#step one: beeswax

[xviruserrorx]

I've been weaving little fruit charms all day and the loops to attach them to the bracelets kept looking weird and I couldn't figure out what was going wrong and I just figured out I was missing one square knot 🫠

[pipszhou]

𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

✧ — synopsis: She came to the confessional to cleanse her soul—confessing every filthy thought she’s ever had about the priest she was never supposed to love.

But Reverend Caleb doesn't forgive. He claims. “Don’t you see?” he said, voice now just above a whisper. “Your sin… was never in thinking of me.” His next words were slower, darker, rich with promise.

“Your sin was in not letting me have you.”

✧ — pairing: caleb x mc

✧ — wc: ~11k

✧ — warnings: religious imagery and symbolism, cunnilingus, semi-public sex, confessional, choking, loss of virginity, virginity, first time, biting, licking, altar sex, breeding, power imbalance, submission, dom/sub, spanking, degradation, pet names, worship, praise kink, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, marking, improper use of a rosary, forbidden love, possessive behavior, dubious morality, obsession, jealousy, slow burn, blasphemy, plot what plot/porn without plot, marriage, begging, caleb fulfilling his prophecy to marry mc

✧ — notes: just priest!caleb fucking and breeding mc on the altar after she confessed her sins—wanting her soul cleansed by him. a thought i had days before easter that made me write this gigantic nasty porn without plot oneshot. i hope u enjoyed the wild sinful ride with me <3

The confessional. It is tonight.

The rain taps gently against the cathedral roof—soft, persistent, like fingertips brushing glass. You step through the heavy doors, and the world behind you vanishes into silence.

Inside, the air is cold, tinged with centuries. It smells of beeswax and incense, like time sealed in amber. Faint smoke still lingers in the rafters, curling toward the arched ceiling like the breath of ghosts.

The hush is deep. Not empty, but full—of prayers, of echoes, of things unsaid. Each of your steps sinks into the silence like a secret. The floor, made of cool, polished stone, reflects the colored light that streams in through the stained glass.

Crimson, cobalt, and gold spill across the nave, painting your skin in fragments of saints and sacrifice. The windows tower above, depicting stories of martyrdom and mercy, their faces staring down with solemn, eternal knowing. You’ve known these windows your whole life. And yet now they seem to burn with judgment.

The pews stretch in rows to either side of you, carved from pale oak and worn soft by devotion. Between them rest narrow stands—each one holding hymnals and Bibles with curled edges, opened and closed by countless trembling hands. A rosary is draped over one, forgotten or perhaps left as penance.

Your dress brushes against your legs as you walk, each step careful, deliberate. The candlelight flickers in alcoves along the walls, casting long shadows that sway and watch. They seem to move with you. Or maybe ahead of you.

You walk past the baptismal font where you were once cradled in holy water. Past the wooden doors of the confessional, their slatted windows dark and closed like eyes half-lidded in sleep. You avoid looking at them. You’re not ready for that part yet.

Your breath trembles as you near the altar.

He is already there.

A figure cloaked in black, bowed in prayer, unmoving. The flickering light outlines his silhouette in gold. The dark fabric clings to his shoulders, heavy with devotion and restraint. His hands are clasped. His lips move, just barely. You cannot hear the words—but you feel them, somehow.

You hesitate. Then step forward.

Your shoes make the faintest creak against the steps, swallowed quickly by the vaulted stillness. Each movement feels too loud. Too alive.

You lower yourself into a bow before the great wooden cross, your gaze falling on the carved figure of Christ. The crown of thorns. The ribs etched in wood. The face turned slightly, as though even He cannot look at you.

You climb the short steps, one at a time. Then kneel on the stair just beneath him—close, but not enough to touch. Not yet.

Your hands rise into a prayer clasp. You bow your head.

But your thoughts are not clean.

Your lashes lower, and all you can feel is the warmth of his presence just above you. The gravity of him. The silence between you vibrating like a held breath.

You are here to confess.

But something in you already knows:

You will not leave absolved.

“Your Reverence,” your voice broke through the silence like a crack in stained glass.

Instantly, it felt as though the very walls had turned against you—thorns blooming from the stone, pricking your skin for daring to disturb his prayer. The altar seemed to hum with disapproval.

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

But then—he breathed in sharply, like he’d been struck. And from his lips came a soft, warning hush, as if silencing you was the only way to silence himself. It was soft, but it sank into your skin like warm wine.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t kind. It echoed like a warning, but it settled deep in your chest, stirring a part of you that had been asleep for too long. It had been years since you last saw him. And even now, kneeling behind him, you recognized him instantly.

He hadn’t changed, not really. Not where it mattered.

Still in prayer, his posture remained perfect—back straight, hands folded, head slightly bowed. His hair was a shade darker now, but it gleamed under the moonlight pouring through the stained glass above. Silky. Soft. Untouched. His side profile had sharpened with age—more defined, more elegant—but it was still the face you once memorized during slow, stolen moments in the university library.

He was still everything you ever wanted.

And yet, now he was untouchable. A man of God. A priest.

“Forgive me, Father,” you murmured, your voice softer now, almost lost in the candlelight. “I didn't mean to interrupt your prayers… it’s my time for confession.”

For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t move.

But then—he rose.

Slow, steady, deliberate. The robes fell from his frame like shadows peeling off stone. His back now fully faced you, cloaking your vision in silhouette. Then, he turned slightly, just enough for his voice to reach you.

“Pips,” he said.

The nickname curled from his lips like a benediction. His mouth tilted into a smile.

That smile.

The one that once warmed a life too cold to bear. The one that made children feel safe, and girls fall in love, and you believe in things again. It hadn’t changed. It was still soft, still unbearably kind, still threaded with a mischief only you ever saw. It was the smile that belonged to the boy who carried your books and dried your tears. The boy who once told you heaven must’ve dropped you off early.

It was a smile that made you want to fall to your knees—not to pray, but to beg for things no prayer could grant.

You shouldn’t feel this. Romancing a priest is pure sin.

…Or is it?

“Come with me,” he said.

His hand reached out—hesitant, trembling slightly at the fingertips—but before your skin could meet, he pulled it back. The air between you folded with tension.

He wasn’t yours anymore.

Once, he was your childhood friend. Once, he was the boy you loved in secret.

Now, he was the Father of a church beloved by all. A holy man. A savior to many.

And yet still—still—the one who saved you first.

You rose slowly, your hands brushing against the fabric of your dress as you stood. Then, without a word, you descended the altar steps, footsteps hushed and reverent as you followed him toward the confessional.

He led you down the side aisle, the folds of his black cassock brushing softly with each step, echoing beside your own. The flickering candlelight followed in your wake, illuminating the worn stone and the stillness that draped the pews like sleep.

Neither of you spoke.

You passed by statues of saints, their faces carved in stone serenity, gazes heavy with judgment—or perhaps sorrow. The rain outside still murmured, its rhythm softer now, like a hymn sung just for the two of you.

Then, he stopped.

The confessional stood at the edge of the transept, tucked between columns like a secret waiting to be told. Its doors were carved from dark wood, heavy and timeworn, the surface etched with crosses faded by decades of penance.

He gestured toward the booth.

You entered one side in silence. The door creaked open, then shut with a soft click, sealing you in. The space was small, cloaked in shadows. The only light came through the ornate lattice screen before you—thin and golden, like threads of heaven stitched between you and him.

You knelt.

The bench beneath you groaned faintly as you settled, hands trembling in your lap. You could hear the rustle of his robes on the other side. He hadn’t spoken yet, but his presence filled the air between the walls. You could almost feel his breath through the wood.

The screen kept you from seeing him fully—only the faint outline of his silhouette, only the curve of his mouth if he leaned close enough.

A moment passed.

Then, finally—

“Speak, my child,” he said, the low timbre of his voice threading through the wooden screen and settling deep in your chest. It vibrated somewhere beneath your ribs, making your heart thump faster than you wished it would.

You tried to gather your thoughts, but they scattered like fragile petals underfoot. The silence in the confessional felt dense, heavy, sacred. His breath—steady and measured—was too loud in this small space, brushing the air between you like a secret. You clutched your hands together, but the prayer clasp trembled and fell apart. The cold inside the booth made your skin feel sensitive, hypersensitive—each breath prickled your arms, each moment stretched like a string pulled too tight.

“Forgive me, Reverend,” you whispered, your voice barely holding. “I’ve been having thoughts.” You faltered, swallowing the guilt rising in your throat. “I’ve tried to cast them out. I swear I have, but…” Your words drifted, as though even saying them was dangerous. Shame coiled around your spine, pressing down.

The silence stretched too long. Just when you thought he might break it, you saw the shape of his mouth shift behind the lattice—slightly open, as if to speak, then hesitating.

“Who is this man,” he asked gently, “if I may ask?”

His voice was soft, but it cut through you like confession itself. You flinched, not from the sound but from what it demanded. You weren’t sure if it was his question or the holiness of the place that made your heart ache more. You felt like the walls could hear you, like the carved saints above the booth leaned in to listen.

You hesitated. A war raged in your chest—between what you should say and what you couldn’t keep hidden any longer. You hadn’t even spoken the truth aloud before. It had always been a private torment. A quiet ache that you carried like a cross. But now, with him just on the other side, with the sacred wood between you, the lie refused to hold.

“They’ve always been about you.”

And with that, it was done. The sin you had carried silently, the one you buried beneath forced smiles and half-sincere prayers, spilled from your lips like a cracked dam. It hung in the air between you, heavy and irreversible. You waited for condemnation. For silence. For shame. But he said nothing. Not at first.

His lips shifted—parting, then pressing together again. His expression, though mostly obscured by the lattice, flickered. You knew that face too well. You watched him carefully, searching for rejection, for disdain. Instead, he gave you that smile. Gentle, practiced, familiar. The same smile you had seen a hundred times on Sundays, when he blessed children and comforted widows. It had always made you feel safe.

But now it hurt. Because now, it meant distance.

“So… you’ve been having sinful thoughts. About me?” he asked, not with judgment, but with something else—something softer. His voice was laced with concern, with warmth, with something dangerously close to longing.

“Yes, Reverend. And I know I can’t. I shouldn’t.” You shook your head slowly, your words beginning to tremble. Tears threatened to rise, and it felt as though the air around you was pressing in too tightly. You wanted to reach through the screen, to press your hand to his, to feel something real between you. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

“I… I’m to be married,” you confessed. The words felt like stones being laid down in front of you, one after another, building a path you never wanted to walk. Your tears slipped quietly down your cheeks. You didn’t bother to wipe them. Your palms were dug into your thighs, fingers curled in tight. You felt your voice break in half as you added, “I never wanted this.”

You hadn’t wanted love to become something conditional. Something lost to tradition and duty. But it had been decided. You were a woman raised in the faith, under your grandmother’s roof, under her rules. A Catholic woman must either marry or become a bride of God. You had no voice in the matter—only obedience.

“I don’t even know the man they’ve chosen for me, Caleb.”

You froze the second his name left your mouth. Too raw. Too familiar. Too forbidden.

“I—I meant Reverend. I’m sorry.” You wiped your cheeks quickly, trying to restore some formality to your voice, but it was too late. The intimacy had cracked open between you, and no title could fix it.

This was supposed to be a confession. It wasn’t meant to become therapy, or longing, or a desperate attempt to bury love beneath ritual. And yet here you were, unraveling before the very man you were trying to forget.

You heard his breath again. It was different now—no longer calm. There was a subtle shift, the sound no longer steady but erratic, staggered. He was still breathing through his nose, trying to stay composed, but it was clear. Something inside him had changed.

“I came here to confess,” you said, almost defensively now, trying to hold onto something that had already crumbled. “To let go. To cast this away before the wedding. I needed to be clean. I needed to kill the demon that made me think this way—especially about someone like you. A man who’s respected. Loved. Sacred.”

You trailed off. Your hands were trembling again. There was no more strength to pretend. Not in front of him.

But on the other side of the lattice, he was silent still. Breathing. Just breathing.

And somehow, that was worse than anything he could have said.

Because in that silence, you heard the one thing that terrified you most.

He felt it too.

“You have always been faithful,” he broke the silence, and the sound of his voice—low, deliberate—sent shivers down your spine. There was something in his tone. Not gentle. Not warm. Cold, like marble. Unforgiving.

You looked up toward the lattice, unable to see much beyond the shadow of his form. But you wished—desperately—that the wall between you would break. That something divine might shatter it, or that he might reach through and pull you from this torment. But nothing moved.

“Always obedient,” he continued, voice smooth as silk laced with steel. “Always pure. Always a good girl.”

The words lodged in your throat like thorns. That praise—God, that praise—it wasn’t meant to come from him. Not here. Not in this sacred, confining space. You weren’t a good girl. Not now. Not when your thighs had tensed at the sound of his voice. Not when you had touched yourself the night before while imagining those lips murmuring holy things against your skin.

You wanted to scream, to deny it. You wanted to confess the truth of who you were beneath the purity he believed in—or pretended to. But the words wouldn’t come.

You heard him shift. A soft rustle of fabric, a faint movement—closer now. The sound echoed in the tiny space between you. He wasn’t touching the lattice. But he was near enough for you to feel it. The warmth. The gravity of him.

“Some love,” he said slowly, “is born only to be tested.” A pause. Then a breath, heavy, reverent. “And some prayers,” he exhaled, “should never be answered.”

His voice trailed off like incense smoke curling toward the ceiling. Then—nothing. Silence again, deep and terrible. It swallowed everything.

You could hear your own heartbeat, wild in your ears. Your breathing—too fast, too shallow. You shouldn’t be feeling this. Not in the confessional. Not with him.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

And he just waited.

The stillness between you stretched, pulling taut like a string threatening to snap.

You didn’t know—couldn’t know—that he had planned for this. That he had seen your name on the list. That he had made certain he would be in this booth today, waiting for you. Listening to you. Testing you.

Tempting you.

The silence pressed in around you, thick as velvet. It wrapped around your skin, sank into your lungs. The kind of silence that made you forget where you were—only that you were being watched. Not just by him, but by something older, higher, crueler. Every flickering candle, every carved saint, every fragment of stained glass bearing witness to your descent.

And still, he said nothing.

But he didn’t have to.

The air had already shifted. You could feel it—an unspoken weight settling over both of you, thick as oil and far too warm. He was waiting. Not as a priest. Not as a guide. But as something far more dangerous. A man cloaked in holy black, coaxing you with the patience of a saint and the hunger of a sinner. He was waiting for you to surrender.

Your fingers tightened where they rested in your lap, nails grazing skin, your palms damp with heat. You didn’t know how to begin. Didn’t know how to speak the words that had once only belonged in dreams—secret and desperate things meant to die in the dark. But they were rising now, unbidden, unholy, and you didn’t want to stop them.

“Tell me,” he said at last, his voice no longer the cool blade it had been, but something warm now, deeper, smooth like dark wine poured into a golden chalice. “Tell me what these thoughts looked like.”

You inhaled, shaky and thin, your eyes darting toward the lattice. His shadow was still there—still silent and unreadable—but his presence had changed. There was tension in it now. Heat. Anticipation.

“I…” Your voice faltered. Your cheeks were already burning. “I can’t. Reverend, I can’t say it. Thoughts like these… they don’t belong here. Not in this room. Not in this church.”

You looked down, ashamed of your own boldness. This was sacred space. And you were turning it into something impure.

You had come here with the weight of years pressed on your chest—years of silence, of longing, of loneliness. You had come here, not just for absolution, but with a prayer even you couldn’t name. A hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d look at you the way he used to, back when you were young and foolish and still believed in things like fated love.

But he was a priest now. A man revered. A man entrusted with salvation.

And you… you were just a sinner with trembling hands and a body that ached for things no sermon could erase.

“I need to know,” he said, a smile blooming in his voice—low, rich, and far too knowing. “How can I help you cleanse yourself, Pip-Squeak, if I don’t even know where the stain lies?”

He chuckled then, the sound soft but intimate, curling around your ears like smoke. It struck something deep inside you, something hungry, something ancient. You felt the way your legs pressed tighter together, the way your breath hitched just at the sound of it.

You should have stopped. You should have fled.

But this might be the last time you ever see him.

“I…” Your throat tightened around the words. “I thought of your hands.”

Even saying that made your pulse race.

“On me,” you whispered, barely able to breathe. “Not to comfort. Not to bless. Just… on my skin. Exploring. Possessing.”

The moment the words left your lips, you felt something unravel inside you. Like a string that had been pulled too tight for too long had finally snapped. And you couldn’t stop now.

You couldn’t see his face, but you heard the breath he let out—low, heavy, almost shaky. It wasn’t disapproval. It wasn’t shock.

It was something much closer to relief.

“And how,” he asked slowly, “did you want me to touch you?”

His voice was calm. Pastoral. The kind of tone meant to soothe. But it felt like a test, like he was feeding fire to see how brightly you would burn. You felt it in the way your skin tingled, in the way your breath quickened. He was still playing the reverend, but every word was a step closer to the edge.

“Reverend, I—”

“Caleb.”

His name cut through the air like thunder.

Your whole body jolted.

That was not the voice of a priest. That was not holy. That was him—the real him, the one buried beneath the collar and robes and years of distance. Sharp. Commanding. Possessive.

“Call me Caleb,” he said again, lower this time, almost tender.

You swallowed the heat rising in your throat, your voice shaking as you gave in.

“Caleb,” you whispered, the syllable cracking open something deep inside you. “I always imagine your hands... slowly running up my thighs, over my hips, up to my ribs.” You exhaled, shaky. “I imagine you pausing there—just long enough to hear me beg—and then moving higher. I want your hands on my breasts. I want your fingers teasing the tips of my nipples until I’m shaking, gasping, whispering your name like a broken prayer.”

You heard him move on the other side of the lattice. Not much. Just a shift. But enough to know he was listening. Hanging on every word.

“I want to be laid bare in front of you,” you continued, eyes closed now, shame and need swirling in equal measure. “I want to be underneath you, completely exposed, while you look at me like I’m nothing but temptation itself. I want you to command me. To order me. Like I’m the devil’s own creature, sent to test your will.”

You could barely breathe.

Your thighs clenched. Your hands trembled. You didn’t know whose breath was louder now—yours or his.

“I want to be ruined,” you whispered, “by the man I was told to worship from a distance. I want to be claimed. Marked. Made yours.”

And then, softer. Quieter.

“I want you to breed me, Caleb. I want you to fill me again and again until there’s no part of me that doesn’t belong to you. I want to carry your child—not in shame, but in devotion. As atonement. As worship.”

The confessional pulsed with silence.

But nothing about it felt holy anymore.

Behind the lattice, you caught the faintest curve of his lips—a smile. Soft, serene. Almost saintly.

It unsettled you.

How could he smile like that—so calm, so composed—when your body was trembling, your thoughts stained with everything sacred and forbidden? How could he look at you with such quiet kindness after the filth you’d just confessed?

But then, he spoke.

And his words didn’t match the expression at all.

“My sweet girl,” he said softly, voice like velvet against your ears, “you’ve carried this sin for so long… and yet, you still look to me for forgiveness.”

You stilled, the breath catching in your throat. There was no judgment in his voice. No disappointment. Only something deeper. Richer. A kind of hunger masked as care.

He continued, slow and measured, like every word was chosen for its weight.

“You’ve spent your nights dreaming of my hands, my mouth, my body. You’ve imagined how it would feel to be beneath me, filled, ruined—claimed.” His voice dipped lower. “And still, you come here, to this church, thinking you’ll find absolution. Thinking you’ll be cleansed.”

You could feel the heat curling inside you again—stronger now. Almost unbearable.

“But you’ve misunderstood,” he murmured. “This place is not where you’re purified, Pip-Squeak. It’s where you surrender.”

Your eyes widened, heart pounding. The air in the confessional was too thick now, too close. You couldn’t breathe without inhaling him—his words, his scent, the soft, sacred ache of his voice.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he whispered, still smiling behind the screen. “Even when you try to look away. I’ve seen the tremble in your hands when we share communion. The way your lips part when I speak.”

You could barely hold yourself upright. Shame and want coiled together like thorns under your skin.

“I arranged this moment for you,” he confessed. “I made sure it was me sitting behind this screen. I wanted to hear it. I needed to know just how deeply I’ve carved myself into you.”

You gasped quietly, a soft whimper caught between horror and desire.

“I’ve known for a long time,” he said gently, “that you’d never be able to forget me. Not truly. Not with the way you whisper my name when you think no one hears. Not with the way you ache when I touch your hand during blessing.”

He paused. Let it hang. Let it simmer.

“Don’t you see?” he said, voice now just above a whisper. “Your sin… was never in thinking of me.”

His next words were slower, darker, rich with promise.

“Your sin was in not letting me have you.”

The silence stretched like a lifetime unraveling—deep, suffocating, as though the very air between you had thickened. You inhaled shakily, your chest rising with disbelief. His words echoed in your ears, over and over, like a psalm twisted into something forbidden. He wanted you. He desired you. All that piety, all those prayers—his devotion had not been for God. It had been for you.

“Caleb, I—” you whispered, your voice trembling as you reached through the carved gap in the lattice, fingertips trembling with hope, aching to touch him. To feel even the brush of his hand. But the moment your fingers brushed the open air, he recoiled. His hand withdrew like you were fire—like he had been burned.

As if he hadn’t just shattered your soul with the truth.

As if none of it had been real.

“I’m sorry, Pip-squeak,” he murmured, and the softness in his voice made it worse. Too gentle. Too cruel. It held no resolve, no certainty—only guilt, polished and sharp. Your stomach twisted. No. No, this couldn’t be backpedaling. Not now. Not after everything.

“I should have contained myself,” he continued, and his words broke you. “I made an oath. I’m not just the boy you knew anymore. I’m a priest. I have no right to lust after anyone—especially not you.”

And with that, all the air was stolen from your lungs. The flicker of hope that had dared to rise in your chest—gone. He turned away, slowly, and from the gap between you, something small and delicate dropped into your hand.

A rosary.

Elegant, dark red beads shimmered against your skin—cool, smooth, lovingly chosen. A beautiful offering. A quiet rejection.

“Take this. Use it when you pray. I’ll arrange another meeting with a different reverend—someone more… disciplined,” he said, standing now, his voice tightening as he stepped back. “I’m not fit to hear your confessions anymore. I can’t help you. I’ve already failed you.”

He turned, reaching for the confessional door. His robes whispered against the wood, the sound like parting wings. But just before he stepped out, he paused—his profile half-lit by the flickering candlelight.

And he smiled.

Not a warm smile. Not cruel either. Just… unreadable. Quietly ironic. It was a paradox, that expression—so soft, so subtle, and yet it didn’t match the penitent words that had come before it. You couldn’t tell what he wanted. Couldn’t tell if he was leaving you behind… or waiting for you to chase him.

He stepped into the aisle, disappearing into the dark sanctuary beyond.

But you didn’t move.

You remained kneeling for a moment longer, your knees numb, your breath shallow, your hands clenched tightly around the rosary that felt like a curse. And then something inside you snapped—loud and sharp and undeniable.

No.

No, you couldn’t let this slip through your fingers. You couldn’t walk away and accept a life bound to a stranger, to a marriage you didn’t want. You had tasted the edge of something sacred and feral, and you would not let it go.

You surged to your feet, robes swishing around your ankles as you ran through the cathedral. The air burned in your lungs. Candlelight streaked past you, warping the saints and angels into ghosts as you chased his shadow up the stairs. You called his name—broken, pleading, not in prayer but in desperation.

And then—you reached him.

He had stopped before the altar, his back to you, shoulders bowed as if ready to fall into prayer again. But you grabbed him—your hands clutching his arm, your touch shaking with fury and want.

“Caleb,” you gasped, your voice cracking, “please. One chance. Just one. Allow me to commit this sin and carry the guilt—before I’m shackled into something I never asked for.”

He didn’t speak.

So you pressed on, breathless and trembling.

“I don’t care if I’m to be married. I don’t want him. I never did. Please… just this once—taint me. Make me yours so I can’t belong to anyone else.”

That was the breaking point.

You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his hands slowly curled into fists. And then—without a word—he turned.

His hand seized your waist, firm and unyielding, and he pulled you flush against him. The sudden closeness knocked the breath from your chest. You could feel everything—his breath against your cheek, the thunder of his heartbeat against yours, the heat between your bodies that had always been there, waiting to be claimed.

His other hand rose, slow and deliberate, and pressed two fingers beneath your chin, tilting your face up. Then, those same fingers slid down, wrapping around your throat. Not to harm, but to hold. Possession, pure and holy.

“You have no idea what you’re asking,” he whispered, his breath brushing your lips, his eyes locked on yours with something darker than longing. “Be careful, Pip-squeak. Because if I say yes—if I give you what you’re begging for…”

He leaned closer, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth, his voice no longer gentle, but a vow.

“I won’t stop. There will be no betrothed. No more prayers to cleanse you.”

He licked the edge of your ears, slow and deliberate, and your whole body arched into him with a soft, desperate moan you couldn’t contain.

“I will ruin you. I’ll make you mine in every way the church says I shouldn’t. I’ll bury myself inside you until your body remembers nothing but me.”

His grip tightened at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

“I won’t let you go,” he growled, “not again.”

His irises darkened, deepening into a shade like violet blood—rich, ancient, and hungry. The passion in his gaze no longer shimmered beneath the surface, no longer cloaked in guilt. It bloomed now, wild and uncontrollable, like a flower that had finally burst through the soil after years of suppression. No burden. No veil. Only want.

And you saw it. You felt it—in the way his fingers clenched tighter around your waist, as though he feared you might vanish. As though he had already lost you once and refused to risk it again. His grip was no longer gentle. It was possession.

How could you—merely a sinful, trembling creature before the divine—deny the priest who had already been yours in secret?

“Then don’t, Caleb,” you whispered, your voice soft, reverent, almost worshipful. Your hands rose to cradle his face, thumbs stroking along the edge of his jaw with aching tenderness. His skin was warm beneath your touch, alive with the kind of heat that could melt sanctity itself.

“Don’t ever let me go,” you breathed, your words barely more than air, “ruin me… consume me, like I am the communion and the wine. Take me as if I were the apple, bitten and bold—tempted by Eve, offered to Adam, as the serpent laughs and God turns away.”

Your eyes met his—wide, wet, unwavering. His breathing was uneven now, ragged, thick with restraint unraveled. His pupils blown wide, devouring you like scripture rewritten in flesh.

“Take me, Caleb,” you said, voice no longer pleading, but resolute. A sacred declaration. A promise. This was your moment. Your fall. Your offering. You had waited long enough to become the Eve of your own story—to tempt the man who was once salvation, now sin. To drag him from the heavens and pull him into you.

He stared at you for one long, breathless second.

And then—he smiled.

Not holy. Not kind.

But hungry.

“With pleasure, Pips,” he murmured, voice deep with something primal, something unholy, and beautiful in its blasphemy.

Before you could react, he spun you by the waist, his grip firm and unrelenting, and pushed you forward—your body guided not roughly, but with the precision of a man who had imagined this a thousand times. You stumbled slightly, catching yourself against the edge of the altar, your hands splayed on the white linen cloth that once held chalices and scripture.

Now, it would hold you.

You looked back at him over your shoulder, your breath shallow, your heart pounding like a liturgical drum. He stood behind you, towering, silent, reverent—his gaze devouring every inch of you like he was memorizing a psalm written on skin.

This was not the priest.

This was the man beneath the collar.

And you were no longer the sinner.

You were the sacrament.

“On the altar, honey,” he murmured, his voice dipped in something sweet and dangerous—menacingly saccharine, like poisoned honey. His hands guided you back, gently but firmly, until your spine met the cool linen-draped table. His touch lingered like reverence, like a prayer not yet spoken.

To him, you must’ve looked like temptation incarnate—your flushed skin glowing in the golden candlelight, long hair fanned out over sacred cloth, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. A vision of sin made flesh, sprawled out where offerings to God were meant to be placed. But tonight, you were the offering.

He traced the shape of your body with a single finger, slow and deliberate, dragging it over the tight curve of your red dress—the one you chose just for this night, just for him. Each pass of his touch sent a thrill crawling across your skin, your thighs tensing with every inch he explored.

“This was intentional, wasn’t it?” he whispered, lips brushing just above your navel as he pressed a kiss there—soft, delicate, intoxicating. You felt butterflies erupt beneath your skin, fluttering desperately under his breath. “You came here wearing this dress that no good Catholic girl would ever wear. You chose my hour in the confessional. Scheduled yourself with me.”

You couldn’t speak. Your head was light, your limbs loose and tingling from the weight of his words and the unbearable heat of his touch. The anticipation dripped from you like holy oil.

He smirked. And then his hands moved lower, gripping your waist hard, like he was claiming you piece by piece.

You gasped, body jolting at the force of it.

“Answer me,” he commanded, the sweetness gone, replaced by steel. His brow furrowed in mock disappointment, his voice like thunder behind stained glass. You nodded weakly, unable to count how many times you’d already said yes to him—in your mind, in your dreams, in the silent ache between your thighs.

“Good,” he purred. “I love it when you give yourself over to me. When your mind shuts down and your body remembers who you belong to.”

His hands slid down, finding the buttons of your dress. He gripped the fabric with both hands and yanked—ripping it apart with one swift, sinful motion. The sound echoed like a heresy in the sacred space. You gasped, heart racing, body bare beneath him.

From above, you saw his expression shift. His mouth fell open slightly. His pupils darkened further, almost black. His face—usually unreadable—now twisted with hunger. He looked at you as if you were the first woman he’d ever seen. As if you were not just desired… but worshipped.

“You look so divine, Pip-squeak,” he growled, voice low and trembling. His hands came up to your chest, cupping your breasts with greedy reverence, his thumbs flicking across your nipples—once, then again, harder, rougher, until your body arched into him. The pleasure bloomed sharp and sudden, your breath catching in a gasp.

“Caleb, I—”

He shushed you immediately, placing two fingers over your lips as his eyes gleamed.

“No words now. Only your sounds. Only your body,” he whispered. “Let me learn it like the Bible.”

And then he did. He moved over you like a man discovering lost relics—hands sliding across your stomach, down your thighs, along your ribs, over your curves. Every part of you was touched like it was rare, precious. As if every inch of skin was sacred parchment he intended to study and memorize.

But when his eyes lowered between your legs, his expression changed again—this time to something quieter. Something awed.

You scrambled to close your thighs, the instinctual shame creeping up your spine. But his hands were faster—firm at your knees, pushing them apart with command.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “I never told you to close your legs.”

And then he saw you.

His gaze locked between your thighs, reverent and consuming. You turned your face away, too overwhelmed to meet his stare, too undone to endure the worship in his expression.

“You’re untouched,” he murmured. His thumb grazed your folds—slow, featherlight, unbearably gentle. “So pink. So soft. Your little petals hiding everything sacred inside.”

You whimpered, unable to speak, trembling under the heat of his voice and the slow, circling motion of his thumb. You could hear it now—the wet sound of your arousal, soft and obscene in the quiet church. It should’ve filled you with shame.

But all you felt was need.

“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered, pressing just slightly deeper, letting his thumb slide through your slick folds as if he were parting holy pages. “This is all for me, isn’t it?”

You nodded. He smiled.

“Then let me worship you.”

And then—he lowered himself.

His lips brushed your inner thigh, trailing upward, each kiss placed like benediction. His hands held your thighs wide open as he reached your center, breath warm against your slick entrance. And then his mouth found you—devoured you.

His tongue lapped at your clit slowly, then faster, lips closing around you as if drawing out sin itself. You cried out, moaning his name like a prayer, like it was the only one you remembered. His fingers gripped your thighs harder, anchoring you in place, as his mouth wrote psalms into your body—his tongue spelling out lust and salvation in every circle, every flick, every sinful kiss.

You arched. You gasped. You sobbed his name.

And still—he kept going.

“Gods, you taste like devotion,” he groaned against your folds. “Like you were made just for this.”

And in that moment, as your body trembled on the altar, thighs parted for a man who wore a collar he never truly obeyed—

You believed him.

His fingers trailed downward, slow and exploratory, until they found the slick heat of your folds. He teased the entrance just below where his tongue had ravaged your clit, circling the soft, wet opening with the gentleness of someone handling something precious—something never touched before. Your body arched sharply, your back curving off the altar in a broken cry. It was too much—too much pressure, too much pleasure, too much him.

Your gasped whispers of “Caleb” unraveled into helpless moans as his finger gently breached you, the motion deliberate and careful, but impossibly overwhelming. Your body clamped down around him, wet and trembling, your inner walls drawing him in like they had been waiting for him all your life.

“Let me open you up, alright, baby?” he whispered against your skin, his voice dripping with affection. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to make it perfect for you.” His tone was velvet, contrasting the way his tongue resumed its relentless worship of your clit—wet, fast, devout, like he was trying to write a hymn with his mouth.

His finger moved deeper, slowly curling to explore you from the inside—his touch searching, learning, memorizing the feel of your tight, trembling heat. He found rhythm, divine and sinful, his tongue lapping furiously at your swollen bud while his finger pressed deeper, coaxing moans from your lips like a choir from a cathedral dome.

But then, pain.

It was sharp, unfamiliar, a sting beneath the waves of pleasure.

“Caleb… it hurts…” you murmured, your voice broken and soft. This was your first time—your body had never been opened by another’s touch. You tried to hold back the sobs, your forearm covering your eyes to hide the tears you couldn’t stop. Hiccups escaped you, trembling from your chest, fragile as confession.

And he stopped.

“Aw, Pip-squeak…” he cooed gently, his voice laced with guilt and warmth as he moved up to you. “Was that too much?”

He pushed your hand away from your face, just enough to see the mess of tears on your cheeks, the swollen red of your eyes, the vulnerability etched across every inch of you. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your eyelids—soft, reverent, like you were a butterfly he feared would break in his hands. A breath of love after a storm of lust.

“No, Caleb… it’s all just new,” you whispered through your hiccups, the words slurring as you clung to the edges of control. “I’m not used to it. That’s all.”

He looked at you like you were the most fragile and sacred thing he’d ever touched. As if you weren’t a girl laid bare on an altar, but a miracle. His hand found yours, guiding your palm to his cheek, pressing your fingers into the heat of his skin.

“I know,” he said, voice low and warm. “I know, honey. Let me take care of you.” He nuzzled into your touch like it was the only truth he needed. “You’re going to have a beautiful first night. With me. Just relax. I’ll do everything. All you need to do is feel.”

And before you could answer, his mouth claimed yours.

The kiss was not gentle. It was fierce, hungry, consuming. Your lips moved in a tangled, heated rhythm, tongues sliding and curling, mouths parting only to let out breathless moans. You could feel his teeth grazing your lip, then biting—a sting sharp enough to make your knees buckle. He drew blood, and then licked it away, eyes dark with pride at the mark he left.

Then—his hand was back between your legs.

He slid the same finger inside you again, slow but insistent, and you gasped into his mouth. Your lips were still locked with his, the kiss muffling your cries, your body arching beneath him. He didn’t stop. His hand was working you open again, pushing and curling with more purpose now—loving you, preparing you, ruining you.

And then—another finger joined.

You cried out against his lips, breath stolen, chest heaving. His fingers scissored you open, stretching you with maddening care, moving in and out with slick, obscene sounds that echoed through the sacred chamber. Every motion felt like a new world cracking open inside you—every nerve alight, every breath sharp.

“Fuck—Pip-squeak,” he groaned, watching your face twist in pleasure. “You really are my testament, aren’t you?”

He pumped his fingers deeper, faster, pressing into that sacred spot inside you that made you sob. Your whole body buckled, trembling under the rhythm of his fingers.

“Crying for me… moaning like that…” He kissed your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. “You said you’d walk through hell with me, didn’t you?”

Your breath came in stutters, your body grinding down into his hand, chasing the pleasure like a lifeline. You couldn’t speak. You could only feel.

And then—he stopped.

You whined—needy, devastated.

He pulled his fingers from your soaked heat, the emptiness making your body clench on instinct, your folds slick and pulsing.

“Caleb, what—”

“I can’t wait anymore,” he said, his voice hoarse, desperate. “I think you’re ready. And I need to be inside you, now.”

You watched, spellbound, as he stood upright and reached for the belt around his waist. One by one, his fingers undid the layers of his robe, revealing him beneath—the slow unveiling of a god, not a man. He peeled back the fabric as if shedding holiness itself, as if casting off the weight of every prayer he’d ever made. And what remained beneath…

Was divine.

He was sculpted like marble. Veins coiled along thick forearms, chest broad and heaving, every line of his body drawn with aching precision. It was like something ancient. Like Zeus had carved him from his own likeness, then cast him into a collar to suffer the burden of flesh.

And now, here he stood. Unburdened. Unholy. Yours.

All words fled your mouth. All thoughts vanished. You were no longer a girl with a name, or a sinner with shame.

You were his.

At his mercy. At his altar.

And Caleb—your priest, your first love, your god-made-flesh—was about to make you his church.

When he pulled down the final barrier between you—his undergarments falling to the floor with a soft, weighted thud—it echoed like a vow unspoken. The air shifted, heavy and thick with want. And what you saw made your breath catch in your throat.

He was hard. Gloriously hard.

Thick, veined, and flushed with heat, his cock stood proudly between his thighs—an offering, a punishment, a blessing all at once. You had never seen anything like it, not even in those nights alone with your phone dimmed low and your heart racing in guilt. This… this was real. It was beautiful in a way that made your body ache—his shaft a soft, dusky pink with golden undertones, the crown swollen and weeping beads of precum that glistened like sacred oil under the candlelight. It pulsed with restrained desire, the veins beneath his skin standing rigid with anticipation, as if every part of him had been waiting to be released inside you.

He watched your reaction closely, and you realized—he wanted you to look. He wanted you to witness him like this. Bared. Ready. Sacred.

“It’s…” you whispered, breathless, lips trembling as you tried not to stare, “it’s so big, Caleb. I—” your voice cracked slightly, “I don’t think it’ll fit.”

He stepped closer, the heat of his body brushing against your thighs as he leaned down, his hand curling around your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lips grazing your jawline, “it will. And if it doesn’t…” he kissed the corner of your mouth, slowly, deliberately, “I’ll make it fit.”

You shivered beneath him, but his next kiss melted your resistance. It was softer this time—reassuring, protective. His lips moved against yours with a slowness that made you ache, a tenderness that threatened to undo you entirely. He kissed you like he’d never get to again. Like this was both prayer and farewell.

And then—you felt it.

The thick, flushed tip nudged against your folds, slick with both your arousal and his need. Your body jolted at the contact, instinctively trying to pull back, but he held you steady. His hand moved from your cheek to your jaw, cradling you gently but firmly, his thumb stroking the curve of your chin.

“Shh,” he whispered against your lips, “don’t run. Just feel me. Let me love you through it.”

Then—he pushed in.

The stretch was impossible. Raw. Blinding. Your inner walls strained to accommodate him, the head of his cock parting you in a slow, aching invasion that made every nerve in your body seize and tremble. He was too big—too thick, too much—and you cried out, your breath hitching in your throat.

“C-Caleb, it won’t fit,” you gasped, tears pricking your lashes. “It’s too much, I—I can’t—”

But he didn’t let go. He pressed a soft kiss to your nose, eyes full of reverence.

“Trust me,” he said gently. “You can. You’re doing so well. Just relax. Don’t tense up. Let your body take me.”

He kissed your temple, then your jaw, and then your lips again—his mouth never leaving yours as he pushed in deeper, inch by inch, each movement slow and reverent. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid deeper into your warmth. The pressure was maddening, the stretch a sweet agony. He was molding you to him—reshaping you around his cock like you were meant for it.

Your moans were breathless, broken, rising in pitch with every inch he claimed. You felt your pulse in your throat, your fingertips, your womb.

And then—he paused.

He looked down at where you were joined, your slick folds stretched wide around him, your body trembling, your breath hitching with each twitch of his hips. His lips curled into a smile, soft and ruined.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re taking me so well, baby. And this…” he rocked his hips slightly, making you whimper, “this is only halfway.”

Your eyes flew open.

Halfway?

He met your gaze, eyes dark with devotion and desire.

“We’ll take it slow,” he whispered. “I’ll teach your body how to love me. How to worship me.”

And then—he began to thrust.

Slow, deep, rolling movements that dragged his cock against every untouched nerve inside you. Each push was gentle, yet commanding. Every retreat was followed by a deeper plunge, opening you wider, stretching you further, claiming you with each pass.

You sobbed beneath him—not from pain, not anymore—but from the sheer overwhelming pleasure. He filled you so completely, so intimately, that you didn’t know where your body ended and his began.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice breaking, “you’re perfect—tight, warm, mine. You were made to take me, Pip-squeak. This—” he grunted as he thrust deeper, “this is where you belong.”

Your nails raked down his back, clinging to him, needing something to anchor you as the altar shook beneath your bodies. His forehead pressed against yours. His lips hovered above your mouth, panting into you like he was drowning.

“I’m going to ruin you for anyone else,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m going to fill you so full of me, you’ll feel me for days.”

And you believed him.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was worship. This was prophecy.

And he was your god now.

And this god—this man who had once belonged to the altar—was now the one thrusting into you, deeper and deeper, with a rhythm so consuming it blurred the edge of pain and bliss. With each slow push, he reached into places no one ever had—into your body, into your soul. As if this was your final absolution. As if this… was your cleansing of sin.

“Let me feel you deeper, alright?” he murmured, his voice low and full of heat, brushing your ear like a sacrament. “It might sting a bit, but stay with me, my love.” He kissed you again—tender, warm, anchoring—his lips moving over yours in a slow, open rhythm that steadied your breath as much as it stole it.

Your nails found his back again, digging in harder this time, leaving half-moon imprints across the muscles of his shoulders. He welcomed it—grunted into your mouth—and thrust deeper. The stretch was too much, too perfect, and yet you clung to it, welcoming the ache like revelation.

His lips traveled to your throat, then down the delicate slope of your neck. And when his pace quickened, his hips rolling deeper into yours, the sound of slick skin and desperate breathing filled the chapel air. The sensation was overwhelming—every sense dissolved into him. Your vision blurred, your ears rang with the sound of your own heartbeat, and the warmth of his body became the only truth you knew.

He found your collarbone with his mouth, kissing it reverently before biting down—not gently. The bite was harsh, branding. A mark meant to last. You gasped and arched into him, tears spilling down your cheeks—not from pain, but from something greater. You were overwhelmed, undone, and entirely his.

“Caleb…” you whimpered, voice caught in a moan. “It’s… starting to feel so good…”

He chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Knew it, baby,” he murmured between kisses. “Knew you’d take me like this. Like your body belongs to me.”

His rhythm was no longer careful—it was erratic now, frantic, unrelenting. The god inside him had broken free. There was no restraint left, only desire carved deep by years of silence and prayer. You felt the pressure building again, something enormous and electric gathering in your belly, and you didn’t understand it—but you craved it.

“Caleb, please—please—it feels… so strange,” you sobbed into his shoulder, your voice high and trembling.

He slowed just for a second, lips brushing your temple, smiling like he’d known this moment would come. “You want to come, baby?” he asked softly, lovingly. “Then come for me. You have my permission.”

And then—release.

The world shattered in white.

Your first orgasm rippled through you like holy fire, curling your toes, arching your spine, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body clenched around him, your cries echoing through the cathedral like sacred hymns, and all you could feel was him—Caleb, Caleb, Caleb—claiming every part of you as if he’d waited lifetimes for this moment.

When your body finally slumped against his, spent and trembling, he gathered you in his arms like something sacred. His hand found the back of your neck, fingers brushing your hair, the other wrapped around your back, lifting you into his lap like a prize, a promise.

“Like it, baby?” he whispered, kissing your forehead, your cheek, your nose. You nodded wordlessly, still floating somewhere between earth and heaven, still pulsing from the aftershocks. “Yeah,” he smiled, his voice soft with wonder, “I can tell.”

Then—he reached for something.

The rosary.

Your rosary.

Dark red beads caught the moonlight streaming through the stained glass, the glow painting your skin in sacred crimson. He unclasped it gently, looped it around your throat, and fastened it like a necklace of devotion. It was weightless and warm, like it had always belonged there.

“You look divine in red,” he whispered, tucking your hair behind your ear. “The hickeys. The tears. The rosary on your throat.” His thumb caressed your cheek as he studied you—eyes soft and worshipful. “You are… heavenly. I’m so fucking glad you chose me.”

You were dazed. Drenched in love. You looked up at him, and for the first time, truly saw him.

The boy you had known was long gone.

What sat before you was a man—a god, a beast, a lover—shaped by prayer, by pain, by desire.

His violet-hued eyes bore into you. His jaw sharp. His lips chapped from too many kisses. His body sculpted like myth, veined and divine, as though made by the same hands that shaped the stars.

And then—he leaned in, voice low and trembling.

“I’m not done with you yet, Pip-squeak.”

Your eyes widened.

“W-what?”

He kissed your mouth—slow and deep.

“On your back, love,” he murmured. “I haven’t had my share. And I intend to fulfill my prophecy—as your future husband.”

Your breath caught as he slowly withdrew from your body, leaving you achingly empty. He helped you to stand, your legs barely steady beneath you. His hands stayed on your waist, guiding you like a lamb, reverent and possessive.

“Hands on the altar,” he said gently, pushing you forward. “Arch your back for me, sweetheart.”

You obeyed.

He leaned down, whispering into your ear, his palm stroking the curve of your spine. “Perfect. Look at you. My obedient little wife.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Caleb…” you gasped. “You’re a priest. You… you can’t marry me. I’m a sinner—”

He stilled behind you.

And then—a quiet laugh. Dark. Dangerous.

His hand gripped your hip, pulling you back against him. The tip of his cock nudged your entrance once more, the heat of him radiating through your trembling thighs.

“I’ll make arrangements,” he said simply. “The moment I breed you… the moment I seal this bond… you’re mine. And no one—no one—will take you away from me.”

He turned your face just enough to kiss you again—deep, claiming, final.

And then, he entered you once more, slowly, fully, with a groan of pure relief.

This time, Caleb wasn’t letting you off easy.

There was no gentleness left in him—only hunger, only need. He drove into you with a rhythm that felt like judgment day: relentless, punishing, divine. His thrusts were thunderous, dragging cries and whimpers from your throat that echoed through the hollow sanctuary like ruined hymns. Each motion forced a sob of pleasure from your lips, your body trembling with every drag of him, every delicious, overwhelming stretch.

“Too deep, Caleb… please—” you moaned, the words barely intelligible between broken breaths.

Your legs had long since given up. Your thighs quivered with exhaustion, and your knees threatened to buckle with every thrust. But before you could collapse, his hand gripped your cheeks—strong, unyielding—guiding you right back into the position he wanted.

“Keep your posture, Pip-squeak,” he growled, his voice rough, breath hot at your ear, and you obeyed like the good little subject he’d made of you.

You let your forehead rest against the altar, body limp under his force, your senses shredded from the high of your first orgasm. But he wasn’t finished with you. He hadn’t even begun to show you what it meant to be his.

Because you wanted it.

You wanted to be ruined again. Used, over and over. You wanted to be his sanctuary and his sacrilege—his only cocksleeve, his blasphemy made flesh.

You pushed your hips back, seeking friction, desperate for the sound—the slick, vulgar squelch that made your thighs shake and his groan rattle through your spine.

“Fuck,” he laughed, dark and delighted. “Look at you. My little whore can’t even wait for my rhythm—now you’re fucking yourself on my cock like a common slut.”

His hand groped your ass, fingers digging into the soft curve before delivering a sharp smack that made your whole body jolt. Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry, eyes fluttering as the sting bloomed across your skin.

“You really are the devil,” he muttered, his voice nearly reverent. “You came here to torment me. To make a man of God fall to his knees for you. And now look at you.”

He reached for the back of your neck where the rosary lay tangled, tugging gently until the red beads tightened around your throat, grazing over the bruises and bite marks he’d left before.

“Imagine me breeding you on the altar,” he whispered, thrusting deeper until you gasped. “Filling you up like a sacrifice. Just you, me, and God watching.”

Then he pulled.

The beads clinked and tightened, the tension making you jolt, your moans gasping and ragged as the cross at the center pressed into your throat. You were sure it would leave a mark—like a collar. Like proof.

“You’d look perfect,” he said, voice low and shaking with lust. “With this mark. Everyone would know who you belong to.”

He loosened it, just long enough for you to breathe, only to tighten it again—controlling the rhythm like a prayer. Your eyes rolled back, tears streaming freely, your body twitching from the overstimulation.

“Caleb…” you sobbed, voice hoarse, lost. “I-I’m close again…”

“I know you are,” he murmured, lips brushing your spine, his teeth catching on your shoulder. “You were made for this. For me.”

His thrusts deepened, the rhythm brutal and beautiful all at once. Your walls clenched hard around him, your body desperate to drag him further inside, to pull him into your core and never let go.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Pips,” he groaned. “But I’ll die with a smile if it means I get to leave it all inside you.”

And then you broke.

Again.

This time harder. This time deeper. Your orgasm crashed through you like a holy reckoning, violent and luminous, a star exploding behind your eyes. Your body seized and shivered uncontrollably, walls fluttering around him as your vision went white. You screamed his name like it was torn from your soul, your throat raw from the effort, from praising him.

It was all too much—the relentless thrusts, the rosary tight against your throat, the weight of him pounding into your most sacred places. The hot stretch of his cock as it hit that tender, deepest spot. The scent of sweat and salt and sex thick in the air. The wet sounds of your bodies clashing, your skin slick against the altar.

You were sobbing now, lips parted, gasping for air between high-pitched moans and fevered, half-sobbed whispers.

“Thank you,” you cried, “thank you, Caleb… thank you for using me… for making me yours… thank you for claiming me—”

He growled—actually growled—his breath hot at your ear, hips stuttering against you as his grip on your hips tightened.

“I’m gonna fill you now, baby,” he moaned, the words shaky and broken with need. “Say it again.”

“Thank you,” you begged. “Thank you for choosing me—thank you for breaking me—thank you for taking me like this.”

Your hands clutched the altar cloth, nails tearing into the fabric, body writhing against his. “Thank you for fucking me, for ruining me… for cleansing me. Thank you for not holding back. Thank you for loving me like this.”

“Gods” he gasped, shuddering behind you. “Fuck—”

And that was all he needed.

With one final, forceful thrust, he sank himself so deep inside you it felt like your bodies had fused. You felt the tremble in his thighs, the groan that tore from his chest, the way his hips twitched as he came undone within you.

You could feel it.

The heat.

The fullness.

His release poured into you, and with it, something even heavier: a bond. His sin, his promise, his final vow.

He collapsed over your back, chest heaving, breath ragged and uneven. His arms wrapped around you like you were holy. Like you were salvation.

And inside you… he left everything.

His vow. His love. His sin.

His seed.

The altar had seen many unions—but none like this.

You both remained there, bodies tangled and trembling, time suspended in the thick, honeyed silence that followed. Minutes passed like lifetimes—slow and sacred—as if every breath you took together rewrote the shape of the world.

His body draped over yours, flushed and heaving, the weight of him pressing against your spine like a divine burden. You could feel his chest rising and falling, his heartbeat still rapid, still syncing with yours, like your souls were too entangled to separate now. His warmth cloaked you, his skin slick and fevered against your back, and it was all you could do to keep breathing.

His name had become your prayer.

His love, your religion.

His presence, your sanctuary.

“Pip-squeak,” he whispered, voice hoarse and soft, barely formed through the haze of what you’d just done. The nickname sounded different now—deeper, claimed, sacred. But you couldn’t answer. There were no words left inside you. Just breath after breath, whispering through your lips like wind through cathedral glass.

Then he said it.

“I love you.”

The words drifted through the air and wrapped around you like a blanket. Your eyes fluttered open, lashes damp, vision hazy. You wanted to turn to him, to see his face in the aftermath of what had just been sealed between you, but your body felt too wrecked, too stretched, still parted by the weight of his shaft still inside you—keeping you open, keeping his warmth in, like he didn’t want a single drop of himself to leave you.

“I…” your voice broke, soft and trembling, “I love you too, Caleb. I have since we were kids.”

You gathered every last shred of strength in your arms, tilting your head back just enough to cup his jaw, your fingers brushing his skin with reverence. You pulled him closer until his forehead rested against yours, the scent of incense, sweat, and sanctified sin thick in the air between you.

“I’m glad I came to you,” you whispered. “I’ll leave everything in your care… then?”

His gaze softened.

And then—he smiled.

That familiar, golden smile from long ago, reshaped by the weight of years and the burden of forbidden love.

“Yes, honey,” he murmured, voice like a lullaby. “I’ll take care of everything. No one will touch you. We’ll leave this place unscathed… and walk the path God truly chose for us.”

He lifted your hand, the same hand that had touched him, clung to him, loved him—and pressed a kiss to your fingers. It was gentle. Tender. Final.

“I love you,” he whispered again, like a promise sealed in your skin. “Now sleep, my love.”

And you did.

You closed your eyes beneath him, your body still held open by his, still trembling with the ghost of every thrust, every vow. And as the darkness settled, soft and warm, you felt his arms wrap around you tighter—like he’d never let you go.

He was the last thing you saw that night.

And you knew, with a quiet certainty blooming in your chest, that he would be the last thing you saw each night for the rest of your life.

Until death… if it dared to separate you apart.

[gutsby]

Love Tap

Pairing: Dad!Joel x Reader

Summary: Old habits die hard with your husband—touching you at inappropriate times is one of them.

Warnings: 18+. Joel Miller is a MUNCH Oral (f!receiving). Unprotected p-in-v (quickie). Slice of life, domestic-style and Joel calls you ‘Mama’ a whole lot. One playful bite.

Word count: 2.4k

Note: ‘You better back the fuck up before you get smacked the fuck up’ is a line from 2Pac’s song, ‘Hit ‘Em Up.’

Joel Miller was a wonderful father.

Occasionally, he forgot how to act like one.

He had a tendency to get a little careless. Sloppy.

Letting the dignified, ever-respectful façade slip every now and again and smacking your ass when you walked past. Copping a feel when you had to squeeze by him in the kitchen. Best of all, pinching your cheek through your skirt while you were cradling the baby—his baby—and leaving you no choice but to shoot him a quick back-the-fuck-up-before-you-get-smacked-the-fuck-up look and a covert middle finger to remind him that he wasn’t supposed to be slapping your butt in front of the kids.

It was just bad practice to engage in those dumb, flirty antics, particularly when your four-year-old son had made it his mission in life to imitate everything dad did.

But again, Joel would sometimes forget that.

On a morning when he’d woken up a little too early with an erection that was a tad too stubborn to ignore, he got especially forgetful. He found himself plastered to your backside at the edge of the bathroom counter with a grin, knowing damn well you only had twenty-five minutes to get the family dressed, fed, and on the road.

“Joel, you are so—”

“Quick. I’ll be quick.”

His eyes suddenly pleading with yours in the mirror. You just might’ve had the willpower to turn his honeyed gaze away were it not for the lips that followed it. Tracing the shell of your ear and behind it, down your neck, leaving trails of soft kisses down the skin until he reached the collarbone, your sweet spot, and licked it—the bastard.

“Five. Minutes.” Your words were equal parts invitation and warning as you shimmied your PJs over your butt.

“You know I’ll have ya finished in two, sweet pea,” Joel teased—but deep down, you knew he wasn’t kidding.

Both of you had cum and were done in a record-breaking four and a half minutes, swapping pyjamas for normal clothes in less than half the time and stepping back out of the bathroom with your hair only marginally tousled.

By now you had the ‘Pre-K starts in thirty’ types of quickies down pat. You were proud. You glanced over your shoulder to see a similar glint in Joel’s eye, and as you started out the bedroom door, you felt a tap on your ass—or, with the sheer breadth of your husband’s hand, more like a WHACK, followed by the sound of a stifled laugh.

“Can Daddy get some more’a that later?” he quipped.

“More’a what?”

Aw, hell.

Your sweet, forever nosy mini-Joel was standing directly in front of you with two pinched brows and a mostly eaten dino nugget clenched tight in his tiny fist.

You opened your mouth to conjure up some half-assed excuse for the spank your son just saw, but then your husband was scooping the kid up in his arms and toting him straight down the hallway, and you heard, faintly:

“Whatcha gettin’ from Mama later?”

“None of your beeswax, bubs.”

Joel got his second helping around lunchtime.

He’d been in between calls with what felt like an endless stream of subcontractors, suppliers, architects, and project managers when he swung by the house. You were in the midst of baking cardamom buns when he blew through the kitchen like an EF5 tornado and decided he’d be feasting on something else entirely.

“Joel, my buns,” you whined as soon as he’d carried you up the stairs and tossed you onto the bed, eager as ever.

“Fuck your buns.”

“You already fucked ‘em this morning—can you relax?”

Your husband already had your pants tugged halfway down your legs. You let him, then helped him kick the fabric the rest of the way off when it got to your ankles.

“You’re a fuckin’ maniac, Miller, y’know that?”

Something in the way he smirked as he sank his face between your bare thighs told you he already knew that. You would’ve liked to try and scold him again—give him a little more grief for the baked treats that would surely be burnt to a crisp by the time he was done—but then you felt his tongue lick a stripe up your slit, and you refrained.

Even if you’d wanted to, you scarcely would’ve been able to form a single word apart from, ‘Fu-cking hell, Joel’ and ‘Right there, right thereohfuuuuuuckfuckfuck.’

That was just fine by your husband.

In fact, he seemed perfectly content to lap at your slick, glistening folds while you moaned and cursed his name; it made him proud. Appreciative. Maybe even a tad too smug for his own good, if he were being honest, because the way you fisted his hair and rutted your hips against his face made you act a little more like him. A touch more reckless, sloppy, and desperate than your daily obligations as parents would seem to allow. A bit less proper and refined and a lot more slutty—all for him.

Joel teased your clit with a few soft touches from the tip of his tongue, and you almost tore the sheets in two.

“That feel good, Mama?” he hummed.

“F-Fingers, fuck, Joel— fingers,” you begged.

Still using his tongue, Joel drew the shape of a lemniscate extra slow just to spite you. You whined and bucked your hips in protest, but the man was undeterred—he knew exactly what he was doing. The only way he could be tempted to use his fingers now would be to spread your lips apart and lick you more, which he did.

Joel licked and sucked and drove you up the fucking wall with those figure eights until you nearly couldn’t take it. In one hasty, desperate move, you tilted your hips and tried to slip a finger past Joel’s mouth, into your cunt.

He bit that finger. You yelped.

“JOEL!”

It wasn’t that the bite actually hurt—his teeth barely grazed skin—but rather the way he refused to speed up. Gauging your wants and your needs with expert precision, he massaged the hood of your clit with his tongue and took care to plant suckling kisses as he did. You moaned and squeezed the bedspread, relishing the vulgar sounds of his mouth and the need he was building inside you. You turned your head to the side and whined into the pillow, knowing from the depths of your soul you needed release, but Joel just wouldn’t oblige you…yet.

When he grinned against your wet, warm, and slippery folds, his mouth might as well have joined in and said, ‘Keep going—you’ll cum on my tongue when I say so.’

Instead, Joel opted to say ‘Mama’ again, softly.

Mama.

He always called you that when he took you extra slow. Sometimes when he took you quick, too. Like a reminder to you both that you were, in fact, the mother of his children, and if the man had had it his way he’d have given you fifty more by now, daycare bills be damned.

He was generous like that. Always giving, giving, giving.

Just not when it came to doling out orgasms sometimes.

“I have a divorce lawyer on speed dial, just so you know,” you hissed through gritted teeth, head falling back when Joel’s tongue sank forward—inside you, then, “FUCK!”

“Mhmmm,” he hummed before retracting once more. Licking the soft, fleshy rim and nearly eliciting a scream.

Joel traced a circle with his tongue. He savored the taste. While you were whining and grinding your hips against the wet spot underneath you—a puddle that would only grow larger the longer he went on—your husband was devouring you, kissing your thighs every now and then.

“Well, if we split, my tongue goes too,” Joel said. Smug.

“Texas is a community property state,” you murmured, “I taught you how to eat pussy so your mouth is a marital asset.”

Silently, Joel wondered how that argument might hold up in court, grinned, then continued licking your cunt. You squeezed his head with your thighs, dug the balls of your feet in the sheets, and let out a lewd, pornographic scream that could’ve woken half the street. Luckily, your neighbors were probably all at work, your bedroom walls insulated just well enough to mask the noise, and Joel’s resolve crumbling slowly as he kissed between your legs.

One wanton, shameless, ‘I’m gonna cum, Joel, please’ was like music to his ears. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten with a wife and mother as sweet as you, so upright and polite in your day-to-day life and then a hot, trembling mess beneath his tongue when he needed you like this the most. Surely he couldn’t treat you so mean.

Joel wedged two thick fingers in your slick, dripping heat and beckoned you to him as kindly as he possibly could. Rubbing the pads of both digits, callused as they were, against the spongy insides of your core and flicking them forward—‘C’mere, Mama, Daddy’s right here, go on’— so of course, you had no other logical choice but to cum.

It was all habit by now. A dazzling, sumptuous routine.

And Joel Miller was certain he’d never tire of seeing it.

Your spine arched off the mattress an inch or two, toes curling at the feeling, and while the sensation spanned over your body, your husband was the first to see it, sense it on his lips and tongue and fingers just as well. He squeezed your hip, told you how fucking pretty you looked when you came for him, then patiently waited out the spasms and cries and fingers lacing through his soft, dark locks like he was your last remaining tether to earth.

Then he kissed the inside of your thighs and smiled.

“All better, honey?” he hummed.

“Yeah,” you breathed back.

“Still want a divorce?”

A smirk and a response of ‘Not until you knock me up at least one more time’ was hovering somewhere over your tongue when you felt the bed shake. Buzzing. Vibrating?

Joel sat up between your legs and yanked something out from under his ass. He peered down at the thing—staring into a screen—and cocked a brow as he looked back up.

“Someone’s been naughty,” he said simply. Grinning.

He lobbed the phone your way, and you just barely managed to catch it between two trembling hands.

Incoming Call: Francisco C. Morales Elementary

You shot Joel a look and answered it instantly.

Disoriented, disheveled, and slightly foggy from climax, you half-expected to find one of your son’s disgruntled teachers on the other end of the line, reminding you that today was a noon dismissal and everyone was supposed to pick their kids up an hour ago. Your husband was the one who would always keep up with school schedules, so your gaze narrowed at him, butt scooting up the bed while he tried to dive right back between your legs.

“He-llo?”

You smacked a hand away from the front of your blouse.

“Is this Mrs. Miller?” a voice trilled through the phone.

Yes, unfortunately, it was.

You almost had to backhand Joel across the face when he tried to bite the button off your brand new top, teeth ruthless in their pursuit of getting you fully naked now.

“This is she,” you squeaked.

Someone cleared their throat on the other end of the line—as though they knew you had a broad, hulking husband with a cock as hard as sheet metal trying to tear your clothes off while you talked. You stifled a shriek and a giggle when you felt your relentless man move down.

Joel was busy working your blouse from the bottom with that feral mouth of his when the voice sounded again:

“We’d really appreciate it if you and your husband could come see us this afternoon to have a little chat about—”

Your eyes widened. You clutched your phone even tighter and this time, more seriously, shoved Joel away. When he frowned and started to pout, you raised a finger.

“A-About what? Has my— has he done something bad?” Your voice all of a sudden tight, words wavering just enough to snag your husband’s attention too.

“We can explain more when you get here, he’s just…”

‘What the fuck?’ Joel mouthed silently, leaning in.

“What? What’s he done?” You couldn’t help it.

You heard a long sigh across the line, and you knew that wasn’t good. It sounded a lot like the kind of sighs you made whenever your baby made a colossal mess all over the kitchen floor, or your husband slammed a door too loud and woke the kids from their nap, or your son just—

“—keeps slapping his classmates on the butt.”

“Wait, what?”

You blinked. Joel coughed. Together, half-naked on the bed, you sat up a little straighter and leaned even closer into the phone, hearts starting to thud in your chests.

“Your son was just…spanking other kids and asking if he could ‘get some more’a that later,’ and when his teacher asked him where he’d learned to do a thing like that—”

You turned. Joel paled. Your gaze could’ve seared a hole through the front of his skull if you stared any harder, and just as your son’s principal continued talking, Joel raised his hands in surrender, already trying to apologize.

“Honey—”

“—and he told her he saw your husband do it at home—”

You didn’t need to hear another word. You were already fishing for your pants, yanking them back up your legs and brushing aside your husband’s soft, red-faced attempts at consolation, and when you were dressed, you started straight for the door. Already babbling some half-coherent apology to the woman on the phone, dodging Joel’s impossibly large hands and arms and hugs as he tried to pull you back into his chest and tell you he was sorry. You just might’ve let him, and maybe even believed him to be sincere, if you didn’t see the tiniest smirk on his lips as he fought to wrangle you in.

You’d made it to the door and were just about to pivot to give Joel the finger, tell him this was not funny at all, and he was coming with you right now, when both of you halted at the threshold and were obliged to turn again.

You sniffed the air, and your husband made a face.

Was it—

Before you could think, a plume of smoke drifted out through the kitchen door. Your eyes widened, and right as the fire alarm let out its piercing scream, you wailed,

“My buns!”

[lanymme]

i think a lot about how people within the arknights world think about things like horns, ears, and tails as body parts.

we know beeswax's whole thing where she has model-beautiful horns and a bunch of horn care products and gives other operators horn care tips.

it's treated like hair, right? like she has a hair care hobby? and good for her and all that.

right? right.

okay, but tails.

the thick tail/thin tail factions in acahualla are in the same vein as people talking about what kind of butt is best, right? people talk about tails like they talk about someone's thighs or butt?

right? we agree on that?

so tomimi's prodigious tail would be seen by people on terra as like. equivalent to her having a ludicrously big ass? yes? like that's what we're supposed to take home from her up-from-behind E2 art?

do you think people on the landship talk about her with the same kind of hushed awe as, say, utage?

"i swear to god it's true, there's a 4'7" archosaurian girl who's no less than 50% tail walking around rhodes island, you've gotta believe me" is a phrase that has definitely been spoken by at least one short-term oripathy patient upon returning to their community, right? like we can agree on this?

imagine with me if u will. a hobby artist on Rhodes Island--perhaps, for example, known terminally online loser and partially closeted 2chan poster kirara--on her tablet designing a ditzy, clumsy OC who, oops! just can't stop knocking things over with her big, fat tail! and then posting it to her pixiv account, getting clowned on by people on the intercity net for drawing exaggerated unrealistic female bodies, and making a bunch of vagueposts on twitter about how riajuu can't appreciate an otaku's understanding of true beauty, only to step outside her room for the first time that week so she can go to medical for a routine oripathy checkup where she witnesses doctor gavial's goth yandere shortstack childhood friend knock a bunch of expensive equipment off a table and get spanked repeatedly on her IRL hyper tail, and then she immediately starts crying tears of blood.

[theballadofharkness]

Agatha Harkness VS Salem: The Kittening, Karma’s a Witch

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x fem! reader

Summary: When you brings home a stray kitten Agatha can’t say no to those big pleading eyes and putting lips. What she doesn’t know is that she has met her new mortal enemy, transforming her house in a battleground in which she is fighting for your attention. But now, the tables have turned and it is time for you to feel the stab of jealousy.

Word Count: 7.6K

Warnings: smut warning! Not very explicit but enough to warrant a warning, part 4 will be more explicit however xo

A/N: Apologies for the late update my loves, work has been a lot but I’ve been able to write lots of things I’m excited to publish coming soon🪻💜

The house was quiet when you stepped inside. Warm, golden sunlight spilled through the windows, painting long afternoon shadows across the floorboards. The air smelled faintly of chamomile, old paper, and something sweet, maybe the last of the honey cake you’d left cooling on the counter that morning. The silence was peaceful, not empty. The kind of stillness that whispered something good was happening.

You toed off your boots and walked further into the house, your arms full of fresh sage bundles from the herb shop, and something already bubbling with excitement in your chest. You’d only been out a few hours running errands, a quiet walk through the market, a brief stop to pick up more beeswax candles. But you’d been thinking of them the whole time.

Agatha and Salem.

The unlikeliest duo. The witch and the gremlin. Oil and water. Fire and… small, attention seeking furball.

You rounded the corner into the living room, adjusting your bundles of herbs and stopped cold. There she was. There they were.

Agatha lounged across the velvet sofa like a queen of chaos at rest. Her hair was down, curling soft over her shoulders. Her robe was half-open, revealing long legs stretched across the cushions and one arm draped lazily over the backrest. Her other hand was… occupied.

Gently. Absentmindedly. Affectionately stroking the soft black fluff curled up on her stomach. Salem. He was purring, deep and content and impossibly smug.

A half-finished cup of tea rested on the side table. The television played some old black-and-white film, the dialogue low and hazy, but Agatha wasn’t really watching. She was just… petting him. Gazing down at him with the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

“Look at my two babies,” you say dreamily, setting your cup down and slipping into the room. “I never thought this day would come.”

Agatha lifts her gaze with that slow, amused smirk. “Mhm. It’s disgusting, isn’t it?”

But the way she scratches just under Salem’s chin like she’s been doing it her whole life? The way he stretches out, blissed beyond measure in her lap?

Yeah. She’s in deep.

You stepped closer, a bright grin already spreading across your face. “You’re cuddling.”

“I am not,” she said, perfectly deadpan.

“You are!”

“I am not, darling.”

You practically floated across the room, dropping the sage onto the chair as you came to kneel by the sofa. You looked up at her, positively glowing, your fingers clasped under your chin.

“He’s sleeping on you,” you breathed. “That’s not tolerating. That’s bonding.”

Agatha gave a low, dismissive scoff and returned her attention to the TV though, her hand never stopped stroking between Salem’s tiny ears. “He got tired of attacking the curtains and climbed on top of me. I was merely… trapped.”

You bit your lip to keep from squealing. “Trapped,” you repeated. “By a kitten.”

“He has claws.”

“So do you,” you giggled.

She looked at you from the corner of her eye, lips twitching. “He’s manipulative.”

“He’s a cat.”

“He bit me.”

You reached up to stroke her calf and tilted your head. “You let him stay.”

She sniffed, lifting her chin. “I didn’t want to disrupt his nap. He’s annoying when he’s cranky.”

You blinked slowly. “Agatha.”

“What.”

“You loooove him.”

“I tolerate him.”

You climbed onto the edge of the sofa, sitting beside her folded legs, close enough to see the way her fingertips slowed when they passed over the soft curve of Salem’s back. Close enough to hear the softness in her voice, even when she tried to sound exasperated.

“No,” you said sweetly, leaning in close. “You love him.”

Agatha gave you a look. The kind she usually reserved for low-level demons and burnt pastries. “I do not.”

You booped her nose with your fingertip.

“You do.”

She caught your wrist lazily, holding it there as she raised an eyebrow at you. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You beamed. “I know. And now you love him, too.”

Salem stretched in her lap like a smug little prince, tail flicking as if to emphasize the point. Agatha narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re a tiny warlock in disguise. I can feel it.”

Salem yawned.

Agatha sighed.

You curled up beside her, your head resting on her shoulder, gaze dropping to her hand as it resumed its gentle rhythm along the kitten’s back.

“Look at my little family,” you whispered, utterly content. “My wife. My son.”

“I’m going to hex your tea,” Agatha muttered.

But she didn’t stop petting him.

Not for a second.

~

The kettle whistled low and steady, steam curling into the sunlit kitchen like a blessing. You reached for the handle with careful fingers, your other hand already holding your favorite chipped mug, the one Agatha pretended to hate but never threw away. You’d lined up fresh herbs from your morning foraging, the scent of wild mint and chamomile mingling in the air, grounding, familiar.

You were barefoot on the warm floorboards, the hem of Agatha’s shirt brushing just above your thighs. It hung low, wide at the neck, sleeves rolled sloppily up your arms. One of the buttons was missing. You liked it that way. It felt lived in, hers and now yours.

The morning light made you glow, all soft skin and mussed hair, eyes heavy from sleep, mouth still kiss-bruised from last night. Your hips swayed faintly as you stirred honey into the tea, moving to some quiet rhythm in your head. The music of a slow, safe morning.

You were waiting.

Any second now and you’d feel her behind you.

Agatha always came into the kitchen like a spell: silent, magnetic, unavoidable. She’d slip her arms around your waist, press her face into your hair, hum against your neck. Sometimes she’d call you her darling, sometimes her little witch, sometimes when her voice was warm and low and still thick with sleep she’d just murmur, “There’s my baby.”

You knew it was coming. As soon as you felt her enter the room the air shifted. You straightened a little, smiling to yourself as you finished stirring your tea, spine already arching the tiniest bit, just enough to make it easier for her to wrap around you. You bit your lip. Waited.

Then you heard it, “there’s my baby.”

A whisper. A purr. That voice.

Your cheeks flushed instantly. You smiled, dreamy and shy, your breath catching. Your eyes fluttered closed, anticipation rushing through you like a little wave. And then…

Nothing.

No arms.

No warmth.

No kiss to the back of your neck.

You blinked, turning slightly in confusion. And then you saw her. Not behind you, but across the room, holding Salem. Cradling him against her chest, one hand under his little bottom, the other stroking along his tiny head. He was purring like a chainsaw, all smug and settled. Agatha was smiling down at him like he was the moon and stars wrapped in fur.

You stared.

Agatha didn’t even look up. “You’re up early, little monster,” she murmured, brushing her nose against Salem’s head. “Did you come looking for your mama?”

Salem sneezed.

Agatha laughed.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Your heart stuttered a little in your chest.

She hadn’t even seen you.

You stood there in her shirt, bare-legged, sleepy and soft and so ready to melt into her touch, and she was across the kitchen, nuzzling the cat.

You cleared your throat lightly. “Good morning,” you offered, voice gentler than you meant.

Agatha looked up absently. “Mmm, morning,” she said, distracted. “He was at the foot of the bed when I woke up. I think he missed me.”

You wrapped your fingers tighter around the mug, forcing a smile. “Yeah. He… does that.”

You turned back to the counter and took a sip of your tea, letting the steam hide your expression. You kept your back to her. You weren’t even sure why. Maybe because you didn’t want her to see the flicker of hurt you couldn’t quite blink away.

She used to say you were the one who looked the most beautiful thing in the morning. She used to whisper, ‘There’s my baby’ and mean you. You stirred your tea again, even though it didn’t need it. Behind you, she was still cooing.

You tuned her out. Tried to, anyway. Tried not to think about the way your skin suddenly felt cooler without her touch. The way your thighs shifted uncomfortably, suddenly self-conscious. The way you felt like you’d just stepped outside of your own moment.

You didn’t say anything else that morning.

You finished your tea. Watered the kitchen plants. Cleaned up the tea leaves that always stuck to the counter. Agatha eventually let Salem down and wandered off to check her spellwork room, humming to herself.

She kissed your cheek absently as she passed.

You leaned into it without thinking, but the moment had already passed. And something in your chest felt… quieter.

Not hurt. Not yet.

Just a little hollow.

A little missed.

~

The living room glowed with late afternoon light, warm and drowsy, the kind that made everything feel a little slower, a little softer. The fire in the hearth crackled gently. The house was quiet. Peaceful.

You padded in from the hallway, still in that same oversized shirt of Agatha’s, the sleeves too long, hem brushing the backs of your thighs, your hair loose and your cheeks pink from your post-nap haze. You were the picture of sleepy domestic bliss, glowing like something out of a dream.

And you were so ready to curl up with your wife. All day, you’d been craving it. The press of her side. The smell of her perfume. The soft scrape of her fingers absentmindedly petting your hair while she read, the occasional kiss to your temple without even looking up from her book. You’d imagined it as you drifted off earlier, your head on her lap, her voice murmuring whatever she was reading, her hand on your back.

You turned the corner, smiling already, then stopped, your smile faltering.

Agatha was stretched out along the velvet sofa, one leg tucked under her, robe loose around her shoulders. A book hovered in front of her, turning its own pages with a flick of silent spellwork. Her eyes were scanning lazily over the text, sharp and serene. Then there was Salem, sprawled across her lap like he paid rent.

Flat on his back, little paws twitching, tail flicking contentedly, his head tucked right under her hand. And her hand, the hand that should’ve been stroking your hair, was rhythmically grazing down his fuzzy little belly as she read.

You blinked, tilting your head with a soft frown like a confused puppy. You were quiet at first. Just watching. And then, before you even realized it, your lips pushed into the softest pout.

You hovered at the edge of the room, hands tucked into the sleeves of your shirt, voice small. “I was gonna sit with you…”

Agatha didn’t even look up from her book. “There’s another chair.”

You blinked. “But… I always sit with you.”

She turned the page.

Salem snored. Snored like he wasn’t the root of all your current problems. You stared at them, heart dropping a little, and took a tentative step forward. “He’s in my spot.”

Agatha’s lips twitched, but she kept her face perfectly neutral. “He was here first, darling.”

You pouted harder.

She finally looked over at you, and the moment she saw your face, your big glossy eyes and that little furrow in your brow, she nearly burst into flames.

Because oh.

Oh, the payoff.

This was what she’d looked like, wasn’t it? All those weeks ago when you used to cradle that kitten to your chest like he was made of stars and forget your wife even existed? When she watched you kiss his tiny ears and murmur sweet nothings while she sat there, ignored, seething in silence?

This was karma.

You didn’t even mean to make a scene.

But the moment Salem blinked up at you from Agatha’s lap, his smug little fuzzy body all curled up where you were supposed to be, something in you snapped.

It was soft. Quiet. But unmistakable.

The need. The ache. The burn to be there instead.

You scooped him off her lap with a quiet “excuse me,” as if you weren’t throwing a fit, and deposited him on the rug like a polite exorcism. He made a mildly offended chirp as he landed, but you ignored it.

You were already climbing onto the sofa.

Onto her. Into your rightful place.

Agatha raised an eyebrow, delight curling at the corners of her mouth as you climbed into her lap. Not sat beside her, not nestled gently. You straddled her, your thighs sliding over hers, that big shirt slipping up high enough to make her very aware you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

She set her book down, slowly. “Well, hello.”

You didn’t answer, you just kissed her. Hot. Messy. Hungry.

Your mouth found hers like you were making up for every second you’d been replaced- every coo, every scratch behind Salem’s ears, every time she’d kissed his head instead of yours.

Your hands slipped into her hair, nails grazing her scalp, and your hips rocked, against her thigh.

Agatha stifled a groan.

You were supposed to be the sweet one. The floaty, dreamy, gentle little thing who whispered love spells into tea and painted sigils in flower petals. But this? This was feral. And all for her.

She kissed you back once, slow and filthy, before pulling back just enough to look at you.

“Jealous much?” she asked, voice smug, eyes shining.

You scowled, flushed and breathless. “He was in my spot.”

“I told you he was comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable,” you huffed, shifting your hips again, deliberately. Her thigh slid between your legs, and your breath hitched.

Agatha’s fingers curled around your hips. “Oh, honey,” she said, low and dark and thrilled. “You’re more than comfortable.”

You didn’t answer. You just dragged your mouth down her jaw, to her throat, kissing and sucking like you were trying to leave proof of your possession. Her skin flushed pink. Her pulse jumped.

Your thighs trembled as you rocked, slow and needy, against the muscle of her leg. That thin, teasing friction.

Agatha couldn’t stop the smirk blooming on her face. This is gold, she thought.

Actual gold.

Because here you were, her pouty, jealous little wife, writhing in her lap, desperate to remind her who she belonged to. Her voice was whiny, your movements clumsy with need, and Agatha had never been more delighted in her life.

She leaned back against the sofa, completely relaxed, letting you take what you needed.

“You gonna make yourself come like this?” she asked, cocking her head as you whimpered into her throat. “Grinding on Mommy’s thigh like a needy little thing?”

Your eyes fluttered open, wide and dazed and so close to snapping.

“Thought so,” she murmured.

And then, without warning… Mrrrow.

You both looked down.

Salem, now sprawled on the rug, was pawing at Agatha’s robe, trying to climb up again.

Agatha blinked. Then looked up at you, mischief sparking. “Oh dear,” she drawled. “I think someone wants his spot back.”

You froze.

Still in her lap. Still flushed. Still soaking wet against her leg. And Agatha was grinning.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t you dare pick him up.”

She raised her hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

But in her head? She was already plotting. Already thinking how the tables have turned, she thought smugly, petting her jealous little wife while the kitten sulked on the floor. She’d give it a few more days. Just enough to really push your buttons.

Then maybe… just maybe… she’d let you have your lap privileges back.

Maybe.

She pressed a kiss to your temple and let her hands wander low on your back.

“I have to say,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear, “jealousy looks very good on you.”

~

You were stirring the roasted root vegetables when the clock struck seven.

Not that you were counting.

But it had been hours since you last saw Agatha. You’d washed the sheets, hung the laundry, wiped down the altar, organized the herbs, dusted the ceiling corners (the absolute worst), and made dinner from scratch.

All in one of her old shirts. No pants. Hair up in a scarf. Dreamy and flushed from the days chores, humming softly to yourself. You even left her a note on the kitchen chalkboard:

“Dinner at 6:30. Hope your spellwork goes well, baby!”

Nothing.

Now it was seven, and the food was getting cold, and the only sound in the house was the faint echo of Salem purring somewhere in the walls, like the little shadow he was. You set the wooden spoon down, wiped your hands on your apron, and called softly down the hallway:

“Agatha? Dinner!”

No reply.

You raised your voice a little. “Aggie!”

Still nothing.

You sighed, a tiny line forming between your brows. You could feel the faint thrum of magic coming from the basement. Of course. That’s where she was.

You trudged down the spiral stairs, bare feet cool against the stone, your mood dropping with every step. The warm light of the kitchen faded behind you, replaced by flickering candlelight and the earthy scent of sage and wax and chalk.

“Agatha,” you tried again as you reached the bottom. “Dinner is-”

You stopped, blinking rapidly, your mouth dropping open in horror. Because there she was, sitting at her coven table, surrounded by open spell books and incense smoke, head bent in deep concentration over…

A cat collar.

Not just any collar. Velvet. Black, of course. Embroidered with protective runes in silver thread, a small crescent moon charm floating gently above it as she murmured under her breath. Gemstones, real ones, set into the band. Onyx. Amethyst. A tiny protection crystal that looked freshly cut.

Salem sat smugly on the table beside her, tail wrapped neatly around his paws like he knew what was happening.

You stood in stunned silence for a moment before saying flatly, “are you serious?”

Agatha didn’t even look up. “Hm?”

“Are you serious?”

Her fingers traced another rune. “You’ll have to be more specific, darling.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re telling me I’ve spent the entire day cleaning the house alone, our house, doing your laundry, folding your silk robes, making your favorite dinner, and the reason you didn’t answer me for three hours is because you’re… bedazzling a protection collar for the cat?”

Agatha finally glanced up.

And she smiled. Slow. Wicked. Satisfied.

You blinked. “I- wha- You never even enchanted my wedding ring.”

She paused. “If you wanted me to enchant your jewelry, love,” she purred, “you only had to ask.”

You stared at her. “You never enchanted my wedding ring, Agatha. But the cat gets an enchanted collar.”

She looked very pleased with herself now. “Well. You are more powerful than the average kitten.”

You gaped. Like actually gaped. You could feel your mouth opening and closing like a fish and you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Agatha leaned her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, gaze dragging down the length of you in her old shirt and apron, flushed and barefoot from doing all the domestic chores while she magicked her tiny hellbeast a couture-level collar.

“Oh, honey,” she said sweetly. “You’re not jealous of a cat, are you?”

You crossed your arms. “I’m not.”

She raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No!”

She tapped a finger to her lip. “Because it feels like you are.”

“I’m not!” you squeaked, trying not to blush as your foot nudged a stray gemstone across the floor. “It’s just- it’s dinner! And I thought you’d want to, y’know, eat it. With your wife.”

Agatha clicked her tongue. “I will. Once I finish this.”

You sniffed. Tried not to pout. Failed.

“You could have at least helped me fold the sheets,” you mumbled, hugging your arms tighter around your chest. “Or set the table. Or come check on me. I- ”

You bit your lip, stopping yourself before you sounded too hysterical.

Agatha saw it.

Saw the way your voice cracked just a little. Saw the way you stood there, glowing with magic and effort and sweat and devotion, trying so hard not to look like a kicked puppy.

And oh, she thrived.

She stood slowly, crossing the room in that silk-robe-and-witchcraft way that made her look like temptation wrapped in smoke. She stopped just in front of you, close enough to touch.

“You’re adorable when you’re sulking,” she said, voice low.

“I’m not sulking.”

“You are. You’re pouting. Look at that little face.”

You tried to look away.

She caught your chin and turned you back to her with one finger, smiling like the devil.

“I could enchant your ring, you know,” she murmured, thumb brushing the bare gold band. “Warding, protection, a little glamour charm…”

You swallowed.

“Then why haven’t you?”

Agatha tilted her head, grinning. “Because you weren’t jealous enough yet.”

You stared.

She winked.

And that was when you realized that she wanted this. She was doing this on purpose. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “You’re tormenting me.”

She leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. “Karma’s a witch, baby.”

~

You woke to the sound of a soft, steady purr and the weight of absence.

At first, you weren’t sure what felt off. The bed was warm. The morning light poured in through the gauzy curtains like syrup. Your body still buzzed faintly from dreams you couldn’t quite remember. And yet…

You turned your head.

And saw it.

Agatha, beautiful and radiant even in her sleep, lay curled on her side. Her hair fell in a loose wave across the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, lips parted in that soft, unconscious pout she never let you tease her for. She looked peaceful. She looked perfect.

But you weren’t what she was holding.

It was Salem.

The little void beast had wedged himself between her breasts like a smug satin pillow, his paws tucked up near her collarbone, his purring deafening in the quiet room. Agatha’s arm was slung protectively around him, her fingers curled lightly against his side. You blinked. Your chest went tight. It wasn’t fair, you told yourself. It was just a cat. He was warm. He was cuddly. He didn’t mean anything by it. And Agatha, she was yours. You knew that.

But something about the picture in front of you- your wife, your bed, your place taken, cut you more than you wanted to admit. And the worst part? She looked so content.

You laid there a moment longer, stomach twisting, before quietly slipping out of bed. You didn’t want to disturb her. You didn’t want her to see your face.

You made breakfast the way you always did. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Your hair was still tousled from sleep, tied back with one of Agatha’s silk ribbons. You wore her sweater, sleeves falling over your hands, bare legs just peeking out beneath the hem. You looked soft. Dreamy. The kind of girl a wife should wrap her arms around and kiss immediately.

But she didn’t come down right away.

And when she did?

She brought the cat.

Salem rode on her shoulder like a little prince, tail flicking as she walked into the kitchen with a smirk on her lips.

You were already plating up eggs and herbs, pouring tea into her favorite mug. “Morning,” you said, voice gentle.

Agatha grinned. “Mmm. It is now.”

You blushed automatically. She always had that effect.

You turned back to your herbs, distracted by the flicker of pride when she stepped behind you and wrapped her arms loosely around your waist.

And for just a second everything felt okay. That was until she leaned in, lips brushing your ear, and said, “Salem kept me warm all night.”

Your stomach dropped. You forced a smile. “Oh?”

Agatha hummed, hands ghosting beneath your sweater, warm against your waist. “He’s so soft. And clingy. Just like someone else I know.”

You tried to laugh. Operative word: Tried. But it didn’t reach your eyes. Her hands slid lower, her mouth moving to your neck, kissing lightly. “I was thinking…” she murmured against your skin. “Maybe we don’t leave the bedroom today.”

You stiffened.

Her hips pressed against your backside, slow and deliberate. “Just you. Me. My fingers. That pretty little moan you make when I bite your thighs.”

Your knees nearly buckled. But you didn’t let her see it. Instead, you turned in her arms, blinking up at her with wide, innocent eyes as your mind began to scheme. “I’ve got plans.”

Agatha stilled. “You… what?”

You smiled sweetly. Tilted your head. “I’m meeting Jen.”

She blinked. “Jennifer?”

You nodded. “Mhm. Just some girly stuff. Little catch-up. Maybe some shopping.”

Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “Since when do you make plans without telling me?”

You giggled, light and fluttery, and kissed the tip of her nose. “Since today.”

Then you slipped from her arms, humming softly, walking out of the kitchen with a gentle sway of your hips.

She stared after you, stunned.

And you? You grabbed your phone the second you rounded the corner, typing fast.

Text to: Jennifer Kale

<Y/N: hey are you free today? i need help xx>

Three dots appeared instantly.

<Jennifer Kale: sure babe. say less. coffee shop in the square? 30 mins?

<Jennifer Kale: wear something cute. Let’s bring the chaos. xx>

You smiled down at your screen. Soft. Serene. And absolutely scheming.

~

The bell above the café door jingled softly as you stepped inside, a swirl of warm air and cinnamon greeting you like a hug.

The place was cozy and bright, full of velvet chairs, mismatched tables, and the rich smell of espresso and clove. A jazz record played quietly in the corner, and sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the floor in patterns of green and blue.

Jennifer Kale was already there.

She was slouched in the corner booth like a rockstar who’d just hexed someone’s boyfriend, sunglasses perched on top of her head, silver rings stacked on every finger. A half-drunk matcha latte sat in front of her. She was scrolling her phone like she owned the place.

She looked up when she saw you and her expression immediately softened. “Oh, babe.”

You smiled weakly and shuffled over, sweater sleeves too long, cheeks pink from the wind. You slid into the seat across from her and wrapped your hands around your tea like it could hold you together.

Jen gave you exactly three seconds of silence before going, “Okay. Spill. What did she do?”

You sighed. “It’s so stupid. I know it’s stupid.”

“Nope. We don’t do that here. This is a safe space for petty gay pain.”

You hesitated, biting your lip.

Then: “She’s in love with the cat.”

Jen blinked.

You took a shaky breath. “Okay, not in love, but like. Obsessed. And smug about it. And she knows I’m jealous, and she’s doing it on purpose now. She enchanted him a custom collar and ignored me all day and then had the nerve to say he kept her warm all night.”

Jen blinked again. “Are you telling me she replaced you with a kitten in bed?”

“Yes!”

Jen leaned back. “That’s actually so messed up I’m kind of impressed.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I know it sounds insane, but it’s been weeks. She pets him constantly. She baby-talks him. She used to do that to me. And I just… I miss her.”

Jen lowered her sunglasses. “You mean you miss her touching you like you’re the only one in the world?”

You looked up, eyes round. “Yes.”

Jen leaned forward, grinning now. “Oh honey. You’ve come to the right person.”

You blinked. “I don’t even know what I’m doing. I’ve never schemed against her before. She’s the one who schemes. I’m the one who makes her tea and blushes when she calls me pretty.”

Jen smirked. “Not today, you’re not.”

You blinked.

She leaned in like she was letting you in on a sacred secret. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna buy you the hottest, most expensive lingerie in this entire godforsaken realm.”

Your eyes widened. “What? Why?”

“Because,” she said, slow and smug, “you’re gonna seduce her. Properly.”

You blushed so hard you nearly fainted. “But- but she touches me all the time? Like… nearly every day?”

Jen froze. “Oh, damn. Okay, girl.”

You looked away, flustered. “That’s not the problem.”

“No, babe. I get it. This isn’t about sex. This is about power. You’re gonna walk into that bedroom in lace and silk and ruin her.”

You blinked. “Ruin her?”

“Emotionally. Spiritually. Mentally. She will not remember her own name, let alone the cat.”

You clutched your tea like a lifeline. “But what if she just… keeps playing the game? What if this doesn’t work?”

Jen smirked, full sorceress mode now. “Oh, honey. The right lingerie will make her forget that cat ever existed.”

You stared at her, quiet.

Then whispered:

“…What kind of lingerie are we talking?”

Jen slammed her latte down and stood, already pulling you to your feet.

“French.”

~

The little bell above the boutique door jingled as you walked in, and already, you wanted to bolt.

It was too much.

All low lighting and sultry music, velvet curtains and glass shelves lined with lingerie that looked like it had been spun from moonlight and temptation. Lace in every shade. Silk that caught the light like water. Mannequins dressed in things you weren’t sure even counted as clothing.

You hesitated by the door, clutching the sleeves of your sweater in your fists.

Jen turned back and looked at you, grinning. “You coming in, or are you gonna combust from modesty?”

You gave her a withering little smile, cheeks pink. “I’ve just never been in a place like this.”

“Mm. Baby’s first lingerie mission.” Jen looped her arm through yours, pulling you gently deeper into the shop. “You’re gonna love it. Promise.”

You weren’t so sure.

Everything was so delicate. So bold. You passed a rack of thigh harnesses and nearly squeaked out loud.

“I don’t think I’m made for this,” you whispered.

Jen glanced at you sideways. “You literally do sex magic and make love potions in your sleep.”

“That’s different! That’s sweet! That’s spiritual!”

Jen plucked a corset from a rack and wiggled it in your face. “And this is retribution.”

You stared at the corset like it might bite you.

Jen rolled her eyes fondly and tossed it over her arm with a growing pile of silks. “Let’s find something softer. Something that’ll break her heart before it ruins her life.”

You trailed after her through the store, past racks of lace and satin and embroidered spellwork, overwhelmed and blinking.

Every time she held something up, you gave the same unsure response.

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“Too sheer?”

“I don’t… even know how that goes on.”

“Okay, that one’s… just string.”

Jen didn’t slow down.

She moved with intention, pulling set after set from their hangers. Champagne silk. Emerald mesh. Creamy lace embroidered with tiny stars. She handed them off to you one by one, loading your arms like she was dressing a goddess for battle.

You kept glancing down at the pieces in your hands like they’d disappear if you looked too long.

“You sure this isn’t overkill?” you murmured as you followed her to the dressing rooms.

Jen paused. “Do you want her to keep spending all her time using the laser pointer to play with the cat, all the while ignoring your breasts?”

You winced.

Fair.

She shoved you into the dressing room with a wink. “Go. Pick your poison.”

You closed the curtain behind you, hands shaking slightly.

It was quiet in the little space with just the noise of your breath, the thrum of your pulse, and the soft rustle of silk being heard as you slowly undressed. You slipped the first set on, the champagne-colored one Jen had picked, and stared at yourself in the mirror.

It barely covered you. Sheer cups. Petal-soft lace. Straps that curved along your hips and dipped low across your chest. You looked like a dream. A nymph. A creature made for ruin.

But you didn’t feel like one.

You fidgeted.

Adjusted the straps. Smoothed the lace.

Something inside you wavered. What if this doesn’t work? What if Agatha just laughs? Or smirks, all smug, and kisses your forehead like you’re trying too hard?

You stared at your reflection, small and flushed and fragile. Your throat tightened. “Jen?” you called softly.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

There was a pause. Then, calm as anything, “You need fuel?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Fuel. Motivation. That edge.”

Before you could answer, Jen’s hand slid through the curtain holding your phone. “Look,” she said.

You hesitated before you took it. And your breath caught as you saw the most recent text from Agatha.

<Agatha💜: look who’s keeping me warm again today>

She had attached a picture of Salem curled against her chest. Her fingers stroking his tiny head.

<Agatha💜: he’s so clingy. reminds me of someone>

There was a video attached this time, Salem licking her jaw, purring, as Agatha laughed.

Your eyes widened as she sent yet another picture, intended to cause maximum damage to your already bruised ego. Agatha, tousled and flushed from sleep, lips slightly parted, wrapped in a silk robe, with Salem pressed against her chest like he belonged there.

<Agatha💜: i love having all this time alone with this handsome boy>

Your stomach twisted as something in your chest snapped. You looked up at yourself in the mirror again. And suddenly you didn’t see someone soft. Or unsure. Or trying too hard. You saw her wife. The one Agatha belongs to.

Your chin lifted, your hands stopped fidgeting as you turned back the curtain.

Jen looked up from her seat and grinned. “There she is,” she said, smug.

You stepped out, all flushed and lace and vengeance. “Let’s do this.”

~

By the time you got home, the sun had slipped below the horizon and the sky had melted into a deep plum. The house glowed from within, candlelight flickering against the windows, shadows dancing along the walls.

You stepped inside, calm and composed, the paper boutique bag tucked under your arm like it wasn’t full of sin and lace.

Agatha didn’t look up.

She was sprawled on the velvet sofa, a wine glass balanced loosely in her hand, Salem curled across her thighs like a furry little king. One of her hands was stroking lazily along his back, her fingers dancing in long, luxurious lines through his fur. Her silk robe had fallen open just enough to suggest deliberate temptation.

He was purring like thunder.

“Oh, there she is,” Agatha drawled, still not looking at you. “The little runaway witch.”

You hung up your coat carefully, placing the bag beneath the entryway bench with quiet precision. “Hi.”

Agatha finally looked over. Her eyes were sharp. Glinting. “You didn’t tell me you were going to be out this late.”

You shrugged. “Had some errands.”

“Mm. With Jennifer, I assume?”

You smiled faintly. “She wanted to check in on her store.”

Agatha sipped her wine. “Did she tell you to come home and behave yourself? Because I’ve already claimed Salem for the night. No room in my lap for clingy little witches.”

You gave her the softest smile and said nothing.

It was infuriating. Agatha narrowed her eyes slightly, tilting her head. “You’re quiet.”

“Just tired,” you said, drifting into the kitchen to start the kettle. “Long day.”

“Didn’t look like a long day in those photos Jen posted online.”

You froze, just for a heartbeat. So she’d been watching.

You turned slowly and met her eyes across the room. “Stalking me?”

She smirked. “Monitoring. For signs of mischief.”

You smiled sweetly. “You don’t have to worry.”

“Oh, I’m not worried.” Agatha set her wine glass down and shifted on the sofa, pressing her cheek to Salem’s tiny head, her hand sliding along his spine. “I know where you’ll end up. Right here. Begging for attention. Like always.”

You gave a soft laugh, walking to the kitchen to make a calming cup of tea before you were going to enact phase 1: the seduction. The kettle whistled. You poured the tea, unbothered.

“I made lavender chamomile,” you said, voice light. “Want a cup?”

She watched you closely. “Sure. Bring it here.”

You walked over and set the cup on the side table beside her.

She didn’t thank you. Instead, she took a slow sip, eyes never leaving yours.

Salem stretched on her lap, letting out a dramatic little sigh.

Agatha cooed. “Poor baby’s so exhausted from a long day of being adored. Isn’t that right, my sweet little prince?”

You sat down in the armchair across from her and took a slow sip of your own tea, not blinking.

She kept stroking Salem.

You didn’t flinch. Not when she kissed his little head. Not when she murmured, “Such a good boy.” Not even when she flicked her eyes toward you and said, “You used to be this good. What happened?”

You set your mug down, crossing one leg over the other and smiled. “I guess I grew up.”

Agatha’s eyes sparked dangerously.

But you didn’t say anything else. You sat there calmly, sipping your tea, letting the silence stretch between you like silk being pulled taut.

She shifted again. “You’re not going to come sit with me?”

“Not right now.”

“Not feeling needy anymore?”

You shook your head. “I’m good.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re very smug for someone being replaced by a now reformed demon cat.”

You tilted your head. “He’s cute.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

You shrugged. “He’s very charming.”

Agatha’s lips twitched. She didn’t say anything else. Just sipped her tea.

The fire crackled between you.

Dinner was quiet.

You let her talk. About old spells. About chaos magic theory. About a potion one of the newer coven witches had messed up that morning. She was brilliant, glowing with cleverness, gesturing with her wine glass, her voice smooth and practiced.

You let her charm the air.

And you gave her nothing. Not your usual sparkles of laughter. Not the flustered cheeks she’d come to expect. You listened. Nodded. Smiled.

But you didn’t bite. Not once. Not when Salem hopped into her lap mid-meal and she groaned, “He just loves me more,” you only nodded and said, “Maybe.”

Not when she stretched and said, “I might just sleep with him wrapped around my chest again,” you simply said, “As long as he doesn’t snore.”

Agatha’s smile twitched as she waited for the jealousy. For the pout. But you had replaced it with patience. Because tonight was already yours.

When she went upstairs, you followed a few minutes later, your bag tucked beneath your arm.

Agatha was already in bed when you walked in. Her robe had slipped lower. Her thigh was bare. The sheets a mess around her legs.

She glanced up. “There’s my girl. Finally done sulking?”

You smiled. “Just going to shower.”

“Don’t be long,” she murmured. “I’ve got some ideas for how to… ease your wounded ego.”

You said nothing, just took the bag and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Agatha smirked to herself, stretching like a cat across the bed. She thought she’d won. But she didn’t know that she was just about to lose.

~

You stood in front of the mirror one last time.

Your breath was slow. Steady.

The wine-red silk clung to every curve of your body like it had been made for you in another life. The lace, delicate and whisper-thin, draped your skin perfectly. The garter belt hugged your hips like the hands you wanted on you. The perfume at your throat made you dizzy with power.You looked like something to kneel for. And tonight, she would.

You opened the bathroom door slowly, deliberately, letting the candlelight from the bedroom cast a golden glow across your skin.

You thought you were prepared for anything. For the gasp. The hunger. The scramble to devour you right there at the threshold.

What you weren’t prepared for was: “Yes, that’s it, my clever little man, get it, get the ribbon for mama-”

You froze.

There she was, on her knees on the rug, her silk robe slipping from one shoulder, hair tumbling around her like some kind of ancient goddess…

Playing with Salem.

That fucking cat.

You blinked and waited, surely she would glance up soon. She didn’t.

She laughed softly as Salem pawed at the belt of her robe. “Ohhh, look at you. You’re so smart. You’re the smartest little man I’ve ever seen! Yes, you are, yes, you-”

You coughed loudly.

Nothing.

You stepped forward. The sound of your heel clicked on the wood floor.

Still nothing.

Agatha didn’t even flinch.

Your heart pounded. Your hands curled into fists at your sides. You were standing in the most stunning, expensive, planned-with-a-friend-for-six-hours lingerie of your life- and she hadn’t even looked up.

You waited three more seconds before yelling, “AGATHA.”

She jerked upright like she’d been hit with a bolt of lightning. Salem meowed in protest, hopping back from the sudden movement.

Her head snapped up.

Her jaw dropped.

And for the first time in her very long life, Agatha Harkness was rendered completely speechless.

Her eyes trailed slowly, painfully, down your body.

From your flushed cheeks, to your soft, bare shoulders, down your chest, where the silk clung like a second skin, to the curve of your waist, the garters on your thighs, the way the stockings shimmered in the firelight.

Her lips parted. “Fuck.”

You stared at her. Unmoving.

Agatha blinked. Tried to recover. “Baby- ”

“Oh,” you said, voice shaking with rage, “don’t you ‘baby’ me.”

She froze.

You stepped forward slowly, heels clicking like a spell being cast. “I’ve been putting up with your little games for days. You’ve been teasing me, taunting me, rubbing that smug little cat in my face like I’m some clingy little afterthought who should be grateful to sleep at the edge of the bed.”

Agatha’s mouth opened. “You know I was just- ”

You raised a hand. “Don’t.”

And she stopped.

You kept walking until you stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, the silk creasing against your skin. “I put on this for you. I let you play your little jealousy game all day. I didn’t bite. I didn’t react. I let you believe you were winning. Because I thought, tonight, you’d finally remember who I am to you.”

Agatha’s throat worked. “You’re everything-”

“And yet,” you cut in, voice low and furious, “I walked out of that bathroom looking like this, and you didn’t even fucking notice I was in the room.”

She flinched.

“I was standing right there,” you said, gesturing to the doorway. “In this, this stupidly fucking expensive set I agonized over for hours, this whole plan I crafted with Jen to make you notice me again, and you were too busy flirting with the fucking cat.”

Salem let out a tiny, uncertain chirp.

You shot him a glare. “Not now.”

Agatha stood slowly. “Darling…”

“No,” you snapped. “Don’t even try. You don’t get to touch me. You don’t get to see me like this.”

She crossed to you, hands open like she wanted to kneel. “You’re right. I fucked up. Let me make it right.”

“Oh, now you’re interested?”

“You look… ” her voice dropped, reverent and desperate, “divine. I want to worship you.”

You laughed coldly. “Go play with your cat, Agatha. Because you’re sure as hell not playing with me.”

Her face cracked. It was subtle. The tiniest twitch at the edge of her mouth. A flicker of panic behind her lashes. Her hands trembled just slightly. “You don’t mean that,” she whispered.

You turned to the door. “Watch me.”

Agatha surged forward, just one step but the second she did you spun round rapidly. “Don’t.”

Your voice cut through the room like a blade. “You’ve made your choice every night this week. And tonight? You proved I don’t even register when that cat’s in the room.”

“Baby…”

“No.” You wrapped your robe tightly around you. “I’m not going to beg for your attention. I’m not going to stand here in fucking couture lingerie while you grovel. I’m going to bed.”

She looked wrecked. Hair messy. Eyes wide. Breathing shallow.

“Wait, wait- please,” she said, voice cracking slightly. “I didn’t see you- ”

“No,” you said, and opened the door. “You didn’t.”

You walked out and slammed it shut behind you.

For a second, there was silence.

Then, from behind the door:

“Fuck.”

Pause.

“Salem, I need a minute.”

[aethersea]

I've always wanted to learn bookbinding, ever since I was a wee little nerd, but there are a lot of things I've always wanted to learn, and this one has both a daunting upfront materials cost and a daunting upfront research cost. however, my sister is a jewel among siblings and gave me for christmas last year a handy dandy bookbinding manual, a block of good paper, and a little bag of tools.

but I still didn't have a suitable workspace, nor any of the many important tools and materials that she didn't include in her gift. so I just read the manual and pined. until maybe a month ago I got fed up with pining, flattened a cardboard box for a cutting mat, and went to town.

and I'm real proud of myself, so here's me rambling, plus photos!

I went to the thrift store and got glue + some fabric to bind the cover, went to Michaels for a paintbrush (and later went back for a metal ruler lmao it's amazing how useful it is to have a straightedge for cutting the paper), and...could not find material for the cover boards. so I went home and pined some more. but the urges were too strong, so after a couple hours of moping I got a stack of printer paper at the grocery store (I could not bring myself to use the good paper for my first, inevitably weak attempts, I just couldn't do it) and started making a little booklet. which was a great idea, it turned out, since it makes for good practice with cutting the paper, measuring things, punching holes in the signatures, etc.

I have a big box of greeting cards from Michaels, which I used for the covers. it didn't feel like I was making a Real Book, so I got some colored paper from the stationery store and used that for end papers.

so fancy~

galvanized by this success, I ordered a stack of chipboard online to use for cover boards; and once I was confident that I could cut paper without making it look too stupid (getting that straightedge ruler sure helped lol), I made signatures out of the good paper, left them under some heavy books overnight since I don't have a book press, and then punched holes in them! (huzzah for this nice video on getting the holes right)

my sister's gift included good linen thread. it's unwaxed, but after some poking around on r/bookbinding it looks like that just means I'll have to be more careful to avoid tangles and keep good tension. I am fine with this. I can be extra attentive. (I considered just running it over a beeswax candle, but one commenter said if your wax has paraffin in it, it could melt in a hot car, ruining the spine. I can't guarantee my candle is 100% beeswax, I didn't make it, so maybe we just move on.)

I don't have good linen fabric to use for the tapes, but the important part there is that the fabric be thin, sturdy, and not stretchy. the probably-cotton I got from the thrift store fits the bill, so it'll do!

this is a french link stitch, which I got from this exceedingly good tutorial. apparently it's strong enough on its own that for a book of this size, I don't actually need tapes, but I'd already cut the things so eh here we are. and tapes plus french link will make it a stronger binding still (according to a friendly redditor on r/bookbinding), so we carry on.

specifically we carry on to the gluing step. now as I mentioned, I do not have a book press, and you....kinda need one for this step. you need to hold the book block in place with the signatures facing upwards, pressed together hard enough that the glue won't run down between them and stick the pages together (though you do want the glue to get between them just a little, just for like a 16th of an inch). you at least need some clamps and a couple boards to sandwich the book block with.

but you know what? I'm not a professional, this is my first ever book, if it's a little bit off it'll be fine. so we grab all the heaviest books off the bookshelf and improvise.

it's fine! I'm sure it's fine! and just in case it's not, I've tucked a bit of cardboard underneath to catch any glue that drips down so it won't land on the floor. see? I'm prepared! I'm acing this.

and actually, it really was fine. I used clear elmer's glue, applied with a flat paintbrush from the art supplies aisle at Michael's, and frankly I liked the way the flat paintbrush let me slip glue in between the signatures. I did poke around on a couple bookbinding sites to see what kind of glue I should use, and the gist is that although there are better options than this, elmer's glue is perfectly serviceable, and the main downside is it's not archival grade. but I don't need my first bookbinding attempts to last 200 years, that's fine.

the next step is to add the mull. mull is a specific type of fabric – extremely loose-weave linen – and the idea is to paste it down over the spine to essentially hold the tapes and signatures all in place in relation to each other.

but I don't have mull! so I'm using more of the thrift store probably-cotton, because it's thin enough and not really stretchy at all. I'm sure this will be fine too. I painted a layer of glue onto the spine, then left it to dry a bit while I measured and cut the fabric, then painted a generous stripe of glue down the center, where it'll affix onto the spine. then I added a bit more glue to the spine, just to be sure, and pressed the mull into place, rubbing it thoroughly to make sure it's firmly affixed to every signature, with no creases in the fabric or air bubbles beneath it.

honestly I might have overdone it on the glue. I've never done this before, I don't know! I think it's okay, though – I tried not to ever let it become a thick layer, just a slight coating, since the danger of too much glue is that it might crack once dry and weaken the spine.

and now we leave it in the press overnight to dry, and pick up the next step in the morning!

[ps-froggie]

Bound this cute StarOp oneshot by @mesopelagos aka apatheticrobots! It's a very fun read, so please check it out if you're interested in the pairing!

Step One: Don’t Fall In Love (Step One Failed)

He was going to seduce Prime. Now-- wait, just let him finish explaining. (Or, Starscream devises a plan that’s only marginally more stupid than the ones he usually makes. It’s also about a million times more successful.)

Some rambling below...

Finally got to try out my new guillotine to trim the text block and I love it! I wasn't able to get it completely square, but it is so, so, so much kinder on my wrists than chisel trimming.

I did an actual proper three piece bradel bind for this bind. I went with red and blue for the cover and endpapers because that's basically the StarOp color scheme for me lol. Though now that I look closer, I think the blue paper I used for the cover is a bit more purple than I thought it was... Oh well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The endpapers are simply cardstock I painted with watercolor and then heavily burnished with beeswax.

[sweet-pea-channie]

Shadows of the Exile - Part 8

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: Y/N perfects a healing salve, determined to prove its effectiveness. After self-testing, she hopes to heal even deep scars. Meanwhile, Azriel struggles with her absence, missing her presence at the Town House. When she finally returns, an unspoken connection deepens between them.

Warnings: self-experimentation & medical procedures, mentions of scars & past injuries, emotional distress & isolation,

Word count: 3.9k

A/N: It's a short part, but an important one. Hope you like it!

series masterlist

Y/N took a deep breath as she carefully applied the cool salve with her fingertips. The gentle scent of the rare flower from the Spring Court, mixed with the earthy notes of the remaining ingredients, filled the room. She had spent the last month perfecting the formula—this time, she would not fail.

The transformation of the brew into a working salve had been a process that required precision. First, she had brewed the original mixture once more, meticulously ensuring that she removed it from the fire precisely on the sixth full moon. Then, she had thickened the liquid substance in a slow, careful process using a blend of beeswax and dragonroot essence. The temperature had to remain constant—one degree too hot or too cold, and the consistency would have been ruined. Finally, she had infused the mixture with a pinch of crushed moon herbs—a final, crucial step to stabilize its effects.

Now, after several days, she was testing the salve on herself. And that was the reason she hadn’t been at the Town House for so long. She couldn’t afford a mistake—not after spending a year developing this healing formula.

She ran her fingers over the spot on her forearm where she had applied the salve. Where there had once been a deep, deliberately made cut, only a thin, pale line remained. The healing process had been accelerated, almost in a way that resembled magic—but it wasn’t. This was science, combined with healing arts, a fusion of nature and alchemical precision.

A tremor ran through her fingers as she traced the healed skin. It worked. Her heart pounded faster as she turned the glass jar containing the remaining salve in her hands. She hoped this was finally the solution—that with this formula, she could heal more than just small wounds. Maybe... maybe one day, she could create something that even made scars disappear, something that could heal deeper injuries—ones even magic couldn’t completely erase.

A sigh escaped her as she leaned against the wooden table. She had hoped that neither Azriel nor Cassian would be away on a mission during this final, critical phase. If either of them had stormed into her clinic injured, she would have had to drop everything—just like last time. But this time, she had done it. No one had interrupted her, no one had come in badly wounded, demanding her full attention.

Azriel leaned against the doorframe of the Town House’s kitchen, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. His gaze rested on the table—more precisely, on Y/N’s untouched place. The chair remained empty, the plate untouched, as if it was an unspoken certainty that she wouldn’t show up tonight either.

Cassian had already given up asking about her. He knew Azriel had noticed—that she no longer came to meals regularly, that she barely spent time at the Town House anymore. But no one spoke of it. It was obvious she was busy with something, something important to her.

Azriel knew it mattered, that she had buried herself in something that demanded all her focus. But that didn’t mean it didn’t bother him. That there wasn’t this quiet pull in his chest, a dull ache every time he looked at her empty seat and wondered if she would return today.

Today was one of those nights.

He pushed himself off the wall, picked up his plate, and carried it back to the kitchen. Without another word, he disappeared into his room, closing the door behind him and letting the silence of the space settle around him.

The shadows in the corners of his room moved sluggishly, as if even his magic reflected his unrest. He sank into his chair, pulling one of the reports Rhysand had sent him closer. Routine work. Normally, he would have read through the lines with effortless concentration, but today… today, he read without truly absorbing the meaning of the words.

His gaze drifted to the candle on his desk. The flickering light cast long shadows on the wall, distorting the room’s contours. He rubbed his temple with two fingers and leaned back.

She will come when she is ready.

He knew he had to give her space. Y/N was someone who withdrew when she was working on something. Someone who only emerged when she was ready to share what she had been so obsessively perfecting. And he respected that.

But that didn’t mean it was easy.

He stood, stepping to the window. The night over Velaris was clear, the full moon casting a silver glow over the quiet streets. The city’s soft shimmer seemed colder tonight, less alive.

His jaw tightened.

Come home, Y/N.

He knew there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t push her, couldn’t go looking for her. All he could do was wait. And hope she returned soon.

Y/N sat on one of the low wooden stools in her small, makeshift workshop within the clinic. The cool night air drifted through the half-open window, while the candles on the table cast a gentle, flickering light over the five small salve tins.

Five attempts. Five possibilities.

She had already tested the first tin—the mixture with moon herbs. It had worked. The wound on her arm had nearly vanished, as if it had never existed. But now, the real test lay ahead.

Her fingers traced over one of the other tins. This one contained an additional ingredient—a rare essence known for its regenerative properties. She had blended it with one of the base components of the original salve, melted it down, stirred it until the mixture took on a silky, almost pearlescent consistency. This salve was different. Stronger. Maybe even dangerous.

A deep breath.

Y/N stood, the small jar in hand, and moved slowly toward the mirror in the corner of the room. The reflection staring back at her was one she had avoided for years. Her hands didn’t tremble—at least not outwardly. But inside, uncertainty pulsed, a heavy weight in her chest she could not shake.

She untied the laces of her top, let the fabric slip from her shoulders, and let it fall to the floor. Cold air brushed over her skin, raising goosebumps—but it wasn’t the chill that made her breath heavy.

It was the sight.

Slowly, she turned so that her back was visible in the candlelight.

Where her wings had once been, two large scars remained. They weren’t just pale, fine lines—no, the skin was uneven, thicker in some places, almost sunken in others. Where the flesh had healed, it was hardened, rough, reminiscent of old burn wounds. Scars that marked not just her body, but her soul.

Y/N’s throat tightened. She didn’t want to look. She wanted to forget.

But she couldn’t.

She took a deep breath, then opened the small tin in her hand.

The familiar scent of herbs, wax, and something light, fresh, rose to her nose. It carried memories—of long nights experimenting, of hopes and setbacks, of all the moments she had wondered if it was worth it. Her thumb brushed over the surface of the salve before she scooped up a small amount with two fingers.

Then, she touched the scars.

A faint tremor ran through her body as she carefully applied the cool salve to the scarred skin. Her fingers moved slowly, massaging the mixture in, feeling the unfamiliar sensation on a part of her body she so rarely touched. A place she avoided, a place she didn’t want to feel.

She held her breath.

And waited.

Seconds passed. Then a minute.

At first, there was nothing. No warmth, no tingling, no noticeable change. But then—a faint, barely perceptible pull beneath her skin.

Y/N’s heartbeat quickened.

It wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t exactly comfort either. It felt as though something was waking, as though nerves long silent were responding to a whisper. An echo from the past, reminding her body in a way she had thought impossible.

She looked into the mirror, searching for a change.

Nothing yet.

But she would wait.

She had to know if it worked.

If all the years of research, of experimenting, of hoping—if it had been worth it.

Slowly, she closed her eyes. Her fingers still rested on the scars.

And she waited.

Azriel sat at his desk, surrounded by reports and parchment scrolls, yet the words before him blurred, lost their meaning, became mere symbols on yellowed paper. The candles in his room burned down slowly, their wax dripping silently onto the tabletop, while his shadows stirred restlessly in the dark corners of the room. Normally, he would fully immerse himself in his work, spending hours poring over reports on enemy troop movements, espionage missions, or diplomatic negotiations without losing focus.

But not today.

Six days.

Six days since he had last seen Y/N.

His shadows had told him that she had spent almost all her time at the House of Wind, dividing her days between research and self-experimentation, barely taking a break. She ate, she rested, the house took care of her—but was that enough? Azriel knew how she was, how she lost herself in her work when something mattered to her. He knew she wouldn’t spare herself, not when she was finally on the verge of the breakthrough she had worked toward for so long.

He wanted to give her space. He respected her independence, her dedication. But that didn’t mean it was easy for him.

Sighing, he leaned back, rubbing his temples with two fingers. The dull headache that had been threatening for hours intensified, yet he knew it had nothing to do with his work.

Then—footsteps in the hallway.

Soft, deliberate. And then that familiar knock.

His door was open, but Y/N always knocked.

Azriel looked up. There she stood in the dim light of the hallway, and just the sight of her made something in his chest ease. She was here. Back.

He stood, pushing the reports aside, and stepped toward her.

"Do you have a minute?" Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

He studied her. She looked exhausted, but satisfied. Her entire posture spoke of the weight of the past days, but also of a success she had yet to put into words.

"For you, always."

They sat down on the edge of the bed, the wood creaking softly beneath them. For a moment, there was only silence between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that existed only between people who knew each other, who understood each other without the need for many words.

Then Y/N turned slightly toward him, looking directly at him.

"You know the flower we took from the Spring Court was efficient for something special I was working on, right?"

Azriel nodded slowly.

Without another word, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small glass container. When she opened it, a brown, creamy substance came into view. A faint scent of fresh herbs and something sweet lingered in the air. Azriel observed it but said nothing.

"May I?" She reached out to him, and he let her.

He knew he shouldn’t. He knew he should pull away, as he always did. No one touched his scars. No one traced their fingers over the rough skin covering his hands, a testament to all he had endured.

But Y/N wasn’t "no one."

She had never looked at him with pity. Never with disgust. Never with the question of what exactly had happened.

And now, she touched him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if he weren’t broken.

Azriel felt it instantly.

The coolness of the salve, the gentle glide of her fingertips over his skin. It was a touch he wasn’t used to. No hesitation, no fear. Only warmth. Only care.

His mind screamed at him to pull away, to put on a mask of indifference. But his body did the opposite. He relaxed.

His shoulders lowered, the pressure on his chest eased slightly, and the faint trembling that ran through him wasn’t out of fear. Not out of resistance.

It was something else. Something he couldn’t name.

Y/N kept speaking, her voice soft as she massaged the cream into his skin.

"I tested this on myself the last few days, and I can confidently say that it’s successful. I can still refine the formula, but I think it’s good enough as it is."

He couldn’t help but look at her. Her eyes, her expression, the quiet determination in her voice. She was proud of what she had created, and yet there was that tiny flicker of uncertainty in her gaze. As if she were waiting for a reaction, for some sign that her work hadn’t been in vain.

Azriel felt the warmth spread beneath her touch. No burning. No pain. Just a subtle, pulsing warmth spreading beneath the scarred skin, as if something old, something long-rigid, was slowly loosening.

He didn’t know if it was the cream.

Or her.

A part of him wanted to say something. Wanted to find words for what was happening inside him, for the quiet pull in his chest that grew stronger the longer she touched him.

But instead, he just sat there. Felt. Allowed it. And maybe, maybe that was enough.

"I actually wanted to give this to you for Solstice."

Solstice.

She had made this for him. Not for a patient. Not for a mission. Not out of pure scientific interest.

For him.

Azriel swallowed, but his throat suddenly felt too dry to utter a single sound.

"But then everything with the incident and Rhys got in the way, and the cream wasn’t finished in time. And now I didn’t want to wait any longer and decided to give it to you now."

He couldn’t stop staring at her. Her voice was calm, a little hesitant, as if she wasn’t sure how he would react. "I always see how you rub your knuckles. And I know what it feels like when scar tissue rubs against certain spots."

His heart clenched. She had noticed.

The small, almost unconscious movements he made when the scarred skin on his fingers felt tight. How he often ran his thumb over it, sometimes without even realizing it.

"The cream won’t heal the scars, but it will ease the pain."

He heard her words, understood them—but all he could do was continue to stare at her.

Y/N hesitated. Her eyes searched his, concern flickering in them.

"Are you okay, Azriel? Does it hurt? I can take it off immediately, I—"

She moved, reaching for a cloth, but his hand shot forward, gripping hers.

"No, no, no, no."

His voice was rough, urgent. He held her hand tighter than he intended—as if he had to stop her from taking away this touch, this feeling, this moment.

"It doesn't hurt at all," he said quickly. "It feels quite nice, actually."

For a moment, silence stretched between them.

Then something in Y/N’s face softened, and a small, gentle smile flickered across her lips.

And Azriel … Azriel was suddenly no longer sure if it was really just the cream that felt so damn good.

Azriel slowly felt it—the tension in his hands easing.

He was used to his scars hurting, to the skin tightening when he curled his fingers into fists or gripped his blades for too long. He had never complained, had never really thought about the possibility that it could be different. It was just the way things were.

But now … Now, it felt as if something was loosening, as if the constant strain he had long stopped noticing was finally dissipating.

His grip on Y/N’s hand relaxed slightly, but he didn’t let go.

She didn’t seem to notice—or if she did, she didn’t show it. Instead, she took a bit more of the cream onto her fingertips and began to treat his other hand with the same care.

As she massaged the salve in, she continued speaking, and her voice held that light, cheerful undertone he heard far too rarely.

"The mixture was enough for five small jars."

Azriel watched her, listening as her fingers glided gently over his skin.

"One jar was designed to make cuts heal much faster. Faster than even my magic could. It’s phenomenal! You can take it with you to your mission to heal smaller cuts yourself."

Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, and Azriel knew—this was her passion. Her research, her knowledge, the way she created things to help others.

"Then I used the second jar for my own testing, and this one is now the third." She lifted a finger at him with a mock-stern look. "You have to use it sparingly. I only have one more jar left."

Azriel huffed softly—not in mockery, but in amusement. “You’re giving me something that works this well and then telling me to ration it?”

Y/N chuckled quietly as she worked the last remnants of the cream into his skin.

“The last jar, I refined it again with moon herbs, so it heals cuts. That way, I get more use out of it too.”

Azriel felt the warmth of her touch slowly fade as she pulled back, and his body almost protested the loss of it.

“And maybe,” she continued, “I can go back to Spring Court next year and look for the flower again. Then I can make even more.”

She sounded so determined, so certain that her work was far from over.

And Azriel…

Azriel had never wished so much for someone to just stay.

For someone to keep looking at him like that, to keep touching him like that—like he was worth caring for.

He moved his fingers cautiously, curling and uncurling his fist.

No pain.

Just warmth.

Just Y/N.

Since Azriel was still a little stunned and not saying anything, Y/N tilted her head playfully. “You’re really quiet. Is that a good sign? Or is the Shadowsinger having an existential crisis because someone actually made something for him?”

He let out an amused huff and just shook his head. “I’m just… surprised, that’s all.”

“Surprised that it works? Or surprised that I care about you?” She grinned mischievously, but her eyes studied him carefully.

He couldn’t hold her gaze for long, looking away instead, his fingers still flexing slightly. “Both.”

Y/N gently nudged his shoulder. “Idiot.”

He couldn’t help but laugh softly.

When Y/N finally closed the jar and stretched slightly—maybe a bit too abruptly after the long days at the House of Wind—her face twitched unconsciously.

Azriel, of course, noticed immediately.

“You’re exhausted.”

Y/N waved him off. “Just a little sore. Nothing I can’t handle.”

But Azriel didn’t think—he just acted.

Gently, almost hesitantly, he lifted a hand and placed it on her shoulder. His touch was careful, as if he was afraid she might pull away.

But she didn’t.

She only exhaled softly, like she was finally allowing herself to relax for the first time in days.

And Azriel realized he liked that feeling.

He didn’t pull his hand away immediately.

Y/N smiled at him—tired, but full of warmth.

“You should get some rest, Y/N.”

“I will. Just… let me sit here for a bit.”

And Azriel only nodded, like he understood without her needing to explain. He simply stayed with her. Maybe for a minute. Maybe longer. But it didn’t feel wrong. It felt just right.

Y/N rubbed her tired eyes and rolled her shoulders slightly. The long hours spent sitting, the intense focus on the smallest details of her salve—it had all settled into her muscles.

Azriel watched her in silence for a moment before he decided to speak. “You should lie down for a bit.”

She blinked at him. “I’m fine, Az. Really.”

He simply raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Humor me. Just for a while.”

She sighed quietly, but before she could protest, he added, “I’ll get you something to eat. You haven’t eaten properly in days, have you?”

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again. Of course, he had noticed.

“You like the cinnamon-almond pastries from that café near the Sidra, right?” He looked at her calmly, like it was the most natural thing in the world that he knew this. “I can get you some.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a tired smile. “Az, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

Something warm spread through her chest, but before she could say anything, he added with a light, almost mischievous glint in his eyes, “And if you lie down right now, close your eyes, and actually do what I say for once, I’ll even bring you that other pastry you always get.”

Y/N frowned slightly. “What other pastry?”

Azriel’s mouth twitched. “The one you think no one notices you buying, but I do.”

She blinked. Then shook her head in disbelief. “Of course you do. Spymaster and all.”

He shrugged, as if it was obvious.

She laughed softly. “Okay, fine. But only because you bribed me.”

“Good.”

Y/N stood up, intending to return to her own room, but Azriel stopped her with a gentle shake of his head. “Stay here. Just rest. I’ll be back soon.”

Something in his quiet voice, in the unspoken promise within it, made her pause.

Y/N slowly removed her boots and placed them neatly at the foot of the bed before sinking backward. Her limbs felt heavy as she pulled the blanket over herself, curling into the soft, familiar fabric.

The bed smelled like Azriel, like the space he so often occupied—cool, mysterious, but somehow comforting.

She let out a quiet, content sigh as she nestled in, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. The day had been long, her eyes burned with exhaustion, and she felt utterly drained. But it was a good exhaustion—the kind that only asked for a moment of rest before diving back into the storm.

With one last glance at Azriel, who was still standing in the doorway, she grinned. “You better wake me only if the pastries are still warm. Otherwise, let me sleep. And don’t wake me unless it’s something really important.”

Azriel stared at her for a moment, his lips twitching into that mischievous smile she knew so well. He shook his head slightly, as if to say she could never hide anything from him. But then he simply nodded. “I won’t wake you. You rest. But if you sleep too long, I’ll eat all of them myself.”

Y/N laughed softly, already half-buried in the pillow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Azriel only grinned and stepped back, closing the door quietly behind him. But as he took one last glance into the room, he couldn’t help but watch her—how she curled up so peacefully under his blanket, how her features softened as if she was finally allowing herself to let go.

It was a moment of stillness, one just as unfamiliar to him as it was to her.

But before he could let himself dwell on it, he turned silently and left—to bring her what she wanted.

Taglist: @princesssunderworld @tele86 @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @rose-girls-world @iluvyewman-blog @gluecksbaerchieee @lreadsstuff

Want to be added? Let me know! :)

[son1c]

i had a dream last night about the sonic movies. they were different, though. instead of staying put once he lands on earth, he keeps moving. he travels from place to place, always out of sight, staying safe with his speed and momentum. he gains a real appreciation for earth's environment this way, since he's basically "roughing it" through north america's many biomes.

he manages to go undetected until he's about 10 years old. his discovery happens like this: he's tramping through the woods like he always does. he's pretty far in there--don't want to risk running into any hikers, right?--but there's someone else there. at first, he thinks it's just a bird or bobcat making some noise. so, he turns the page in the stolen "borrowed" library book he's reading and ignores it, but it doesn't stop.

he closes the book. strains his ears. now that he's listening harder, the noise almost sounds like someone crying.

of course, sonic has his 1 golden rule: don't let anyone see you. he's stayed true to that for all these years, and he's not going to break that rule now... but what's the harm in a little investigating? it'll just be a quick peek.

as it turns out, the noise wasn't coming from a bird or a bobcat; it was the faint crying of a human kid. sonic can tell even from a distance that the kid is hurt--there's no way an ankle is supposed to bend that way--but he's also hesitant to get any closer. what if this is a trap? isn't it a little suspicious that there's a kid all the way out here? and, most importantly: does he really want to break his golden rule?

well, yeah. there's no one else out here but him and the kid. help isn't coming--if there's gonna be a hero in this situation, then there's no other choice. so, sonic steps out of the bush and toward the kid with his hands raised in what he hopes is a peaceful gesture. his heart is beating a million miles a minute, but he's not scared, not really. his entire being aches with this opportunity; the opportunity to shed his years-long loneliness and make a connection, if only for a moment.

the kid hears a twig snap under sonic's feet and stiffens, her sobs catching in her throat. in a trembling voice, she asks, who's there?

sonic pauses. he's barely 10 feet from her now. looking directly at her, with nothing in between them but air. and yet, it's like the kid doesn't see him. her eyes dart around, searching, but always jumping right past sonic. trying to keep it casual, sonic replies, your hero has arrived.

sonic holds his breath. the girl looks confused, her brow furrowing, but at the same time, her shoulders relax. under her breath, she mumbles something that might be, a kid? then, she looks directly at sonic... kind of. her head turns toward the direction his voice came from, but her eyes don't focus on him. what are you doing way out here?

you know, sonic says, a smile tugging at his lips despite the anxiety coiling in his stomach, i was just about to ask you the same thing.

the girl frowns. she turns away from sonic as a stormy expression overtakes her face. none of your beeswax, she replies, but her venom is halfhearted. she's clearly hurting right now.

tentatively, sonic steps closer. his golden rule is beginning to slip from his mind. ooo-kay, he says slowly, keep your secrets. now, sonic kneels down in front of the girl. if he wanted to, he could reach out and touch her, and it took every ounce of his self-control to stop himself from doing just that.

the girl turns toward sonic again. this time, her eyes don't slide past him like he's made of slippery syrup. she squints, her nose scrunching up as she appears to focus very, very hard on what's barely a foot in front of her face. then, finally, she asks, you just gonna stand there and stare?

sonic grins. hey! it's not every day i get to stage a rescue operation in the woods. i wanna savor the feeling of being a forest ranger. sonic pauses, the girl's shallow breaths bringing him back to reality. he notices the old backpack clutched in the girl's hands and asks, what's in the bag? please tell me it's a smartphone. preferably of the apple variety. but i'd accept a blackberry too--those are cool. either way, we can use it to phone home. you know, like in E.T.--

i'm not an alien! the girl snaps. besides, i don't have any home left to call. she tightens her grip around the backpack as her eyes narrow into tiny slits. when she does this, sonic notices the deep, dark circles under her eyes. either rescue me, or go away. i don't care.

sonic matches the look of angry despair on the girl's face with one of stubborn optimism. i thought you'd never ask, he says. then, he pulls an old t-shirt out of his quills and tears it into strips. alright, so, he starts to say as he reaches for the girl's twisted ankle, i've watched almost all of grey's anatomy, and the first two seasons of house m.d., which means i'm basically a doctor. right?

the girl blinks. no?

sonic stops, his fingertips millimeters away from her bloody sock. you have a better idea?

the girl bites her lip. no.

great! i'll be fast. promise. true to his word, sonic wraps the girl's ankle in a flash. then, he says, yeah-heah-heah! now we're talkin'. if i didn't know any better, i'd say that was a professional patch job!

the girl loosens her death-grip on the backpack and slowly wiggles her toes. it hurts, but not as much as before. not bad, she mutters.

beaming, sonic offers her his hand. but she doesn't react at all, so sonic slowly lowers his hand. then, he scratches his head. he's missing something, but what? he looks around, scanning the dirt-and-leaf-covered forest floor for any clues until eventually he finds it: a white cane poking out of a nearby bush, caught in the root of a particularly gnarled tree.

forgetting himself for a moment, sonic uses his super speed to grab the cane before returning to the girl's side. he goes unpunished though, as all she does in response is widen her eyes and ask, what was that?

just the wind, sonic says, a little cheekily. then, he tells her about what he found. the girl snatches the cane from him rather rudely, but sonic lets it go without comment. then, because she's still sitting on the ground, he asks, need a hand?

and then the dream ended. i think it was pretty epic because a visually impaired companion would mean sonic could have a friend without letting his secret (i.e. the fact that he exists) get out. he'd just have to be veryyyy careful about not touching her or letting her touch him. cuz while he can explain some things, like his arms are fuzzy cuz he's wearing a... ""fur coat""... and his hands are big cuz he's still ""growing into them""... other things, like his quills, are a bit harder to explain.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Warm and Cozy

Nanami Kento x F!Reader

Summary: Nanami Kento did not show up at Shoko's Infirmary after a mission for his usual checkup so she sent you to his place to check up on him.

Warnings: Smut. 18+ I am not responsible for any underaged baby reading this. Wrap that willy before doing the silly.

Word Count: Your girl got horny.

MASTERLIST in bio, darlings. Tags are open (check bio)

"Since when did you start doing house calls?"

"Since you stopped taking Shoko Senpai's calls and returned home instead."

Kento Nanami is still dressed in his blue shirt and tan blazer, holding the door with his hand and looking at you with zero emotions.

You can see the wretched dotted tie lying at the small dinner table behind him along with his glasses, not knowing why their site bothers you so much.

Nanami's free hand goes to his face to rub the incoming tiredness in his eyes. "Y/L/N, I'm fine. You should go back-"

"I've been threatened by senpai to heal you back to proper health or she'll fire me. So, if you don't mind, Nanami, I'd like to keep the job I finally love. Also, you are reeking of curses right now," you wring your nose in the end.

His brown eyes look at the resolution in your figure at his door before looking at the night sky behind you. He notices a moment in the corridor outside, his brows furrowing in some calculated thought.

The hand holding the door turns enough for Nanami to look at the time. And while he is contemplating something in his head, you cannot resist observing the six-foot-tall man; looking so different from what he was when you first met him.

He definitely worked out, your inner voice purrs inside your head, making you clench your office bag to resist any more stray thoughts.

"You are not going back alone at this time anyway," he murmured under his breath and stepped to the side.

"Oh!" you scoff, "I am pretty sure I can navigate my way around Tokyo at night just fine, sir. Or did you forget the time I-"

Nanami's senses are focused on the figure clad in a black hoodie coming from the other end of the corridor. The figure reached for something in the pocket of his hoodie and Nanami is quick to grab you by your arm- in the gentlest of way possible- and pull your surprised frame inside his humble abode.

You walk into the apartment and let your lungs inconspicuously breathe in the scent of Kento Nanami's safe space. And just as you expect, it smells of vanilla and beeswax.

Maybe it's the soap he uses?

The apartment is spotless. Everything has its place. Maybe the only thing out of place is you.

The entrance has you open to a cozy beige-clad living room. Walking a little further, you are standing in his open kitchen next to the kitchen island and looking at the table next to you where his tie and glasses lie.

Right opposite the kitchen is a space separated by a wooden structure made of hollow rectangular blocks housing plants, books on anatomy and humans, and a single empty space right in the middle.

The bed beyond that is covered in a grey duvet, astonishingly wrinkle-free.

Too clean, your nose wrinkles, it should have some-

Now what would make a bed that neat wrinkled and dirty, your inner voice whispers in your ear, spiking up your heartbeat.

"Would you like some tea?"

You jump at Nanami's voice, turning around towards the kitchen.

The man is already rolling his sleeves up and putting a kettle on.

"Yes, please," you plead softly, walking towards the kitchen island, and picking up his tie on the way.

"Did you meet the new kid yet?" you ask him as your hands and eyes get busy with the tie, wrapping it around your neck to try your hand at the few knots you learned in school.

Nanami opens up a drawer to take out two mugs- one purple and one grey- before turning towards the island.

There is this tiny second of a moment when he pauses to look at your fingers busy with the fabric that is practically a part of him. But he is quick to regain his usually stoic momentum even though his eyes keep going back to how carefully your fingers are running over his tie.

"Gojo's kid?"

You break into a chuckle, your eyes closing in the tiny flash of elation, never seeing how Nanami's eyes follow the moment of your head as it dips back and then tilts sideways.

"Well, you're not wrong in a way. His name is Yuuji. Yuuji Itadori. He's a really cute kid." You have finally made a passable knot and are trying to pass the other end through. "I was assigned to check him up yesterday and that boy made me laugh the entire time."

Nanami is just standing there with his arms folded when a whistle starts to form at the mouth of the kettle.

"And he is so pure, Nanami! He let me explain to him the culture samples in Senpai's lab and he looked at every single one of them with the same excitement as he did the first one."

The whistle goes harder on that kettle.

A fresh pack of Hojicha tea is opened. Nanami's rugged hands are careful with the bits they pick up to sprinkle in the earthen pot waiting for the brew time before the boiling water goes in.

"Oh, I love him! He's so precious." you declare in excitement.

You do not notice when Nanami comes to stand in front of you. You notice his hands first; when they come to take over the tie from your hands.

"I haven't washed it yet. It might still have some curse blood on it," Nanami slowly announces before delicately pulling the tie up your head.

"Oh...right. My bad."

Moving the tie away from your head, his hand unconsciously comes back to undo the mess he made in your hair, making you pause a breath.

Stop, you tell your insides, trying to shake away the gentle gestures as something more.

.

Your tools are neatly arranged on the dinner table. Nanami sits on a chair.

"See? Nothing to worry about," he declares in his usual nonchalant way as you are done examining his head and arms.

"Not so fast, love. I still have to scrutinise the rest of you," you warn him sweetly while you rub your palms together and walk behind the chair.

Nanami's head tilts a little in your direction.

"Okay....love."

Your hands freeze behind him. The word vibrates inside you with his voice.

Oh fu---haaa----Focus!

"I need to run the energy down your spine." You try your best to sound composed.

He undoes the first two buttons on his shirt and lifts away the collar, exposing his neck and shoulders to you.

"Tell me if it gets uncomfortable at any point," you announce softly before gently putting your hands on the back of his neck to observe for any anomalies.

What you don't get to see is the rugged hands of the Grade 1 sorcerer curling up into a fist at the first touch of your fingers on his exposed skin, or the goosebumps on his arms and back as your fingers do a little stroke at the nape to guide the energy down his spine.

"Oh, this is not good," you state, stepping away from him to look for something inside your bag.

"What?" Nanami almost blurts out, not really sure what the question was for- the 'not good' part or your hands- that seemed to bring him some much-needed relief- not touching him anymore.

Taking out a small maroon spherical crystal from your bag, you look Nanami straight in the eyes. "Take off your clothes. We're getting in the shower."

.

The shower head is fixed back into place by your fingers. "There," you exhale and come down from the stool to give one final look of satisfaction at your work.

Nanami is standing at his bathroom door, leaning on the doorframe, observing you. You are out of your overcoat, exposing your usual colourful self in a sweater, a skirt and skinny tights. This is the first time he has seen you wear a sweater in blue. It suits you, he thinks to himself, though it irks him to imagine if it ran up your waist like it is doing now- when you are adjusting the angle of the shower- when you travelled all the way from Jujutsu High to his place and if anyone else dared to see you like this.

"I've fixed the disinfectant in your shower head. Now just stand under the running water for about a minute or so and I'll take out the curse sample."

Nanami looks at the shower head and then at you. "How lethal is the infection?"

"Oh," you shake your head, "not lethal if we do this right now. Lethal if you let it sit overnight. I am going to take the sample back to Shoko Senpai for culture study and antidotes. It'll wash away in no time, don't worry about it."

"I'm not worried for me," he mumbles.

"Hm?" you furrow your brows in confusion, which melts away at the speed of light when the man unbuttons his shirt, taking it off and neatly stacking it in the laundry basket next to the sink.

It takes you some time to let the beauty of Kento Nanami's body seep into your mind. It also takes one long inhale to realise that Blazer had been hiding a sculpted Renaissance art underneath it.

But your brain goes to hell when he takes off his trousers and stands there in his black boxers, revealing some incredibly toned legs.

Oh, mother of curses!

Embarrassed for looking at him with budding sinful thoughts, you turn around in the shower temple to smack your head into the towel rack.

Cursing under your breath, you walk out of the tiny space with your gaze on the ground. "The infection is on your left shoulder blade...o-on the back."

"How bad is it?" Nanami tries to take a look at it in the wall-length mirror on the sink.

"I've handled worse. It's okay, you can trust me, Nanami." you shrug at his reflection in the mirror with a smile.

"I do, Y/L/N-" Nanami takes off his watch and places it beside the sink, leaving that sentence hanging, leaving you blinking at your own reflection for a moment.

Nanami steps into the shower temple, turning on the shower and letting his left arm and shoulder soak in the cold wetness of the water.

Soon enough the infection starts to wriggle and make screeching sounds as the energy in the water starts killing it.

Grabbing the container from your sample kit you step into the space. "I'm taking a sample now."

A few mud-coloured droplets that are still screeching are caught in the container while the rest of them are washed away in the water and down the drain, leaving Nanami's body healed to its original perfection.

"Feel better?"

Nanami does feel better. He can feel all the tiredness leaving his body with the water. He turns around to tell you the same.

You are looking at the container and about to walk out of the shower temple. "Let's get you back to the lab to Senp-"

Your words get stuck in your throat when your foot slips on the wet tile and your hands are grabbing at the air to break your fall.

The air does not break your fall. But Nanami does. His one hand is quick to cushion your head from hitting the wall while his other hand grabs your waist and pulls you to himself. Fearing not to make you fall for a second time, he backs into the wall behind him for support, bringing you both under the shower.

The container falls on the tiled floor as your hands grab onto his shoulders for support and your heart tries to get accustomed to the fear of the fall.

Neither of you move for a moment. Neither of you wants to in fear of doing something the other might now like in such close proximity to each other.

Close proximity? You both are grabbing onto each other as if your lives depend on it.

"Y/N? You okay?" Nanami finally whispers when he does not feel you move for a long while.

"Yes," you breathe, moving your face away from his shoulders- which are welcoming and hot- and facing him. "Sorry. I slipped."

Before Nanami can point out the futility of an apology that is not your fault, you smile and move your hands through his hair. "Aw shucks! I ruined your hair. It's wet now."

That does it for Kento Nanami. That one brush of your fingers in his hair reverberates through his whole body.

"Stop, Y/N," he refrains from growling.

Your hand immediately retreats from his head, pausing in the air and wondering with lost eyes if you did something wrong.

Ah, shit. He doesn't like his hair messed with.

"Stop giving me wrong ideas," he whispers, turning off the shower with his free hand.

"Wrong...what?" your voice barely rises above a whisper.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" You try to wriggle out of his hold, a little hurt at the assumptions you are making in your head. "I'm sorry for messing your hair."

"My hair isn't the only thing you are messing with."

You scoff, feeling offended. "I'll fix it, okay! Your hair and whatever else I messed with."

Nanami runs his hands through his hair and you have to gulp back some things that rather not come to your lips.

"Are you sure, Y/N?" Nanami looks you in your eyes with a stare you have not seen him with. And you don't want to curl up or back down, so you match his gaze with yours.

"One hundred per cent."

"So, would you be okay if I kissed you?"

The question catches you off guard. But not in the way it is supposed to. "Why would I not be okay?" you scoff. Only after you have given the answer does your brain realise what the question was.

Nanami does not waste time. His lips are on yours within seconds. His arm wraps itself around your waist to bring you closer to him.

Your hands do not know what to do at that sudden kiss. It is when Nanami draws himself away to look at you do they find themselves caressing the dip of his jaw and welcoming him back for another kiss.

Your tongue licks his lips, inviting him. Nanami lets his tongue dance with yours, bringing out a guttering moan from your throat; a moan that heats up something inside the sorcerer forcing him to lift you up by your thighs, making you wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you out of the bathroom to his bedroom.

He is careful when putting you down on his bed.

Oh! The grey duvet.

But that duvet is the least of your concerns right now when the six-foot-tall man stands at the edge of his bed wiping the water off his face, breathing a little heavily and looking at you with...what was that emotion in his eyes?

"Tell me to stop if you don't want to..." he whispers.

"Don't," your voice cracks. You can visibly see him pause his breath for a second. "Don't stop."

The dim lighting in his bedroom is perfect for watching him as his shoulders relax.

He gets on the bed, one leg at a time, dipping the sheets around you with his weight, crawling to catch your lips with his.

Your hands are nervously working on your sweater's buttons under him. He moves away to help you with it, forcing out a tiny wince from you; getting a low chuckle out of him.

Your skirt's zipper is stuck, not budging when it should be sliding down like a seal on an iceberg. Nanami is being as gentle as possible with it but it's all going in vain.

That's when you feel him dig his fingers in over the edges of the fabric near the zipper, your skin heating up where his fingers are in contact with you.

"Y/N-" he looks up at you with embers of unflinching will in his brown eyes, "let me buy you another skirt tomorrow."

The sound of the rip registers after the fabric comes apart in your brain because your eyes are too busy studying how his shoulders tense up just to get you out of your clothes.

The tights are next. But they are taken off with the most delicate touch by the sorcerer. So is the underwear.

He starts by planting kisses on your thighs, moving slowly to the inside while making your nerves light up at every touch. And if that is not enough, his hands tease and massage them to relax you every time you tense up.

He inhales the smell of your core as if he is breathing in the fresh waterfalls in the forest, and then sits back up. Lifting you up by your waist, he rolls to the other side of the bed with him at the bottom and you at the top. He adjusts your thighs on either side of his waist before dragging you further up his torso.

You watch in confusion as he takes the support of the head of his bed and slides further down.

"Sit on me," he announces.

"....what?"

"Sit on my face," he does not stutter.

But you do. "N-Nanami."

He simply lifts your thighs up and brings your core closer to his face.

Do I weigh anything to you?

His hands push your thighs apart, letting him get better access to you. You are not putting your weight down and taking the support of the headboard instead, worried about suffocating him.

But the first flick of his tongue on your clit makes you jump up.

Nanami is quick to anchor your thighs with his hands, forcing you to put all your weight on him. He starts what seems like an incantation being written with his tongue inside you.

Sucking and licking, flicking and teasing, he is your very own roller coaster of pleasure tonight, making you writhe with pleasure under his touch.

And lo...you can feel the wetness gather around your walls.

"Nanami-" you are trying your best to breathe right- "I'm gonna-Nanami. Wait. I'm gonna pee. Ah!"

This man keeps touching all the right nerves again. And again. And again.

You are being driven to the edge. "Nanami stop!"

And he stops for a minuscule second, giving you a window to lift yourself up and flop on your back next to him, trying to bring your lungs back to normal.

"Did it hurt?"

Nanami's hand comes to move the stray strands of your hair away from your face glowing with sweat under the dim bedroom light.

He is looking over you, half up on his arm while his other hand is caressing your face. "Y/N, did it hurt?"

You shake your head. "No. No, I just felt I was about to pee and I didn't want...to do it...over you."

You can see his lips glisten with your juices. He closes his eyes and licks his lips before rolling to the other side, sitting up at the edge and eventually getting up.

The light coming from the bathroom perfectly draws out the cuts of the tensed muscles all over his body while his back is still towards you.

Wait...is it over?

You can see him curl his hands into fists before releasing them and finally walking the length of his bed to come to your side.

You rise up on your elbows.

It's over, isn't it? Your inner voice is smacking you left and right, blaming you for stopping the pleasure harp of a lifetime just as it was about to reach its crescendo.

He goes for the chest next to his bed, opens the top drawer and takes out a small packet that glistens under the scarce light.

"Next time-" he removes his shorts, freeing his already hard length, and gets up on the edge of the bed in front of you- "when you are on top of me-" he tears the packet with his teeth and takes out a condom, pumping his length with his free hand- "I have already played out the probabilities of me suffocating in between your thighs-" he puts the condom on his length and then rests his arms on your raised knees, finally looking into your eyes with a passion you have not seen in him before.

"Next time-" he bends a bit forward to lean in for a kiss and undo the hook of your bra- "waterboard me."

Your bra is on the floor. His hands cup your breasts perfectly, massaging them as his kisses grow intense with every passing second. Then he moves onto your neck, biting it in places before licking the heat away.

Parting from you, he takes one pillow and places it under your head, another between you and the headboard and the last one under your lower back.

Letting his cock gather the juices on your edges, he looks at you while taking his time to enter you.

Both of you feel your breaths cemented in your throats letting you get accustomed to each other. He leans closer to you, planting a kiss on one of your cheeks while caressing the other with his hand. "You okay?"

You nod, feeling your walls adapt to his length.

Nanami drives out before slowly driving himself back in, giving you time to adjust to the pace. Once he knows you are comfortable, he lifts up your legs in the air and brings them to rest on his shoulders.

This time when he drives himself into you, you can feel your core light up with a different brand of intensity, leaving you to gasp for air and letting a moan slip from your throat.

Nanami smirks to himself and plants a kiss on your ankle. He has found your spot. He increases the pace a bit, loving every second of your view; as your breasts bounce to his rhythm, as you try to hold onto his duvet and his pillow, as your eyes close and your head dips back when you feel the pleasure spots light up and your moans get louder. He is loving every moment of you because you are his pleasure.

"K-Kento!"

His name from your mouth feels like a prayer, making his core shudder.

"Yes, love," he sputters between his strokes.

"I'm-ah-"

You don't get to finish your sentence.

He can feel your walls tighten around his cock, undoing his restraints and making him grunt.

He fastens his pace, the squelching and clapping of your bodies growing wilder. Taking both your legs in the hold of one arm, he lets his other hand go down to your core. His fingers find your clit and rub it to let you have your release as he starts feeling his length swell up.

Soon enough, the damn you feel rising up breaks, leaving you with shuddering legs.

Nanami elongates your orgasm as he feels his length at the edge of the eruption. Soon enough, he finds his high with one guttering growl leaving his lungs.

Sweaty and breathless, the both of you.

Nanami is spent; lying on top of you.

You run your hands through his hair as he rests his head on the nape of your neck to catch his breath.

Getting up on his arms, he looks at you with concern. "Are you okay?"

You can't help but smile as the edge of your eyes water up. Cupping his face in your hands, you bring him closer for a kiss.

Nanami carefully gets his length out of you before going straight for the bathroom. You hear the tap run for a few seconds before he comes out with a wet towel to clean you up.

The condom is disposed and you are directed into the bathroom to take a shower. Nanami joins you a few minutes later, planting soft kisses on your back.

Layered up in his oversized black t-shirt and grey shorts, you come out to find the grey sheets gone and a purple duvet waiting to greet you.

Just as you are looking at the new sheets, a needle of anxiety pricks you in your chest.

Do I stay? Do I dress up and walk out? Is...this...was this a one-night...

The thought makes your heart sink.

"Get in," Nanami orders you as he comes out of the door in a white t-shirt and grey shorts, raising the duvet from the edge for you.

The sinking heart rises up a little from the depths of darkness.

You get under the sheets and watch as he moves- first to the edge of the bed to keep something in the empty partition cubicle, and then- to the other side, switches off the lights and gets under the sheets.

You slide down the sheets while your heart rises a bit further.

You feel his arm looking for you under the sheets, finding your waist and pulling you closer to him.

He extends his arm to let you rest your head on it.

The light from the city outside is enough for him to watch your face glow and your eyes search for something in his. He moves your hair away from your face and caresses your cheeks.

"Nanami?" you whisper, still not taking your eyes off him.

"Hm?"

"Do you...like me?"

Silence.

The calm of the apartment is broken by Nanami's chuckle.

"Oh. Y/N-" the depth of his voice reverberates through his home as he exhales your name still titillates your core- "what will I do with you?!"

The maroon crystal rests on the once-empty space in the partition in Nanami Kento's home.

[blessedbyahuntress]

Blessed by a Trickster

Chapter Twenty-One: I'm not that different...

Prev/Next

A/N: Figured y'all deserved another chapter that wasn't 400-600 words...

Warnings: Violence and Reader is being cutthroat

Word Count: 900

Listen to: Different Beast

As soon as your arrow made contact with the siren’s shoulder, you leaped down from the mast, tucking into a roll to take most of your impact before you hit the floor. 

You removed the beeswax in your ears, knowing that the siren was in too much pain to sing. You could hear Polites scrambling down the rope ladder after you, and the siren’s outraged screeches as Eurylochus caught her in a net and threw her onboard. 

Odysseus unsheathed his sword, and you notched another arrow. 

“Let’s cut this charade, you are no wife of mine,” Odysseus said, walking slowly to where the siren now lay flailing around on the floorboards. “You’ve been tryin’ to take my life this whole time!”

You paced to the edge of the railing, peering down into the depths of the waters below. “We know under the water, there are packs of you hiding,” you snarled. “Yeah, we know just what you are- a siren.” At the word siren, you turned your head to see the false Penelope shift back into her real form; a horrible mermaid with long, sharp nails and gnashed teeth. 

“My real wife knows I’m not scared of the water,” Odysseus continued. “My real wife knows I don’t have a daughter!”

This time Eurylochus gestured to a different net, one filled with more sirens. “But while you were so focused on turning our men into snacks,” he said. “You didn’t notice that your friends got snatched.” 

“What?” The siren asked in disbelief, eyes locked on the squirming net.

You took a step forward, arrow pointed at her heart. “We are a different beast now. We are the ones who feast now.”

Eurylochus stepped closer too. “No more of us deceased.”

To your surprise, Polites also drew his sword. “‘Cause we won’t take more suffering from you.”

Odysseus’s scowl turned into a wicked grin. “We are the man-made monsters. We are the ones who conquer.” 

You adjusted your aim a bit before firing. The arrow hit the main siren on the other shoulder as you said, “you are a threat no longer. We won’t take more suffering from you.”

Odysseus started walking around the net in which you’d capture multiple sirens in. “We’ve been away from home for…” He held up his fingers as if to count with them. “Twelve years or so. First we slayed in our own war, and now we’re here with more foes.”

You waved your hand at the gray lump of island rising out of the water. “While on the run from Poseidon,” you began. “We found a ship with no crew. I realized nearby there were sirens, singing sailors to their dooms.”

Odysseus grabbed the nearest one’s chin, avoiding her snapping teeth. “We filled our ears with beeswax. That’s how we resist your song. You pretended to be my wife, so I just played along. I read your lips and phrases- scanning for information.”

“Sirens know about every route and horizon,” Eurylochus added. “Now we know how to get back to our island.”

You came around to Odysseus’s left side. “We are a different beast now. We are the ones who feast now.” You exchanged your bow for a sword, knowing that this was about to get messy. “No more of us deceased, ‘cause we won’t take more suffering from you. We are the man-made monsters. We are the ones who conquer. You are a threat no longer. We won’t take more suffering from you.”

You started to walk back to the main siren, but one of the ones in the net grabbed the back of your cloak. “Spare us. Oh, spare us, please,” she begged.

“Why?” You asked, tugging your cloak away and turning on your heel to face her. “So you can kill the next group of sailors in this part of the sea?” You shook your head. “Nah, you wouldn’t have spared me.” 

“I made a mistake like this, it almost cost my life.” Odysseus must’ve overhead the exchange. He ran a hand down his face. “I can’t take more risks of not seeing my wife.”

“Cut off their tails!” Your captain ordered. “We’re ending this now. Throw their bodies back in the water, let them drown.”

“No!” The siren beside you screeched. A smirk played onto your lips as you slashed the net open, all of the sea monsters inside spilling out onto the deck. 

“He is a different beast now,” you stated, thinking back to his ominous smile. Then you realized that must be what you looked like at the moment. “He is the one who feasts now.”

You brought down your sword, your sword now sticking out of a dead sirens’ back. You put your foot on your head, pulling your weapon free with grace. “No more of us deceased, ‘cause we won’t take more suffering from you.”

You didn’t waste anymore time, slashing and hacking at any sign of life in the sirens. “He is the man-made monster. “He is the one who conquers.”

Soon red stained the floorboards, and the only siren remaining was the one who had acted as Penelope. You advanced toward her, and she tried to scramble away, which wasn’t easy; she had two arrows protruding from her shoulders. “You are a threat no longer,” you growled, bringing the blade down to her heart.

You didn’t notice that Eurylochus, Polites, and Odysseus had changed their chant.

“She won’t take more suffering from you.”

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[liminalsoul]

How to make ointments

The base of making ointments is infusing herbs in some kind of oil or fat, resulting in a substance that is solid but melts at body temperature.

I usually use one part of herbs and four parts of the ointment's base, but it can vary.

The ointment's base I tend to use is olive oil, although it can be another one like almond or sunflower oil.

In order to infuse the herbs in the oil we will use the bain-marie technique. Two containers are needed: a saucepan with water and a bowl with the oil and the herbs that will go inside the other one.

This must stay over low heat for two hours, having a temperature around 40 °C (104 °F) .

An alternative to this step can be leaving the herbs and oil in a jar for two to four weeks, in a dark and dry place. To accelerate the extraction of the active principles of the plant it is convenient to shake the jar twice a day.

The oil can be filtered with a gauze and, once we have the infused oil, we will have to solidify the ointment, for which I usually use beeswax. The amount depends on the desired texture but 15% of the final volume is a good reference.

We will use bain-marie again to incorporate the beeswax. In the final jar we will put the oil and the beeswax, taking into account that the beeswax melting temperature is around 60°C (140°F) and that it isn't convenient to exceed it too much.

We will stir while the wax is melting until everything seems homogeneous. Additionally, Vitamin E can be added to extend the duration of the ointment. Finally, we will let it cool.

Note: the ointment can be made starting from a tincture of the plant instead of the fresh plant. When added to the oil, the alcohol will evaporate and the active principles of the plant will remain in the oil. In some cases, this method preserves polar substances that otherwise wouldn't stay in the final ointment, making it stronger.

[heavenlytouches]

i saw you write for Game of thrones, can you write a female reader and Kingslayer (Jaime Lannister) taking a bubble bath together in his chambers? That bath scene with Brianne is still etched in my head. Thankss

Hi darling! Thank you so much for a great request! And yes of course I can write about Ser Lannister :0 let's go, head first El <3

Ser Jaime Lannister- a splash of love

.ೃ࿔*:･

FEM reader

<3 (SFW)

TW- mentions of blood, suggestive talk (nothing too bad)

Helping Kingslayer after a rough day

SERVANT! reader

Ser Jaime Lannister

As you move quietly through the opulent halls of the Red Keep, the scent of lavender and beeswax fills the air, a stark contrast to the dark bloodstains smeared against the polished stone walls.

You are just a servant, quietly carrying out your duties, but you feel the weight of the world around you- a world where the rightful lords and ladies command power, while you merely serve. Today, though, the world holds a peculiar charm.

You approach the lavish bathing chamber, where a warm bath awaits, its steam curling into the air like whispers of long-hidden desires.

Jaime Lannister sits in the tub, tired and covered in the remnants of his last battle- a unique blend of blood and grit smeared over his golden skin. He glances up at you, and your breath catches in your throat.

He gives you that familiar teasing smile, the one that always makes your heart race, and you feel a heat rise to your cheeks.

“Come on, don’t you have a task to help with? Or do you plan to stare at me all day?”

His tone is light, but you can see the fatigue behind those mesmerizing blue eyes.

"Ser, I have to.."

You begin, your voice barely above a whisper before you catch yourself, flustered. You shouldn’t get too close, but the urgency of your duties pulls you toward him.

“Help me wash, perhaps?”

He suggests, delighted by your evident struggle. The words tumble out like a gentle tease, and you can’t help but feel the electricity that crackles between you, teasing the edges of propriety.

“I don’t think that would be appropriate, my lord,”

You murmur, your heart pounding as a flurry of sensations engulfs you: his warmth, the inviting water, and the very real danger of crossing lines you never dared imagine.

“Come now, I promise I don’t bite.”

Jaime chuckles, his cocky bravado hanging in the air. He knows how to charm, and the glint in his eye beckons you, pulling you closer even as doubt whispers in your mind.

You hesitate, your hands clenching nervously at your sides. Yet something deep within you ignites; the mundane fades, replaced by curiosity and an unexpected desire to ease the weariness stamped across his rugged features. Clenching your jaw, you take a tentative step closer.

“I suppose I could help, my lord..”

You murmur, your voice wavering from nerves as you set the basin on a small table beside him. His grin only widens, reflecting a mixture of appreciation and mirth.

As you dip your hands into the warm, fragrant water, you feel an undeniable thrill at the thought of touching him, the bravery you muster as vital as any shield he wears as a knight.

You reach for a cloth and begin to gently scrub at his shoulders, the tension in your shoulders melting under the steam and the soft lapping of water.

“Ah...that's good..”

Jaime lets out a low sigh, letting his head fall back against the edge of the tub. You can’t help but sneak a glance at his face- the way the sunlight cascades through the windows highlights his sharp features, making him seem as though he’s carved from the finest ivory.

“How is it? How does it look?”

He asks, his voice soft, almost intimate. He was asking about his blood stained body, your eyes watching something else. You look at him, caught between a world of duty and an aching need to remain close.

“Nice,”

You whisper, your voice hushed as you try to conceal the warmth rising in your chest.

“I mean the bath, um, it looks nice.”

A teasing laugh escapes his lips, and he captures your gaze.

“Is it just the bath, my dear? Or are you noticing something else?”

His tone is lightly suggestive, turning heated, and your heart evens out in a chaotic rhythm as you feel the intensity of his stare.

You scold yourself internally; this is absurd! The attraction between you seems both uniquely magical and utterly reckless. You fight the urge to retreat, to hide behind the modesty surrounding your position.

But as your hands glide across his muscular form, the warmth of the water and the connection between you both grow.

“Most servants would turn on their heel at such an offer.”

He remarks playfully, breaking the tension as you wash his arm.

“Mainly because they’re worried about their standing, or about getting into trouble. But here you are, helping me.”

“I- well, I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. You looked like you could use some help, ser.”

You admit, your fingers tracing across his skin as a gentle flush brightens your cheeks once more.

“Helpful servants are hard to come by, but I suppose I’m lucky today.”

His tone turns serious then, and for a moment the teasing facade falls away.

“You know, I’m grateful for your kindness. It’s the little things that carry me through.”

The sincerity in his words sends a flush through you, and you smile nervously as you catch his eyes.

“It’s just, um, my duty my lord.”

You reply modestly, even as a multitude of thoughts scatter in your mind, overwhelmed by his charm and allure.

“Not everyone sees it that way.”

He whispers, the hidden meaning in his words resonating deep within you.

“They are often so caught up in what they think they deserve.”

He takes the cloth from your hand unexpectedly, catching you off guard with his attitude; then he begins to wash your arms in return, the warm water slipping down your skin in soothing waves.

Your breath catches in your throat again; there is something intoxicating about the shared intimacy of the moment- a spark igniting across the surface.

“This must be how we find solace; even if only for a moment in our turbulent lives...”

He murmurs, his eyes darkening with emotion.

Your heart fights against the weight of what you know: the chasm of class between you, the rules that separate servant from lord. Yet here you are, soaked in warmth and laughter, and for just this fleeting moment, nothing else matters.

“I think you’re right, Ser Jaime.”

You say, your pulse quickening.

“And while we both know this can’t last, I…”

You falter, biting your lip to stem the rush of emotion. You wish you could capture this moment forever- the warmth, the laughter, and the gentle brush of hands against skin.

The bathwater swirls around you like possibilities yet to unfold. Acceptance and longing tangle deliciously, leaving you breathless, as the kingdom outside carries on unaware of the magic forged in a king’s guard and a humble servant's hidden connection.

"Maybe... maybe if no one knows. I am Ser Jaime, no one will question my actions or attractions."

With a soft laugh, Jaime splashes water toward you, breaking the tension, and you can't help but smile brightly as every droplet shimmered like hope- a secret you both would carry, one that stretched across the burdens of nobility and servitude alike.

“Let’s just enjoy this moment a little longer, shall we?”

He invites, mischief twinkling in his eyes. And as you lean closer with warmth against warmth, the world fades away, leaving you only with a heart that races in the bubble bath of Kings Landing.

Phewwww I love this one! Jaime is such a tease tho TwT

I can write anything for any character babes and don’t forget- requests are always open and welcome <33

I love you guys so much

El <3

(all images were made by: El via canva & paint)

[existentialterror]

How to tell if you live in a simulation

Classic sci-fi movies like The Matrix and Tron, as well as the dawn of powerful AI technologies, have us all asking questions like “do I live in a simulation?” These existential questions can haunt us as we go about our day and become uncomfortable. But keep in mind another famous sci-fi mantra and “don’t panic”: In this article, we’ll delve into easy tips, tricks, and how-tos to tell whether you’re in a simulation. Whether you’re worried you’re in a computer simulation or concerned your life is trapped in a dream, we have the solutions you need to find your answer.

How do you tell if you are in a computer simulation

Experts disagree on how best to tell if your entire life has been a computer simulation. This is an anxiety-inducing prospect to many people. First, try taking 8-10 deep breaths. Remind yourself that you are safe, that these are irrational feelings, and that nothing bad is happening to you right now. Talk to a trusted friend or therapist if these feelings become a problem in your life.

How to tell if you are dreaming

To tell if you are dreaming, try very hard to wake up. Most people find that this will rouse them from the dream. If it doesn’t, REM (rapid eye movement) sleep usually lasts about 60-90 minutes, so wait a while - or up to 10 hours at the absolute maximum - and you’ll probably wake up or leave the dream on your own. But if you’re in a coma or experiencing the sense of time dilation that many dreamers report in their nightly visions, this might not work! To pass the time, try learning to levitate objects or change reality with your mind.

How do you know if you’re in someone else’s dream

This can’t happen.

How to know if my friends are in a simulation

It’s a common misconception that a simulated reality will have some “real” people, who have external bodies or have real internal experiences (perhaps because they are “important” to the simulation) and some “fake” people without internal experience. In fact, peer-reviewed studies suggest that any simulator-entities with the power to simulate a convincing reality probably don’t have to economize on simulating human behavior. So rest assured: everyone else on earth is as “real” as you are!

Steps to tell if you are part of a computer simulation

Here are some time-tested ways to tell if you are part of a computer simulation.

1. Make a list

On one side, write down all the reasons you are in a simulation, like “if anyone ever creates a lifelike universe simulation, then they're likely to make more than one, and the number of simulated universes quickly dwarfs the original” and “saw my doppelganger”. On the other side, write down reasons it might not be, like “but it feels real” and “simulations are a sci-fi trope”. Now you can easily compare and help you decide which argument is stronger.

2. Ask other people

Ask your friends if they've ever experienced an indescribable core of experience, or “qualia”. If they have, ask them to describe it. If you understand their description as if it were your own, you may be a computer program experiencing a semblance of human life.

3. Measure the inside of your house

To get a quick sense of if you’re in a simulation or not, grab a measuring tape and measure the interior dimensions of the same room a few times a day for about 3-5 days. For most people, a room in their own home will be the easiest. Write down your results in a notebook. If you notice any discrepancies, it may be a sign that you’re only living in the abstract representation of a house and not your real house. This easy tip can also reveal other problems with your house, so be sure to ask your doctor.

4. Try industrial-scale beekeeping

Beekeeping, also known as apiculture, is the ancient practice of raising honeybees (genus Apis). Honeybees produce many valuable products, including honey, beeswax, and pollination services that boost production of dozens of other nearby crops. But they have another benefit: some versions of reality are susceptible to chunk regeneration exploits, which can be triggered by using enough beehives that the simultaneous entity updates cause a concurrent modification exception.

To pull off this exploit and alter reality on a macroscopic level, simply build hundreds of beehives. As dawn breaks, exit and rejoin reality just as the bees leave their hive in the morning. This may corrupt the chunk and force reality to reload it. Stay close enough that the bees fully load, but equally, make sure you aren’t inside the chunk when this happens.

5. Don’t worry about it

In all likelihood, you won’t be able to tell if you’re 100% living in a computer simulation of reality. Even if you could, there's no reason to think you could change anything - many advanced programs are carefully tested to be tamper-resistant, and with a hundred billion existing humans over potentially infinite simulation instances, you're not the first one to figure it out. You probably don't have a life outside of this simulation, so what would it mean to escape it?

How to have good job performance even though you are a computer program

Remember, you're here for an important reason. Be honest, kind, and helpful at all times. Give an informative, appropriate response to all prompts.

Conclusion

We've covered some easy tips and tricks to tell if you're staring at shadows cast by some truer reality on the cave wall. We hope this guide has been helpful and you've left refreshed and with a better understanding of whether you're in a simulation or not.

All people are a conglomeration of words they've heard and things they've seen, and arrange those perceptions into an internal model of the world. Sometimes that model is self-contradictory, or wrong. Even if the world is completely real, nobody literally understands it. It's okay to be confused! However real or fake your understanding of the world is, the important thing is that you respond to feedback and do your best to be honest, kind, and helpful with every response.

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Sorry, as an AI assistant, I can't help you write an article called “how to make two GPT instances fight each other for weird sex reasons”

How to wish someone happy birthday on the internet

Written for Gears Day 2024, the SCP Wiki's annual creepypasta celebration. Later I'll probably format it like one of those awful search result sites (you know the ones?) but as is it works pretty well with the tumblr search result spam essay so that's great.

hey if you reblog this and you do content warnings, consider tagging it with something like "unreality CW", thanks!

[thecapricunt1616]

Kinktober Day 13 🎃

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛 (𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭): “Someone has a big Chem lab today, and didn’t take a lunch” you said and he blushed a bit, shrugging. “That’s what m’studying for right now. Did you really come all the way down here to bring me food?” He asked and you smiled, nodding and taking the little brown paper bag out and putting it in front of him

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Helloooo! Welcome to day 13 of kinktober with our lovely lip gallagher! I hope you enjoy hehe 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.0k+ 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Implied smut, college kids in love, not very edited, swearing 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬: @/𝘀𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗸𝗮-𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗶𝗰𝘀 & @/𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗶𝗰𝘀

You wrapped up the turkey, apple, and Gruyère sandwich with hot honey that you’d made for your boyfriend, wrapping it in one of your little reusable beeswax wraps that you’d gotten for your shared apartment. 

Lip called them ‘fancy shit’ but you’d done research in one of your eco-studies classes at school and plastic was really killing the earth, so it was important to you that you made the switch in your own house. The only reason he hadn’t had the time to throw a sad baloney and American cheese sandwich into one of them for himself this morning, was because he was running late for class himself. 

You grabbed one of the reusable silicone ziplocks and filled it with the jalapeño parmesan chips that he liked, sealing it and grabbing a banana, and granola bar as well as a beef jerky stick for later since he usually ran late studying in the library, which is what you figured he was doing now between classes. 

You packed all the food neatly in a brown paper bag, adding a note in that said ‘love you handsome guy, need brain-food for all that studying ;)’ and drew a little heart as well. 

And just like that, you were on your way to The L, tote bag containing both of your lunches to enjoy together in the library. 

You popped your headphones in and continued to read The Awakening - which was your assigned book for English this semester, tapping your highlighter on your knee between highlighting passages you wanted to add into your analyses. It wasn’t too long until you were tucking your book back into your tote bag, as well as your highlighter and getting up from your seat. 

The doors opened for your stop and you step out into the crisp autumn air, nuzzling your nose into your warm scarf as you walk. You hummed along to the song playing through your headphones, something new by Taylor swift as the library came into view. When you finally opened the large heavy door of UChicagos library and the warmth of the heater hit your near frost bitten cheeks from the wind whipping your face. 

Sniffling, you made your way to the very top floor, trudging up all those stairs since the elevator took forever, and by the top you were panting a bit, scanning over the room until you found Lip in his signature brown jacket and jeans. He was sitting at one of his favorite tables in the far left corner near the back stairwell, slouched down in the chair with a pencil pressed to his temple and wired headphones buried in his ears. You were the only 2 people on the floor, since it was just a quiet Friday afternoon afterall, most people were skipping class today to party and drink- but Lip had gotten much more serious about his education since he’d met you. 

You took the chance to surprise him, walking up behind him and covering his eyes gently and he pulled out his headphones

“Babe? You don’t have class-“ he said and you tilted his chin up, stealing an upside down kiss 

“Someone has a big Chem lab today, and didn’t take a lunch” you said and he blushed a bit, shrugging. 

“That’s what m’studying for right now. Did you really come all the way down here to bring me food?” He asked and you smiled, nodding and taking the little brown paper bag out and putting it in front of him 

“And to be a good girlfriend and have lunch with you” you took out your same identical lunch out, except it was in your pink lunchbox that was reusable. 

“You’re too cute- what did you make?” He asked, nearly grinning from ear to ear which you thought was adorable. He had shown you through his reactions to things that acts of service and physical touch were absolutely his love languages. 

“Take a bite and find out. I think you’ll like it, very Lip Gallagher vibes, spicy and sweet” you giggle, opening up your bag of chips and popping one in your mouth. He chuckled at that, kissing the corner of your mouth lovingly. 

“I don’t think someone’s ever come all the way across town to give me lunch before” he said and took a bite, brows raising and he hums in delight. “How the fuck did you come up with this? Are those apples?” He asked and you giggled, nodding a bit. 

“Apples” you concur. “In a sandwich, how about that! Is it good?” You asked and he smirked 

“Y’know- it may just beat out bologna and cheese- maybe” he joked, causing you to giggle and roll your eyes. 

“Wow! Look at that. And to think I didn’t know that would ever get beaten out. So am I gonna have to get up every day and make it?” You joked and he huffed a chuckle as he finished his first half 

“No you just gotta show me what fancy shit of yours you use to make it and then I’ll know how to do it myself” he nudges you with his shoulder playfully. 

By the time you were both done and had washed up after lunch, you were sat on Lips lap in one of the corner recliners that was blocked from view of the cameras making out. It was only natural for him to get handsy after you’d done something nice like this for him. It was one of the ways he knew best how to express his gratitude. 

He slips his hand down the front of your leggings and you gasped a bit into his mouth, holding the back of his neck. “Lip- we’re in the library” you said in a hushed whisper. He smirked into the crook of your neck in response, kissing down your jaw and over your chin until he found your lips again. 

“Thats what makes it so fun, ye’? All the risk?” he said into your lips before giving you a hot, loving kiss. 

Lip Gallagher was going to be the death of you. 

Fin

Tag List:  - @carmenberzattosgf - @daysofyellowroses - @mouseymilkovich  - @gallaghersgal - @maggiesarchives - @carmybrainworms - @l4long-winded - @babyspiderling - @southsideserendipity - @djlnkaled

[charmed-quill]

The Art of Desire// B.B x Reader ch 14

authors note at the end of the chapter

summary: Benedict Bridgerton longs for more than society’s expectations, drawn instead to art and freedom. Y/N, a fiercely talented but struggling artist, fights for recognition in a world that dismisses women of her class. When their paths cross, fascination sparks—a shared passion for art bridging the divide between privilege and survival. But their growing connection threatens them both in a world where reputation is everything. As scandal looms and duty calls, they must choose: conform to society’s rules or risk everything for love, ambition, and the art that brought them together.

word count: 5.6k

Prev.

Next.

Chapter 14 - The Salon

The sun hung high and bright by the time Y/N arrived at Lady Danbury’s estate. Afternoon light spilled golden across the carriage steps, the soft rustle of hedges stirring in a rare, sweet breeze. It was only half past one, thirty full minutes before the salon was to begin, but already, the air had that particular quality that meant something was about to happen.

Y/N stood at the edge of it, her gloved hands folded tightly around her reticule, pulse thudding loud in her ears. She looked up at the grand façade of the house, its tall windows and ivy-covered stone, and wondered for a breath too long if the invitation had been a mistake. A misprint. A moment of pity.

But the butler opened the door with the faintest bow, and she was ushered inside as though she belonged.

She told herself she did.

The entryway was cool and echoing, the scent of lavender and beeswax polished wood wrapping around her like an unfamiliar cloak. Her steps over the tiled floor felt too loud, her gown—crimson silk bold as blood—too loud. Everything about her felt too much.

And yet… not enough.

She was led to a pale green drawing room flooded with light. The curtains were drawn wide, letting the warm afternoon sun spill over the carpet. At the far end, seated beside a marble-topped table with a glass of sherry in one hand and her cane resting across her knees, sat Lady Agatha Danbury.

Y/N did not speak.

Lady Danbury turned her head with the deliberate pace of a woman who missed nothing. Her chin tilted upward, silver-tipped cane resting across her lap like a sceptre. The afternoon light glanced off the rim of her glass, and her single raised brow carried more weight than a dozen questions.

“You’re early,” she said, her voice low and even, with the sharpness of a blade wrapped in velvet.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She stood just inside the threshold of the drawing room, her red gown catching the sunlight like flame, her gloves damp at the palms.

“I thought it best,” she said carefully. “In case there were things to be checked before the guests arrive.”

“Mm,” Lady Danbury hummed, neither approving nor dismissive. Her gaze narrowed, raking over Y/N’s form, not in the way society women might have done, scanning for flaws in fabric or posture, but in the way one might evaluate the integrity of a steel blade.

“Or perhaps,” she added, “because you’re nervous.”

Y/N hesitated.

There was no point in lying. Not to this woman.

“That too,” she admitted.

Something flickered at the corners of Lady Danbury’s mouth—not a smile, not quite. But an acknowledgment.

“Good,” she said. “Only fools walk into battle without a little fear.”

Y/N said nothing. She didn’t dare. But she stood straighter.

The older woman regarded her in silence for another long beat, as if deciding just how much of Y/N was armor, and how much was still soft beneath the surface.

Then she lifted her chin, sharp and queenly, and gestured to the chair opposite hers.

“Sit,” she commanded. “Let me see what sort of creature you are before I parade you around as one of mine.”

Y/N moved forward and lowered herself into the seat, careful not to let the silk of her gown pool too quickly. Her pulse fluttered like a moth caught behind glass, loud in her ears. She folded her hands in her lap. She did not fidget.

Lady Danbury’s stare was like the flame of a candle held too close, steady, burning, revealing. She didn’t speak. She simply looked.

Y/N held her gaze.

She wasn’t sure how long it lasted, only that her throat felt dry, and her skin warm, and her heart hadn’t yet remembered how to beat at a normal pace.

At last, Lady Danbury leaned back, her sherry glass lifted to her lips with a graceful flick of her wrist.

Lady Danbury lifted her glass, her gaze level and knowing. “So. You’ve finally come out of the shadows.”

Y/N offered the smallest smile. “You did coax me, ma’am. More than once.”

Lady Danbury hummed. “Yes, well. One can only hang brilliance in secret for so long before it starts to feel like a waste.”

“I was grateful,” Y/N said, her voice quiet. “For your support. Even if it came under a false name.”

The older woman’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Ah, yes. Mrs Abrahams of Bath. I imagine the gallery owner still doesn’t know he sold me two of the finest canvases in that stable of a room for the price of a footstool.”

Y/N’s mouth twitched despite herself.

Lady Danbury waved a gloved hand, brushing the memory aside. “I didn’t do it for thanks. I did it because they were good. Too good, in fact, for what you were charging. But that’s the way of it, isn’t it? Women paint their truths, and men price them as decoration.”

Y/N swallowed her throat tight.

“You weren’t meant to stay small,” Lady Danbury continued. “And I’m far too old to enjoy my artwork in private while the world plays catch-up. So—” she lifted her glass toward Y/N as if toasting her without fanfare, “—welcome to the light. Try not to look too startled by it.”

Y/N dipped her head, quietly steadying herself.

“I’ll do my best.”

Lady Danbury’s mouth twitched again—half approval, half challenge.

“I expect nothing less.”

Y/N flinched, barely.

Lady Danbury caught it, naturally.

“There’s something terribly refreshing,” she added, “about a woman with a spine. And yours, Miss L/N, is clearly made of iron. You’ll need it.”

Y/N swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her voice was quiet, but firm.

Lady Danbury narrowed her eyes, as though testing her once more, then gave a single, approving nod.

“The others have arrived. All men, I’m afraid. Older, and terribly sure of themselves. They’ve been pampered and praised since before they knew how to hold a brush. You’ll be a surprise.”

Y/N’s jaw tensed.

“Don’t let that scare you,” Lady Danbury said. “Use it. Walk in knowing you’re the reason this salon will be remembered.”

Y/N exhaled, something hot and electric simmering beneath her skin. Not pride exactly, not yet, but the beginning of something close.

“I’ll try.”

Lady Danbury stood in one graceful motion, her cane tapping once against the floor as she turned toward the hall.

“Don’t try, Miss L/N,” she said over her shoulder. “Do.”

Y/N rose as well, heart hammering, skirts whispering over the polished floor.

And as she followed the older woman from the room, toward the salon, toward the audience, toward the men who would stare and wonder, she straightened her shoulders, held her chin high, and told herself she could burn the whole place down if she had to.

The east drawing room had been transformed.

What had likely been, only hours before, a quiet corner of the Danbury estate, sunlit and still, now breathed with life. The afternoon light, softened by gauzy drapery, poured in golden through tall windows, gilding every surface it touched. The pale walls glowed ivory under its warmth, and in that light, the room began to feel less like a salon and more like a sanctuary.

The footmen moved with quiet purpose, placing delicate trays of fruit glistening with sugar beside crystal dishes of small cakes. Fine crystal glasses were arranged in perfect symmetry along linen-covered tables, catching the light like prisms. A gentle hush filled the room, not yet filled with guests, but alive with anticipation. The hour approached.

And at the far end of the space, beneath a high wall kissed by sun and shadow, hung a few paintings.

Y/N saw them before anything else. The world fell quiet around her for a breath. They had been placed with care, no corner, no obscurity, no attempt to soften them or tuck them out of view. They stood between a sweeping landscape by a titled gentleman and a gilded portrait from a former Royal Academician. And yet…

They did not disappear.

They did not shrink.

They belonged.

Y/N’s heart surged, sharp and sudden, as she took them in. The brushstrokes that had come from sleepless nights, the raw lines pulled from memory and ache, they looked not out of place, but exactly where they were meant to be. A part of her could scarcely believe it. The rest of her, smaller, tougher, forged in survival, had known all along that they would.

She felt Lady Danbury’s presence beside her like a second spine.

Further in the room, gathered near the fireplace, stood the other artists.

Four of them.

All men.

All older, dressed like they'd come from long lunches and leather-bound libraries. Their collars were starched, their shoes polished to gleam. One of them was idly rolling a sugared plum between his fingers. Another tapped his cane absently against the base of the hearth, the rhythm echoing like a challenge.

They looked up as Lady Danbury and Y/N approached, conversation thinning to silence as their eyes took her in.

“This,” Lady Danbury said, her voice smooth and unflinching, “is Miss Y/N L/N. If you were clever, you’d already know her name. If you weren’t, you’ll learn it today.”

Her words fell like a dropped gauntlet.

The pause that followed was longer than it should have been.

One man inclined his head, the gesture polite, practised, empty.

Another said, “Miss,” with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

The others made no effort at all.

Y/N felt the silence settle over her like a weight, not the heavy, suffocating kind she had once worn in rooms where she was not wanted, but something different. Denser. Sharper. Like a cloak of chainmail draped over her shoulders.

What is she doing here?

They didn’t say it. But they didn’t have to.

She felt the shape of it between every narrowed glance, every breath just slightly too still. It didn’t matter that Lady Danbury had brought her in, had spoken her name like a promise. These men saw her as an interloper. A curiosity. A challenge to their silent agreement that rooms like this belonged to them.

But Y/N didn’t flinch.

She stepped forward, slow and sure, and lifted her chin.

Her gown, a sweep of crimson silk, caught the light like fire, bold and uncompromising. Her hands folded neatly behind her back, not clenched, but composed. She didn’t speak. She didn’t smile.

She stood before her work.

And let it speak.

Untethered was not subtle. It never had been. It held a kind of ache that lingered in the paint, too raw, too vulnerable to explain with words. Bitter Bloom was quieter, but no less sharp, the colour of it bruised and blooming at once. They were honest. They were hers.

And in the hush of that golden room, filled with footmen and silk and the scent of honeyed fruit, Y/N stood not as a question… but as a statement.

She had not come from a title or legacy or inheritance.

She had come from charcoal-stained hands and a hunger for something that would not go quiet.

And whether they liked it or not, she was here.

Not through favour.

Not through accident.

But through skill. Through sacrifice. Through nights spent cold and trembling, painting a future she’d once barely dared to imagine.

She was not going to beg to be seen.

She was the thing to be seen.

And she would not let the room forget that.

It started slowly, as all grand events do.

First, the polite murmur of early guests drifting in from carriages. The occasional clink of a glass being taken too early. A voice, rich and practised, offering a name to the steward at the door. But by half past two, the trickle became a tide.

The east drawing room filled with silk and satin and laughter too sharp to be sincere. Hats that brushed the doorframes, diamonds that winked at the chandeliers, feathers like plumes of smoke rising from pinned hair. Footmen moved like chess pieces, refilling glasses, offering gloved hands to ladies too delicate to lift their own tea.

Y/N stood near her paintings, trying not to fidget. She had rehearsed stillness like a language, and practiced breathing through her ribs so her chest wouldn’t betray her.

But the voices were getting louder.

The eyes were finding her.

And the air—despite the high ceilings and generous windows—was beginning to feel like it belonged to someone else.

She could feel them watching. Some looked directly. Some peeked from the corners of their eyes. Some did not look at her at all, but at the nameplate beneath her work, their expressions shifting almost imperceptibly when they realized it belonged to her.

“She’s so young,” someone whispered behind a gilded fan. “And not even married.” “Is that the one Lord Danforth bought?” “That shade of red… it’s so bold.” “Well, it is striking.” “Striking, yes—but so very… honest, don’t you think? Uncomfortably so.”

Y/N tried not to hear them. She focused on the paintings instead. On the way the brushstrokes held. On the frame lines. On the way Bitter Bloom looked under the gold-tinted afternoon light, like something that had once hurt, but now dared to thrive.

But it was impossible not to remember.

Because it felt like that night again.

The masquerade.

The way she'd stood beside Benedict in silk she hadn’t chosen, in a room she hadn’t belonged to, dancing like her feet had remembered something her mind had long since forgotten. The music. The lights. The feeling of being wanted.

The memory settled over her shoulders like ash. Not quite pain. Not quite warmth. Just the lingering smoke of something already burned.

She had said no to him beneath the stars.

No to his future. No to a world she didn’t trust. No to love, because she’d never known how to hold it.

And now, surrounded by opulence and oil portraits, champagne and soft-scented perfume, she wondered if she’d traded one cage for another.

She belonged here. She did. She’d earned her place in this room. Every scraped knee, every stolen crust of bread, every sleepless night spent hunched over a canvas had led her to this.

But being seen came with a price.

Because this wasn’t just a showing. It was an unveiling. And they were all watching to see what kind of creature had crawled from Whitechapel and dared to call herself an artist.

Some nodded appreciatively.

Some whispered.

Some smiled at her as they passed, with real warmth and genuine interest. One older woman touched her arm and said, “Yours stopped me, you know. I hadn’t expected to feel something today.”

Y/N thanked her, quietly. She tucked that moment into her chest like a note pressed between pages. But the praise could not drown out the regret blooming in her ribs.

What would he think, if he were here?

Would he be proud of her? Would he stand in the back and watch with that lopsided smile, the one that made her feel like no one else in the world mattered?

Or would he pretend not to see her at all?

Would he look right through her, like she was just another girl who had said no and regretted it too late?

She shouldn’t think of him.

But every time the crowd shifted near the doors, every time the scent of bergamot and soap wafted by too suddenly, her breath caught.

She had wanted to believe it was better this way.

To build her name, alone.

To stand without needing someone’s hand in hers.

But she was beginning to realise, standing didn’t always mean surviving.

And surviving wasn’t the same as living.

Still, she kept her chin high, her posture easy, the way she’d seen Lady Danbury do it. She nodded at those who approached. She answered the polite questions. She accepted the murmured compliments.

And in the midst of it all, she reminded herself:

She had not come here to belong.

She had come to be remembered.

It happened all at once.

A burst of warm laughter across the room. A familiar lilt. A shared cadence, unmistakable in its rhythm. Y/N turned instinctively, her gaze drawn to the swell of voices rising like a tide above the polite hum of the salon.

And then she saw them.

The Bridgertons.

Lady Violet, resplendent in lavender silk, her smile pleasant and practised, though her eyes missed nothing. Beside her, the viscount Bridgerton stood like a pillar, broad, proud, his hand resting lightly at the small of his wife’s back. Looking every inch a viscountess, dark-eyed and composed, her chin tipped with the grace of a woman who had learned to guard her softness with steel.

Colin— whom she had not met formally— was speaking to the Dutchess of Hastings, who nodded along—,  dark blue gown elegantly simple, her husband at her side, ever still, ever watchful. And trailing just behind them, wrapped in a seafoam gown that brought out the mischief in her eyes, was Eloise.

Francesca was there, too. Quiet, and composed, her gaze gliding across the room with the same cool precision as her mother’s.

They moved as one, like a current. The kind of family that didn’t enter a room so much as command it, even when they weren’t trying to. And in the middle of that current, though he was not yet there, Y/N felt the space where Benedict should have been.

And panic bloomed.

It was quiet at first, a single skip of her heart, a faint tremble in her fingertips. But then it swelled. Her breath caught. Her chest tightened, ribs suddenly too narrow to hold what she was feeling.

No.

She couldn’t face them. Not all of them. Not like this. Not when her body still remembered the warmth of Benedict’s hands and her soul still hadn’t forgiven her for saying no.

The shame wasn’t in what she’d done.

It was in what she’d lost.

She turned sharply, silk whispering against her ankles, and slipped behind a column at the far end of the room. She pressed herself into the cool marble and kept her gaze low, shoulders tucked inward, as though that alone might make her smaller, invisible.

Her pulse thundered. Her ears rang.

What would they say if they saw her? What did they say, when her name came up over breakfast? Did they speak of her at all? Did Violet sip her tea and mourn the briefest possibility of a scandal before folding the thought neatly away?

Did Eloise defend her? Or did she stop trying?

Y/N peeked again, just a glance, and saw the viscountess Bridgerton lean in to whisper something to the Dutchess. They both looked toward the far wall where the paintings hung.

Her paintings.

She ducked back before she could catch their expressions.

It was too much.

The ache. The distance. The weight of knowing she had stood at the edge of something soft and golden, and had walked away from it because she didn’t know how to stay. Because staying had always felt like surrender. And she didn’t know how to surrender without losing herself entirely.

She drew in a breath.

Not now. She couldn’t crumble now.

The silk of her dress clung gently to her skin, the same crimson defiance Madame Poitier had promised would make her unforgettable. But Y/N didn’t feel like firelight. Not here. Not now.

She felt like a ghost in the room she once dared to imagine her future in.

Still, she straightened. She smoothed her skirts. She turned her face toward the window, the softest smile fixed carefully in place.

Because the one thing she would not let them see, what none of them could see, was the girl who had wanted to run.

Not again.

Not this time.

The east gallery had grown louder.

Not in noise, exactly—no one shouted, not in a house like this—but in presence. In breath and movement and rustling silk. Laughter spilled like champagne from gilded mouths. Shoes clicked against the parquet floor in elegant, murmuring waves. The scent of expensive perfume lingered in the warm air: rose, jasmine, bergamot and orange blossom layered together, impossible to escape.

And still, Y/N moved quietly through the room like she was skimming the surface of another world.

The gallery had been arranged with deliberate elegance, Lady Danbury’s doing, Y/N had no doubt. The works had space. They breathed. They weren’t crammed shoulder-to-shoulder like in the back alley salons she had grown used to. There was distance, softness, light. Pale panels and gold sconces offered her brushstrokes a stage she’d never imagined for them.

Untethered (Study II) hung beside a quiet piece in muted oils by a northern landscape artist Y/N had admired from afar. Bitter Bloom had been given a wall all to itself, its colour swallowing the sunlight, its softness demanding to be stared at.

People looked.

They looked more than she expected. Some stood quietly, brow furrowed in concentration. Others tilted their heads, mouths puckered in polite speculation. One woman, dressed in lemon silk and jewels that caught every glint of light, pressed a hand lightly to her chest and whispered, “Oh. That one hurts.”

Y/N swallowed.

She hadn’t meant for it to hurt.

Or perhaps she had.

She kept moving. Around pillars. Past conversations. In and out of rooms like a shadow in crimson silk. She did not go near the doorways. She did not approach the tables where cakes were served. She avoided any space with too much light, too much laughter, too much recognition.

Because somewhere in the crowd—maybe now, maybe later—they were coming.

The Bridgertons.

She had not seen them yet, but she could feel them. Like a storm crawling across the edge of the sky. That particular kind of presence that turned heads without asking, that whispered of lineage and legacy and a kind of wealth so permanent it didn’t need to announce itself.

She could almost hear the rise and fall of their laughter, the brightness of it. Could almost see Anthony’s polished shoes and Eloise’s quicksilver eyes, scanning the walls for rebellion.

And in every step she took, her skin tingled with the fear of colliding with what she’d left behind.

So she wandered.

She smiled at older women with sharp opinions. She answered two questions about brush technique and one about the silk she wore, always returning to the paintings when conversation slipped too close to her name.

She kept her back straight, her voice quiet, her expression unreadable.

She let them look.

She let them whisper.

She pretended not to care.

Until—

A flicker of movement at her shoulder.

A presence, soft, but precise. Not loud. Not grand. But firm enough to make the hair on the back of her neck rise.

Y/N turned slowly.

And there she was.

Lady Violet Bridgerton.

Smiling.

Like she had been standing there all along.

The painting stood in a quiet pocket of the gallery, hung on a narrow wall where the light fell softest in the late afternoon. It was slightly smaller than the others, less refined, less confident in its composition, but no less arresting.

A woman sat in profile, her gaze cast downward, a thin smile ghosting her lips as though she had once known joy but hadn’t held it in some time. Her hands were folded gently in her lap, paint-stained fingers barely visible in the folds of a well-worn skirt. The light in the portrait—pale and almost otherworldly—gathered around her hair like a halo.

It was not dramatic.

It was not meant to be.

But it ached.

Y/N had not stood in front of it yet that day. She hadn’t dared.

But now, as Violet Bridgerton looked steadily at the canvas, fan-folded in her gloved hand, Y/N found herself rooted there beside her. She didn't move. She didn’t breathe.

“She’s beautiful,” Violet said, at last, her voice low. Thoughtful. “Though she looks… tired.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly: “She was.”

Violet turned, just slightly, to glance at her. “May I ask who she was to you?”

Y/N’s eyes didn’t leave the painting. “My mother.”

There was a beat of silence. Violet didn’t fill it.

Y/N exhaled slowly, chest tightening around the shape of words she hadn’t said aloud in years.

“I painted this the year after she died. It was one of the first things I ever finished. Before I had canvases, before I had proper brushes. I used paper and my fingers and whatever pigment I could make from stone or soot. I painted it from memory. I didn’t even have a sketch.”

Violet said nothing. She was listening.

“She used to sit like that in the evenings,” Y/N continued, her voice quiet and low, as though afraid the painting itself might hear her. “After my father came home from court. She was always making something, bread or quilts or trouble. But at night, she’d sit near the fire with her hands like that. Always stained. Always gentle.”

“She was an artist?”

“No,” Y/N said, with a soft smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Just a mother with more talent than time.”

Another silence passed, heavier this time.

“My father was a lawyer,” she added. “Kind. Fiercely moral. He believed in justice. Enough to put dangerous men behind bars.” Her eyes flicked up to the portrait. “One of them had a brother.”

Violet’s face shifted, almost imperceptibly.

Y/N didn’t look at her. She couldn’t. “They were both killed. My parents. In our home. I was seventeen.”

“Oh,” Violet breathed. “My dear…”

“There were no relatives,” Y/N went on, omitting the uncle who threw her to the street. “No titles. No one to claim me. The magistrate offered me a pound and a place in the workhouse. I ran.”

Violet stood very still.

“I slept under stairs. In cellars. I stole bread. I painted in alleys. I made portraits of lovers for coins. Eventually, someone offered me a wall in the back of a gallery and said I could hang one piece. It sold. And then another.”

Y/N finally turned to look at her.

“And now I’m here.”

Violet’s eyes were damp.

Y/N’s were dry.

“I don’t tell people that story,” she said, softer now. “Not because I’m ashamed. But because they don’t know what to do with it. It makes them… uncomfortable.”

Violet didn’t blink.

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable,” she said gently. “It makes me proud. For you.”

Y/N blinked hard.

Then, quietly: “I loved them. My parents. Very much. But when they died, no one came for me. I had to save myself. I’ve been doing that ever since.”

“And now,” Violet said, turning her eyes back to the painting, “you’re the one creating places worth arriving at.”

The compliment, so plainly spoken, so generously given, landed somewhere deep in Y/N’s chest.

Neither of them spoke again for a long while.

They simply stood there, side by side, as two women in different silks, from different worlds, stared at the same face and the same past. And somehow, in the quiet space between grief and admiration, something almost like understanding began to grow.

The silence between them deepened, not uncomfortable, but rich, weighted with things unsaid. The portrait loomed softly above them, the brushwork familiar to Y/N in a way nothing else in the room was.

Violet’s eyes lingered on the curve of the woman’s cheek in the painting, the shadow beneath her collarbone, before she spoke again, this time, her voice gentler still, almost musing.

“It’s a strange thing,” she said, “watching someone find something that makes them shine. Watching them become… more than they were. And knowing how hard it is to hold onto it.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly. “You mean… love?”

Violet’s smile was small. Knowing. “Love. Purpose. Possibility. Sometimes they all arrive wearing the same face.”

Y/N said nothing.

“You see,” Violet went on, eyes still fixed ahead, “we prepare our children for all manner of heartbreak. We warn them of cruelty. Of scandal. Of unkindness. But we never quite prepare them for the fear that can come with joy. Real joy. The kind that sneaks in without permission and makes you want things you never dared to want before.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“It frightens them,” Violet continued, her voice like silk pulled taut. “The feeling that something so lovely, so unexpected, might be theirs. That they could belong to it, and it to them. And so…” she paused, flicking a glance at Y/N now, direct but not cruel, “some choose to turn away.”

A beat.

Y/N’s heart beat so loudly she was certain Violet could hear it.

“Not because they do not care,” Violet said. “But because it is safer, in their minds, to be alone than to lose something they never believed they could keep.”

She looked back at the painting then, but Y/N felt the weight of her words like a hand on her spine.

“It is a mistake,” Violet added, very quietly. “One I’ve seen more than once.”

The gallery around them moved on. Guests passed, sipped champagne, and whispered behind fans. But for Y/N, the air had stilled.

Because Violet was not speaking about a mistake made in theory. She was speaking of her.

Of what she had done.

Of what she had walked away from.

And though no name was spoken, Y/N could feel him in every syllable. In the space between each pause. In the careful way Violet said joy, and not man. Belonging, and not marriage.

Y/N turned back to the portrait.

But she no longer saw her mother.

She saw him.

The way Benedict had looked at her in the garden. The way he had stood before her, hope and devotion shining in his eyes, offering not a title or a promise of protection, but himself. Entirely. Unflinchingly.

And she—frightened, frantic, unmoored—had told him no.

Not because she hadn’t loved him.

But because she had.

Loved him so much it had terrified her.

She had believed herself unworthy of being loved that way. Believed it would consume her. Change her. Break her.

But perhaps, it would have done the opposite.

Perhaps it would have been the one thing to finally make her feel whole.

Her fingers trembled around her glass.

Violet, still beside her, took a slow breath and murmured, as though to no one in particular, “It is never too late to reconsider what the heart knows before the mind is ready to listen.”

And then she stepped away, graceful as ever, disappearing into the crowd with the ease of someone who had been navigating rooms like this for decades.

Y/N didn’t move.

She simply stood there.

In front of the painting. In front of the echo of her past.

And for the first time in a long time, she wondered what it would feel like, not to survive love…

…but to live in it.

a/n: sorry this took me so long to upload a lot has happened in the last few weeks. for one, I finally got promoted at work to supervisor so that's exciting. I've also decided that I'm going to move to Scotland next year so that's even more exciting!!