. Her eyes ran lower, down your abdomen to your hips, finding the triangle of hair that disappeared between your thighs. If only she could simply spread your legs open and uncover the most sensitive parts of you. Her mind was racing. Were you just as on edge as her? Would she find your folds wet and ready if she were to slide her hand up your silky inner thigh and feel your bare sex? If she could just sink her fingers inside you and hear you let out those very same moans but for entirely different reasons. She gritted her teeth together subtly, doing her best to not give her mind any more room to entertain her sexual daydreams, but it was a simple fact that she was not good nor passionate enough to care about her ugly painting. She did not care for it. She only cared for you and the hungry look in your eyes as you settled back into your pose, massaging your breast a little more than could be considered appropriate.

“Oh, my hip is killing me”, you mumbled to yourself, parting your knees to open up and stretch your hips a bit. You moved your knee to the side, giving Natasha a more than ample look at the wetness that had gathered between your legs. You let out a small grunt just to maximize your tease, your palm sliding down your inner thigh, massaging the muscles there to help yourself relax. She tried to keep her cool, she really did, but nothing was keeping her attention on the painting. Absolutely nothing.

“Oh, fuck this. Fuck all of it”, Natasha groaned impatiently, finally giving into her desires and discarding the palette onto your desk. She didn’t give the poorly executed painting another glance before getting on the bed. You let out a small, victorious giggle as you welcomed her into your arms, immediately captured into a heated kiss. All you could do was moan, your cold body clinging to Natasha for warmth.

“You’re such a little shit”, she muttered into your neck as she hugged you, the sensation making you giggle even louder.

“Me? That’s all you!” You squealed, the touch of her hands tickling your sides. “That’s what you always do!”

“I do not”, Natasha laughed, kissing up your neck and cheek before pulling away to see your face. You grinned as wide as humanly possible, unable to control your excitement as you looked up at Natasha, your hands coming up to brush back some of her hair before allowing your hands to glide down her body to where the hem of her shirt was.

“You do”, you chuckled in a bit more reserved manner, the humor of the situation dimming down a bit when you felt your body physically throb for her. You slid the shirt up to her shoulders, pulling it over her head, Natasha leaning back to slide the piece of clothing completely off her to allow you to discard it to the side. But before Natasha could lean down to kiss you, your hands pushed her back gently. “I wanna see your work.”

“Oh, no”, Natasha moaned in disappointment, her lips spreading into a smile of disbelief and defeat, her head dropping down to hide from you. She knew there was nothing to show. “Let’s not-”

“No, no, no. I wanna see”, you protested, evading Natasha’s lips again as she tried to kiss you.

“My ego can’t take a hit like that.” You couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad”, you said in a much quieter voice, your tone shifting into something a little poutier and more sensual. Your fingertips trailed down from her collarbones, sliding along her sternum as you batted your eyelashes at her. “Please, love, let me see.” She held your gaze, clearly aware of your cheap tactics, but she couldn’t deny that you were getting to her, her eyes admiring your doting ones, taking in the alluring look in them. She could feel herself yield the longer you gazed up at her, your fingers drawing teasing, little circles between her breasts. “Please”, you whispered, allowing your hand to move lower, your cool fingers skating down her abdomen to the waistband of her jeans, barely grazing the rough fabric.

“Fine”, she sighed, getting off you, so you could both go take a look at her painting. You felt the anticipation build up in your chest as you made your way to the easel, rounding the edge of the canvas to see what Natasha had accomplished. You felt your face grow rigid as you schooled your features at the sight, refusing to offend your girlfriend by flat out laughing at her creation. There were some correct colors here and there. She was quite decent with colors, but they still lacked in hues and came off as overly vibrant or flat, creating a piece that lacked contrast. The shape, however, the shape of the figure was childish. It was stocky and harsh, disfigured, really. It looked wonky and chaotic, forming a huge mess on the canvas. You glanced at Natasha, unsure of what to say or how to really react to the piece, but when you saw her face, you could no longer hold in your laughter, a long giggle falling from your lips.

“I told you!” She was laughing as well, pulling you away from the canvas so you would stop looking at the horrendous piece she had created.

“No, it’s good!” Natasha laughed even louder at that.

“No, it isn’t. Don’t you dare lie to me”, she said, eyeing the painting like it had personally offended her. “It doesn’t show how beautiful you are. Not even close. Actually, this is blasphemy against you.”

“I’d say it’s pretty accurate.” You chuckled softly, the sound dying down in your throat when Natasha’s eyes met yours. They were hungry, devoted as they eyed you up and down, taking in every inch of your nude body, a small smile finding her lips.

“Nowhere near.” She shook her head in emphasis. “You have no idea how gorgeous you are.” Your shared moment of hilarity fizzled out, returning to the gentle sensual charge that could always be found between you if you just gave it the opportunity to surface. “I may not be able to show you how beautiful you are through art, but I have other ways.” Natasha’s eyes met yours again, her hands pulling you closer by your waist. You smirked at the air of suggestion her words carried, your hands finding her jeans on their own, ready to get rid of them.

“Is that so?” You felt a gentle tickle in your lower abdomen, a twinge of impatience shooting through you. Natasha smiled brightly, the look on her face telling you that you had something out of the ordinary coming your way.

“Oh, yes.” She rubbed her lips together, her gaze dipping down to your body. You leaned in to kiss her, Natasha welcoming you without hesitation, your lips pressing together firmly in a proper kiss that quickly developed into something more heated. You found yourself in her embrace, your hands working her jeans over her hips so she could kick them to the side, your lips not disconnecting once. You felt much warmer in the matter of a few seconds, the chilly October night unable to reach you when Natasha was igniting sparks of pure arousal inside you. She started to guide you back to the bed, your body following her lead blindly, longing to sink into her fully when her warm tongue stroked your own. You heard the quiet squelches and moans that you both produced, feeling yourself get lost in her, get lost in the permission to forget everything else in the world for a moment.

You had expected her to guide you to lie down on the bed like she often did, but you came to a halt beside the bed instead, her lips pulling off your own, hands turning you around to face away from her. Your eyelids fluttered open when you felt Natasha take a step back, immediately spotting your closet directly in front of you. She moved closer to it, opening one of its doors, your own reflection coming into your view as she directed the mirror on the inside of the closet door toward the bed. Your stomach dropped from arousal when you watched Natasha take her place behind you in the mirror, a soft smile finding her face. She leaned closer to you, the lace of her bra and underwear brushing against your backside, her nose grazing up your neck gently before she placed a few feather-light kisses over the tender skin. Goosebumps erupted all over your body, your nipples hardening as electric heat pooled in your lower abdomen.

“Look at yourself, detka”, she commanded in a low hum, her fingertips making contact with your arms, gently brushing up and down your skin to aggravate the already existing goosebumps there. You looked at yourself in the mirror, starkly nude and bare for her. “You’re so beautiful.” Her tone was silky smooth, deep and gentle, so much so that you felt your knees grow weaker beneath you. “Your face, your hair, your skin”, she muttered, brushing aside some of your hair, baring your skin to kiss your shoulder, her soft lips caressing you delicately. “You’re beautiful beyond comparison.” Her eyes met yours through the mirror as her arms wrapped around your waist to hug you from behind, her warmth, her words, her presence bringing a small smile to your face. “I love that smile.” Her voice was nothing but a whisper as she kissed your cheek, your smile only widening as you hugged her back by pulling her forearms tighter against you. “But as much as I love it, there’s something else I’m looking for right now.” Her hand slid lower to your pelvis, fingertips only barely skimming over your pubic bone, her mouth finding your ear, the wetness of her tongue sending shivers down your spine as she licked the shell of your ear. Your lips parted in a silent gasp, wiping the smile right off your face, a frown of pleasure finding your brows when you felt the buzz between your legs grow more intense. You turned around rather automatically, longing to kiss her, but before your body had so much as moved, Natasha’s hand had curled around your bicep in a firm grip, a gentle tut falling from her lips.

“Eyes on the mirror, darling.” Your gaze found your reflection again, your body visibly melting into Natasha’s embrace as her hands continued to explore it, slowly stroking over your abdomen, massaging you. “I want you to see these curves.” Her hands found your hips, giving them a proper squeeze, your eyes nailed on the way the muscles of her hands and forearms flexed, fingertips sinking slightly into the flesh. You noted how attractive they looked, how firm, how possessive their grip was. “I want you to see how irresistible every inch of you is, how sexy and alluring you can look when you’re at my mercy.” You let out a soft sigh when her left hand slid to your left thigh, massaging the hip and leg area with teasing pressure as her right hand moved up toward your chest. “I want you to see what I see, what drives me insane.” You nearly whimpered, the sound slipping from you by accident as you waited in immense anticipation for her hand to cup your chest. Her fingers were mere centimeters away from the curve of your breast, but her fingertips only barely brushed against the silky-smooth flesh, your eyes unable to tear their gaze away from the veins on her hand, the enticing softness of your body begging to be touched. You knew exactly how good her warm hand could feel against your cool skin, how a single squeeze of her hand would make you sink into her embrace. Her hand was right there. It was so close. And then you saw through the mirror how her hand finally found your breast and cupped it properly. You registered very briefly how wanton the look on your face was, how desperate, but you didn’t have the time to dwell on it.

“Don’t close your eyes”, she warned you gently, your eyes snapping open when you realized that you hadn’t even noticed yourself close them. You met her gaze in the mirror, her pleased smile eliciting a small, albeit shyer smile from you. “You’re an angel, a goddess”, she whispered, her left hand coming up to join her right one. “I can’t get enough of your shape, your breasts, your nipples, the perfect shade of them that I can’t color match for the life of me”, she mumbled in mild amusement, coaxing out a small huff from you. “It makes me want to bury my face into your chest, to kiss you, to bite you.” The tone of her voice was so raw and honest that you knew for a fact that she was telling the truth, your head spinning from desire. “Look in the mirror, malyshka. Look how beautiful you are.” Your hands came up to cover her own on your body as if to make sure they stayed on you. She lowered her left hand down, your left hand following, her right hand massaging your breast. You felt yourself lean into her much heavier than before, your feet unstable beneath you. There was something about the way you could see your own reaction to her touch so clearly in the mirror. It made you react to her touch ten times stronger, a low moan coming from you as her hand dipped between your legs.

“There’s not a part of you that I’m not obsessed with”, Natasha continued, enjoying immensely how limp and helpless you were becoming. She could see just how strongly the entire situation was affecting you. “You’ve got the most perfect waist, hips, thighs…” Both of her hands moved to stroke over each body part she mentioned. “God, and your shoulders, mmh.” She kissed your shoulder, sucking a light mark right where muscle connected to bone. “Your arms… and hands.” Her lips moved down to your bicep, her hands caressing the entire length of your arms, gently grasping your hands. “Oh, your hands.” She brought your dominant hand up to your heads so she could reach it, kissing the palm of it gently. “They’re incredible, Y/N. The things you’re able to create…” she whispered in awe, every word uttered by her tickling your ear. Your knees almost buckled when her other hand found your pelvis region again and slipped between your legs to discover the throbbing, wet mess you had become. The effect was only emphasized by Natasha’s satisfied moan as she felt around your folds, spreading the slick gathered there as well as your restricted position allowed.

“Natasha”, you whined softly, pushing yourself down against her hand, eyes still glued to your reflection, the sight of her touching the most sensitive parts of you making you dizzy with want.

“Tell me how beautiful you are, krasotka. I wanna hear it.” She placed a few more kisses up your neck to find your ear.

“Mmh.” You couldn’t manage much else. You felt a bit awkward for having to make such claims when you were unsure of how true you personally thought them to be.

“Be a good girl, won’t you?” The whispered words worked on you embarrassingly well. You could never deny her a single thing, not when she was simply all too irresistible. You stared at yourself in the mirror, one of her hands playing with your breasts, the other massaging your sex in tantalizing squeezes of her hand, each rub bringing you closer to total submission. “You wanna be a good girl for me, right?”

“Yes, Natasha”, you sighed, your body leaning back into her for more support.

“Let’s hear it then.” Your eyes were half-lidded as you scanned yourself from head to toe in the mirror, studying your build, maybe even liking what you saw in some places.

“I’m beautiful”, you mumbled in a low murmur, your hips growing restless the longer her hand remained between your legs.

“I’m gorgeous”, she whispered in a tone that let you know you were meant to repeat her words. She bit your neck gently, the longing frown on your face only deepening as your hips rolled forward in search of more pressure. You repeated her words, keeping your eyes on your hips, watching how the muscles of your abdomen contracted as you moved your hips to meet her touch. “I’m sexy.” She gave you another sentence to repeat, which you dutifully repeated, your body growing visibly weaker the more she touched you. “You’re such a good girl”, she said breathily, clearly pleased with you as her hand dipped a little deeper between your thighs, her index and middle fingers spreading you open to see more of you. Her eyes looked at your sex through the mirror, her lower lip clamped between her teeth as she admired you, pinching your clit between her fingers. You were about to drop to the ground any second, your legs far too weak to support you as your body zeroed in on the sharp but delicious sting.

“Fuck”, Natasha moaned heavily, unable to keep herself in check at the sight. “You’ve got a gorgeous pussy. So wet, so soft and perfect.” You had to force your eyes to stay open, a part of you wishing to see the way she was touching you, the other part longing to just sink into the pleasurable sensation. “Say it for me, detka.” You felt your cheeks heat violently at the thought of repeating her words. You couldn’t bring yourself to say something like that. You were quite positive you had never said anything of the sort about yourself. Natasha waited for a moment, her tongue licking over the delicate skin of your neck as she placed languid kisses there, but when no response from you came, she withdrew the hand from between your legs. You let out an odd, panicked sound at the action, immediately regretting your decision.

“I’ve got a gorgeous pussy.” Your cheeks were burning like two bonfires from shame and mild humiliation, but a part of you also felt good. You felt more confident because she made you feel like you had a reason to be.

“That’s it, baby”, Natasha praised, a smug smirk on her face as she brought her hand back between your legs, her fingertips finding your clit with familiar ease. “You’re so wet, so ready for me. Mmh, all I want is to taste you.” Your eyes fluttered shut on their own, your body threatening to fold forward as she drew tight circles over your clit, making you burn with desire. You were wet beyond measure, the sinfully lustful look on your face showing you exactly how affected you were by her. You were completely gone, fully under her control. She pulled away from you suddenly, your features acquiring a tinge of disappointment to them. Her hands never left your body as she moved in front of you, breaking your visual connection to the mirror for the first time. You wanted nothing more than to kiss her when you were met with her green eyes and loving smile, so desperate to feel her fully against your body, but you didn’t dare move, waiting for her to show you what she had in mind.

“Kneel on the edge of the bed for me”, she hummed, pushing you back just enough to make you follow her orders. She helped you onto the bed, your knees on the very edge, your body still fully displayed in the mirror. She took a step back, admiring your curves for a moment before leaning in for a kiss. You whimpered against her lips, all too relieved to be kissed by her, to be hugged by her, her hands wrapping around your middle. You used the opportunity to unhook her bra and uncover her breasts for you, your hands moving to the waistband of her underwear next, eager to have her fully nude. She allowed you to have your moment, but once her underwear dropped to the ground, she pulled away from the kiss.

“Eyes on the stunning woman in the mirror”, she reminded you softly, her hand caressing your jaw briefly before she knelt on the floor, turning around to face the mirror as well so you could see more of her. Your lips parted in a silent gasp when you took in the sight of the both of you, Natasha’s head between your parted thighs as she sat on the floor. The bed was the perfect height for her, allowing her to tilt her head back onto the mattress, her hands guiding you to spread your knees wider apart and sit yourself on her face.

You looked at the both of you in the mirror, your head feeling beyond fuzzy at the sight. You’d never seen yourself like that before, gaining an understanding of what made you so compelling to Natasha. It was the utter relaxation you exuded, the pleading frown that you couldn’t wipe off your face, the desperate longing that you couldn’t hide. You rested half of your weight over Natasha’s mouth, your eyes threatening to roll into the back of your head from the wet sensation of her lips and tongue. It was somehow even better when you could see her exposed neck and jaw through the mirror, her defined arms on display as she rubbed your thighs with her hands to make you fully relax on top of her. You watched yourself start to grind down against her mouth in the mirror, your gaze fixed on where you were connected, eyes devouring the way Natasha’s jaw flexed as she moved her mouth against you, eating you out with shameless greed. Your breathing picked up into heavy panting in record time, your hips finding a steady rhythm that matched Natasha’s movements in the most pleasurable way imaginable. You saw the way your breasts bounced with each thrust of your pelvis, saw the way your muscles rippled beneath your smooth skin, you saw the way your face became flushed. You heard yourself moan, a string of unintelligible noises falling from your lips as the compelling sensation in the lower half of your body grew strong enough for your muscles to start cramping.

“Natasha, oh- Fuck, mmh.” You didn’t have many options for finding support, blindly reaching for her hand so that you wouldn’t fall off the bed as your hips ground down ruthlessly on her face in search of relief from the burning pleasure that consumed you. You were so close, you were so close, almost there, your eyes staring at the lewd sight in the mirror, paired with obscene noises from both you and Natasha. Your eyelids were just about to slide shut, your body right on the verge of release, when you saw Natasha part her bent-up knees to expose her soaked sex to you through the mirror, her other hand sliding between her thighs. Her fingertips found her swollen clit to bring her some relief, her groan of pleasure muffled by your sex, the vibrations sending you right over the edge. You came hard, your body trembling from exertion at the sole thought of Natasha touching herself to you. The effect was beyond measure, your heart thrumming wildly in your chest as your hips rode out your orgasm on their own, your hasty moans echoing loudly in your head as pleasure rippled through you in waves. There was something so attractive about seeing yourself lose your composure completely from Natasha’s efforts. It was almost like a visual confirmation of the effect she had on you. It was exhilarating, intensifying the entire experience tenfold. You let out a small screech when you nearly toppled off the bed, Natasha’s arms immediately coming up to support you, her soaked lips and chin pressing into your equally wet sex, muffling her laughter that was followed by a moan from you.

“Mmh, krasotka”, Natasha groaned quietly against you, kissing your sensitive clit a few times before pulling away to give your trembling thighs a break. You immediately rested your weight onto your heels, relaxing a bit more when you were no longer a threat to Natasha’s neck. She turned around, her eyes finding your parted legs as her hands smoothed over the tops of your thighs. You looked down at her knelt before you, smiling in mild amusement simply from how good you felt. She began to kiss your thighs, her hands roaming up to your waist and then up to your chest to cup your breasts.

“Someone is feeling generous”, you mused to yourself, Natasha smiling against your inner thigh. You glanced at the mirror again, unable to fully ignore it when the image staring back at you was simply too good to pass up on. You felt powerful with Natasha knelt before you, your perfectly sex-disheveled look giving you a certain kind of glow as she groped your breasts. It reminded you of paintings you had seen in art galleries, those where men were knelt at the feet of some desired woman that was the picture of true beauty. The thought of it all made your cheeks heat. “You almost stole my job there for a moment”, you continued cockily, unable to forget that she had wanted you so badly that her hand had been the next best option. Natasha chuckled, pulling back enough to be able to see your face, those jade eyes somehow reminding you that as powerful and confident as you felt, you were still right where she wanted you. She looked fucked out, her pupils blown, lips swollen and as pink as ever, a deep blush decorating her cheeks, neck, and upper chest.

“Tonight I’m doing all the touching. You just sit there and look pretty”, she hummed, giving you one more glance before going back to kissing and licking her way up your abdomen.

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whereserpentswalk · 8 months ago

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Somewhere out there exists an entity that wanders across the world. They have no need to eat or sleep, and they take the form of whatever the person they're interacting with would be the most attracted to. Nobody knows what exactly they are, not even the other entities and cyptids. Perhaps they were made directly by the gods.

The entity will find someone, useally a human, useally one looking for someone to mate with, and they'll start talking to them. If they choose to talk to you they'll be extremely freindly, interested in you, excited to learn more about you. They always seem a bit like they're flirting. It's probably on purpose. But they'll tell you that they don't want you to touch them at all, they won't explain why.

They'll eventually ask to go home with you. They're very trusting. They'll step onto any public transportation, or ride in anyone's car. They're always safe so they won't worry. And when you get home they'll undress if you let them, and expect you to do the same if you want to, and let you look at their naked body.

But they still don't want to be touched. They'll make that very clear. And they won't ever have sex with you, or any mortal soul for that matter.

If you accept their boundary treat them harshly because of it, and reject them, they'll leave without ever telling you their true nature. You'll never see them ever again.

But if you respect their choice and remain kind to them, they'll tell you about ancient and lost things, forgotten magic and stories lost to time. They'll tell you of the lost races that walked the earth before the ansestors of humans came down from the trees. Of the death of the first god, and the birth of the first demon. Of the great pyramids in the sea, and the seven cities of black stone. And if you let them, they'll use their powers to change your body, to give you whatever form within humanity's limits you would desire, and make the change reverberate through time so no other body is ever remembered as your own. Yet still, you will never touch them, it is a reward no human should seek.

If you force yourself on them, or try to pressure them into doing anything with you, they'll show you their true form; a great metal cyptid, with razor sharp talons and wings made of blades. They'll use their ancient powers to distort reality and make it so you'll never desire sex again, nor ever again feel such pleasures. They don't want to punish people, they just want the world to be safer.

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thecoolerliauditore · 2 months ago

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this skin is so unsexy to a point where it is impressive to me. i need this thing dissected in a lab, an autopsy performed on this failure at sex appeal. ah yes my sneaky rogue assassin character and his. short shorts under a loincloth. the symmetrical bandages on either of his arms that seem to serve no purpose whatsoever. i do like the mask though i like how every talon skin seems to realise he needs a mask. cover that chin up but god forbid we lose an inch of sideboob

#random thoughts #dear god in heaven whoever's listening please hashtag let assassins/thieves/rogues be scrawny again i beg of you #i know talon's realism as an assassin is like. questionable. what with the massive “”“hidden blade”“” and whatnot but like what even is thi #please there are characters you can do the sex appeal with. it's not working it's never worked when you try to do it with talon #can't wait to see this in game and you can't even see his hot shirtlessness because his model is stuck in permanent shrimp gamer posture

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sappho-favourite-pupil · 6 months ago

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I feel like Tumblr Staff™ needs to hear this.

This is the painting, for reference.

#tumblr staff #watch this #tumblr polls #gustave courbet #painting #realism #yeah i'm pissed they hidden my pinned post because and?#they will let the most disgusting and boring and straight sex gifts ever be and decide to hide the one #“explicit”#1866 painting

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terrence-silver · 2 years ago

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Can you do one with violent sex with drunk old man Terry? Beloved get’s apreenssive cause she already knows what’s coming for her when she sees drunk old man Terry stambeling late night into the house

---

Scorpions are 100% unpredictable.

They will sting you, even if they kill themselves in the process.

Several species of Scorpion have a courtship ritual that appears to walk a fine line between wooing and attacking. A male Scorpion will lead a female on a dance-like walk, known as a promenade à deux, holding her by the pedipalps (large claws). During this waltz, males have been observed stinging their partners;

--- Idle trivia pounded through his mind even as he stumbled over the manor's threshold, shoulder rubbing against the frame of the door, leaning on it as he attempted to maintain balance. He knew you'd be waiting. He knew it. You always waited for him. Even though it was three in the morning, little loyal devoted thing that you were, he knew you would be right there, diligently expecting his return and he isn't wrong. He's never wrong as he hears your voice call through the darkness of the lobby, undoubtedly alerted by the sound emanating from the hallway. He wasn't exactly trying to be quiet. Wasn't exactly trying to be sneaky or discreet. He wanted you to realize he was coming. Oh, did he ever.

-”Terry! You’re back!”-

He sees your form emerging through the shadows, seeming worried, moving at a brisk pace, arms extended, reaching towards him like he needed any fucking help. He was old but he wasn't a fucking cripple. He wasn't handicapped. He was more capable than you were at your green age. More agile. Stronger. Thirty years back, he'd show you a thing or two about endurance. Real power. Real damage. He clicks his tongue, brushing you off, stumbling wordlessly forward. Your brows shoot up, overshadowered with concern, like you were confused with the gesture --- hurt and attempting not to show it, right before trying again, stubborn in your devotion. He knew you would do that as well. So predictable. Everything you did was sweet, stupid and predictable. The fact that you were eager to him coming home, even though he was coming him in a state...it ached so much he could feel his skin shiver. His jaw goddamn nearly trembling. -”Terry, let me help you, please!”- You grab his forearm, tenderly, doing so without asking, stepping in front of him, cutting his space of movement off. Now, that he doesn't appreciate. -”I don’t need your,”- Terry seethes, not caring how inebriated he sounded, his words laced with hiccups. -”Or anyone’s help!”-

Maybe that would give you a hint to keep your distance.

-”You’re not doing well.”-

You remark, ever so politically correct and caring of his fucking feelings, trying to avoid calling things by their proper name. He wasn't doing well? No. Correction; he was drunk. Plastered. Shitfaced. A lesser man would be crawling all over the floor by now, but he? He was no lesser man. He still had enough tenacity in him tonight to smite you for even giving a damn what he was up to. Terry reaches forward, not bothering to give you a warning, snatching your wrist and squeezing on the gentle flesh. -”And who do you think is to blame for that, huh?”- He slides forward, face to face, until he was certain you could smell his breath; Perfect. Be repulsed by it. You should've been a smart little robot and gone to sleep by now. Instead of your disgust, though, against all anticipation, he's met with profound grief. You yelp. -”You’re hurting me!”-

-”Good.”- Terry coos, feeling his gut grow warm at the notion.

It was either that or all the whisky in his Limo's minibar.

Possibly a little bit of both.

-”You deserve a cruel tutelage.”-

He murmurs, looking you up and down, his eyes finally landing back on your face. Your mouth partially open in shock. Eyes befuddled and lost. Sharp intakes of breath burdening your chest with a visibly panicked pace. Fear is palpable. -”Do you want to know why I’ve been getting shickered up tonight? Do you really?”- He chuckles, feeling the bitterness coil inside of him like a wildfire. He's been drinking because of you and here you were, acting the saint. All worried and concerned about him. A patient paramour, waiting for him to come home. You should've ran. Should've ran while you had the chance. Now, you were faced with the scorpion and he was about to prick. Then again, what was he thinking? You, running? Where? How? As if he'd let you go. As if he'd let you get away. You shake your head, your teeth gritted with pain, not knowing the answer to this question. Ever naive. Ever dumb. With his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, he drags your forward, further into the dark lobby and down the foyer. You squeal in surprise. -”For the past thirty years, my life’s been bullshit.”- He confesses, chuckling at the notion. No, really. It was complete and utter tripe. You sound distressed even as he pushed you forward, like you wanted to dissuade him. Convince him his life wasn't wasted in a feeble attempt to console him.

Figures.

-”Terry!”-

Your voice is horse and he shakes his head, leading you down the corridor by force. Force is just about the only language you and your pigheaded attempts at pity would understand right now. -”Shrinks, reinvention, pills, damage control, living up here —”- He taps the edge of his own forehead as he lists everything that came to mind off in a haste. -”Those schmucks I’ve kept around.”- He digs his teeth into his lower lip, feeling particularly infuriated at the thought that he's wasted time with a bunch of mimes when he could've had you instead. But, you weren't in his life then, were you? You only came into his life recently. Fucked everything up. -”John.”- He adds, reaching a door, grabbing its handle. Another person he loved. Another person that fucked everything up. Just like you did. -"Denying myself every impulse! Everything that ever made me happy! For what?"- Terry slings the door open not caring if it hit the interior room's wall with a loud thud, pushing you forward and shoving your back inside. You stumble forward. Terry shuts the bedroom door behind himself. The loudness of the sound resonates. -"Did anyone ever say 'Thank you'?"- He murmurs, looking at you. He could've had you. Ten years ago. Twenty. Thirty. When he returned from Vietnam, or even before. If only you were older. Born earlier. Instead, he was there idly wasting his time trying to shed his skin and reinvent himself into a happiness that wasn't even born yet. If that wasn't the biggest irony of his life, he didn't know what was.

Yeah, he drowned the conclusion in a bottle.

What else was there to do?

Let it drown him instead?

-”And you come into my life when its about to end.”-

The scorpion pricks when he saunters forward, fingers coiling into your hair, hardening into a fist, pulling your head backwards and trapping you like that. You moan in pain. Your hands attempting to grab at his own hand, peel him off somehow. Your knees coming up helplessly, trying to put distance between you and him. Your expression fading into a blur. There was four of you in front of him and he'd fucking break all four tonight. -”Legs. Open.”- Terry growls his order, pushing your thighs apart. Placing his own leg between them as a barrier, right before he thrusts on the mattress behind your back. You fall limp, bouncing ever so slightly, hips parted, just as he liked them. There's no finesse to the act. It is crude. It was meant to be like that. He grabs you by the shoulders, holding you down with his weight as he grips the hem of your blouse, dragging it forward and ripping the fabric, splitting it where the buttons connected, sending them flying like bullets ricocheting off of the floor. You shriek. Hands coming up to conceal your chest. -”Why? Couldn’t? You? Let? Sleeping? Dogs lie?”- Terry feels his own voice coming out like a growl and no, there would be no mercy. He grabs both of your arms. Away from your torso, pinning them over your head.

-”Why did you have to poke the bear?”- He breathes furiously, close enough to sense your nostrils flaring hot breath as you exhaled and inhaled at a rapid pace. You blink, protesting. About to defend yourself.

-”I didn’t, I —”-

-”You did!”- He cuts you off, insisting, seething through lips pushed together firmly. You know what you did, and now, you would bear the brunt of the consequences. Determined fingers pull down his zipper and he feels himself hard before he's ever even done anything, even though he was certain the potent mix of tonight's Cognac will have him cumming quickly and sloppily inside of you, spilling a mess of anger, desperation, inebriation, his own age and desire inside of you like a hot flood, that's a chance he's willing to take as he starts stroking, preparing himself, unkind to his own flesh, kneading back and forth to the point of it being almost painful. -”You made an old man happy. That’s war.”- He grunts, never looking away from you, because there was nowhere he'd be rather looking in the whole fucking World. You did, you know? You really did. You made him happy. Profoundly, unbelievably happy. Terry Silver never liked ironies he had to endure on his own back, and him finding the love of his life at nearly seventy years of age was an irony that made him want slam his fist into the wall into he bled. -”I should finish you for that.”- He nearly spits as he throbs into his own fist, leaning forward, until his face was between your legs, split apart by the presence of his knee. Removing his own thigh as a barrier, he leans down, licking you and humming. Pleasure mingled with a half-growl.

-”But, I love you!”- You plead, this time, through a hiccup of oncoming sobs.

You try to squeeze your legs shut, but not before long, the head of his cock is massaging your flesh, up and down, up and down, preventing you, slipping into your loose, slippery, wet slit. -”See! That right there! That’s exactly the problem!”- Terry finds time to be analytical and smiles somewhat bitterly, letting go of where he was holding you, below your knee, wiggling his index finger and smiles somewhat bitterly, amused by how critically the point was flying over your head right now. And yet, he was the drunk one. -”I don’t have the time left for that shit.”- He thrusts as he speaks, pushing into you, groaning. He loved you too. Loved you more than a mosquito craves blood, but that crap wasn't anything that he could actually live to its fruition. How did you not realize that? If he ever fucked his children into you, he'd be dead before they ever went to school. You'd be far from middle aged by the time he would be turning centennial. How the fuck was that not a cause for grief and wrath!? It would be easier if he simply never cared for you. If you were some warm body. Someone he was compensating with loads of cash. Favors. Trips. Garden cocktail parties. By kickstarting your inane, idiotic business or something. They all wanted a business kickstarted nowadays, but not you. You were actually in it for love and you made all of it for free and fuck you for that. For making it ache like a motherfucker.

The Scorpion's out to kill.

-”This right here! This is just about the only thing we have time to do.”-

He feels himself growling, rutting into you, sweat trickling down his forehead, heated by the alcohol. By you. Gesturing to where his cock connected with you for emphasis. Yes. Sex. Validly, he couldn't start planning anything concrete with you because he didn't have the decades necessary to pull it off. Fucking you until he physically could for as long as he still could was believably all he had left and he'd utilize every moment like it could be his last, because it could. It could be his last. Maybe if he just dropped dead from a stroke while still inside of you, it would be a perfect way to go. Sure. He was always meant to die on the battlefield, but dying with lodged inside of living heaven incarnate was a step up the figurative ladder. Yeah. Sex was all he had. -”That’s not true, Terry! No!”- At this point you're crying and something lurches in his gut. For a second, he thinks it is arousal, seeing you like this, and then he recognizes it as the putrid, horrendous swell of regret. He finds himself slowing down, nearly growing limp inside of you. Not true? What else was there? Could he have a family? Could he be with you all of his life? No. This was the winter of his life. You were a spring turning summer. That's why he was drunk. That's why not even a whole private cellar worth of bullshit would help numb him.

Because you came too late.

And there was nothing in the world he could do to change that crap.

-”You don’t get to decide what’s true and what isn’t when you’re the one getting pounded.”-

He threatens you, or at least he tries and for a moment or short-lived glee, arming himself with a sort of barb he never gets to use to the extent he wanted to use it and he isn't certain if the saltiness of sweat from his scalp was running down his cheek or if he was silently crying too, without making a sound, the rage deflating along with his body and he slips out of you with a moist popping sound, entirely flaccid and soft, his shaft leaking cum over his fingers and unto the bedsheets crumpled from the onslaught as he practically falls over, or rather, lets himself fall in a half-embrace, holding you for dear life, feeling you return the hug, ragged sobs shaking against him, his cock twitching painfully. Fuck sake. Your care would get him off faster than what he just did to you. Humiliation, indignity, yearning and wrath mixing, he wants to hold you like his and squeeze you until your bones crack and turn to dust under his vice grip and this very bed becomes your funeral shroud. Instead, he just lays there, inhaling your scent, his lips finding it in themselves to touch the nuzzled spot of your neck, peppering it with saliva ridden spots, licking you, finding that even now, like this, disheveled, shitfaced, unbuckled pants, he was still happy.

Desperate, but happy.

-"You know that bullshit fable,"- He slurs, feeling his eye lids grow heavy.

Voice heavy with desire and intoxication.

You no longer fight. Wiggle. Struggle. You're perfectly still. Listening.

The bedroom dark, suddenly achingly quiet.

He swears he can hear you gulping and swallowing.

-"When the Scorpion pricked the Frog crossing the river on its back, the Frog asked why and the Scorpion answered he had to, because its in his nature. They both sank."- Terry doesn't see your face, but he hears you sniffling --- your breathing and heartbeat stabilizing and he nuzzles even closer --- needing to be closer like life itself depended on it, chuckling, hand squeezing itself around your waist. He doesn't know what he was trying to say with that or what he'd conclusively add to it as he closed his eyes, finding your warmth soothing from the sudden dizziness and the profound headache he knew was coming, but he figured, that if you and him sank, at least you'd sink together --- and he'd be capable of that. He'd be capable of piercing himself on his own venomous needle after he was done with you. There was nobody Terry Silver would rather sink with.

Nobody else he'd ever allow you to sink with but him.

#terry silver #cobra kai #old man terry #kk3 #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #tw; dub con #tw; dubious consent #tw; non con #tw; inhebriation #tw; drunk sex #tw; age differences #tw; generational gap #tw; angst #tw; fear of mortality #tw; the realism of an intoxicated older man having sex and it ending somewhat messily because hey nature does its thing

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