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latenighttalking00 · 1 year ago

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A Work of Art

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem! Reader

Summary: You are a Marchioness from france and your mother is adamant that you wed. She is a very close friend of the Dowager Vicountess Bridgerton who has so generously agreed to be your sponsor for the season. Perhaps in doing this, she has unknowingly found her son's perfect match as well.

Warnings: slow-ish burn, friends to lovers, smut, 18+, minors dni, hair pulling, possessive/dirty talk, fingering, oral (f receiving). This is just porn with a plot.

Word Count: 2k

Author's Note: Hi! def not proof read, apologies if it's a bit rough. Hopefully, you all absolutely drool over Benedict the same way I do. enjoy!

Once the social season had begun its approach, you and your family make haste on your return from france. Due to your newly given title, you are projected to be quite the diamond this season indeed.

As a close friend of the family, the Dowager Viscountess, Violet Bridgerton kindly offers to sponsor your debut this season, meaning that it is now of the utmost importance to arrive promptly at the Bridgerton home in London before the season is to begin.

As you sit in the drawing room, awaiting the next potential suitors you will inevitably send on their way, the clear and evident dread in your expression does not go unnoticed by your mother. A quick swat to your knee from her fan catches your attention, a visible look of warning on her face as your eyes meet hers.

"I do hope that attitude of yours is quick to dissipate." She sighs, "Men will find you quite inadequate to wed if you are to continue this ridiculous behavior. It is quite unladylike." Your mother's words cut right through you as if she had taken a hot paring knife to both of your ears. Not being able to withstand it any longer, you quickly stand from your seat and interrupt her.

"Mother, this gown and the line of men outside the door are quite suffocating enough; no need for your incessant nagging as well." You take a moment to pause, regaining your composure.

"I believe I am feeling quite faint; perhaps I've seen enough suitors today." You threaten rather than suggest, "I will return to my chambers and perhaps get a bit of rest seeing as the sun has already began it’s departure from the sky."

You bow and quickly excuse yourself before making haste out the door, walking as fast as your feet can take you, right past the men who are practically begging for just a minute of your attention.

You race directly to your bedroom, entering quickly and not even fully shutting the door before you are pulling down the zipper of your gown and letting it fall to the floor. "This retched thing must come off immediately," you mumble to yourself as you pull at the laces of your corset, loosening them just enough to slide off your body. A sigh of relief leaves your lips as you slip off your stays and slip on a beautiful white nightgown you purchased from one of the most talented modiste in france.

Shortly after the maids come to collect your gown, you are quick to wander down the halls in search of a cure to your relentless boredom. you find what appears to be an art studio and you are instantly overjoyed. you quietly sneak in through the door left ajar.

Art was your pride and joy; your sketches and the ability to produce beautiful works on canvas were the only things keeping you from becoming a mad woman.

Unbeknownst to you, Violet's second-eldest son and the owner of said art studio had just returned home from the gentleman's club. As he makes his way down the hall, prepared to return to his studio and peacefully finish up some things he started the night prior, he is met with complete and udder surprise at the sight of a woman flipping through his sketchbooks.

He feels as if the air has been knocked right from his lungs. Never once has a woman looked so real, raw, and simply ethereal to him in nothing but a simple yet elegant night gown, the pages in between your delicate fingers, the way in which you sit, your effortless and beautiful features, and the way they change and turn to show your focus, the true and utter intrigue at the charcoal etched on the paper is more than enough to bring a man directly to his knees.

He watches as you adjust your position, your nightgown sliding up your thighs as you cross a leg over the other. He feels as if he might faint.

“those are from my time traveling.” he points, making his way in to the room.

So lost in thought, you are quickly brought back by the sound of the deep and sultry voice coming from the hallway, it sends chills down your body, you are unable to fight the butterflies in your stomach and are completely unprepared for what you’re eyes are met with the second they dare to leave the pages in front of you. He is perhaps one of the most beautiful men you have ever seen, the way his features darken in the dim candle light could cause scandal merely on its own.

As he makes his way over to you, you scramble to find any sort of words to not appear as a complete and udder fool. “désolée, my Lord. All this beautiful artwork caught my eye and i could not help myself.” your voice only making his new found attraction grow even stronger.

“Benedict Bridgerton..” he says just loud enough for you to hear. He is quick to take your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Miss y/n y/l/n” you respond, a blush creeps over your cheeks as your eyes meet his. Your name and accent are both very quick explanations as to why a very random beautiful woman was wondering in

his family home.

“Ah yes, the Marchioness from France. My mother has done quite a bit of boasting upon your arrival, i can now see why she was so keen on you being the diamond of this social season” he chuckled lightly “merci, Lord Bridgerton.” you offer him a warm smile as you place the sketch book in his hands.

Your hand grazes his and you feel as if your body is set aflame. You quickly fumble to stand, attempting to leave before any further scandal is to happen. he is quick to catch you by the arm, his light grasp more than enough to keep you in place.

“Please, stay as long as you’d like.” He offers, taking a step towards you, but you are quick to shake your head, knowing staying any longer may very well affect your title and rank during this very precious season.

“You are more than kind.” you place a hand over his and squeeze lightly. He leans even closer, your face mere inches from his. his scent fills your nose and you cannot control the heat that consumes your body, the sheer need you have for him in this very moment. “I must- i uh-..” he raises an eyebrow at your words. though his proximity fogs your brain, you attempt to compose yourself. “Perhaps i can show you some of my art in the duration of my stay here.“ he smirks, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip as he nods “if what you create is half as beautiful as you, my art will never hold a candle to yours.” he compliments.

Your breathe catches in your throat as his words. “..Benedict- Apologies, Lord Bridgerton..” you quickly correct yourself, the use of his first name not going unnoticed by him. “I’m sure both your and my Mother will have quite the earful if i am found in here, i must go.” Before he is even able to protest, you are gone.

As the days pass, You begin to consume his every waking thought, the sound of your voice, the feeling of your skin on his is burned in to his memory and he cannot shake his want for you.

Anthony is quick to notice his admiration, the wandering stares and close proximity immediately become apparent in Anthony’s eyes. As the family settles in the drawing room, Anthony is quick to pull His younger brother aside “You’ve grown quite close with Marchioness” Anthony offers his younger brother a warning glance and Benedict simply smirks in return “Brother, are you suggesting that i’ve compromised Miss y/l/n?” he laughs. Anthony in no way finds this amusing “See to it that your intentions are well thought out and you are thinking with your brain rather than something else. She is a Marchioness, toying with oversea affairs may be more than risky, even for a Bridgerton.” Anthony notes, the clear and evident weariness in his voice wipes the smile right off Benedict’s face

“Brother, do remind me. Did you not ask for one Sharma’s hand in marriage and then proceed to marry the other? You need not inform me on scandal for i am more than well aware of what i am doing.” he place a hand on Anthony shoulder and squeezes light before walking away.

time skip

Benedict does everything in his power to gain every fraction of your attention when it is available. The two of you spending more time together than any of the men attempting to court you. This new grown fondness blossoms quickly and Benedict soon becomes one of your most trusted friends. Spending late nights in his art studio, promenades in the garden, pall mall with his family. You’ve never felt more at home than with your dear Benedict and his lovely family. This fondness grows very quickly to something much stronger. Knowing Benedict’s stance on courting and marriage in general, you shake the thought. Knowing your dear friend will never see you as anything but.

While enjoying another late night in his studio, you can’t help but feel different. You both are well aware your time together is coming to end. Suitors begin growing impatient and proposals begin rolling in faster than the tide.

“I quite like Lord Lumley, he is handsome and he finds interest in poetry.” Benedict is quick to laugh “Lord Lumley is a dimwit after nothing but your title.” you wince at his words “Clearly he’s much more of a gentleman than you.” You tease, crossing your arms over your chest. “Excuse me?” he asks, the change in his tone sending heat right between your thighs. He rises from his place on the stool and saunters over to you, his large frame towering over yours.

“Repeat what you said.” he orders

“Ben i was merely kidding i-“ you stutter, his proximity making your skin feel as if it were on fire.

“Do not make me ask you again.” he warns, a smirk on his face

You are a bit taken a back by his demeanor but the insatiable desire in your body fills you with a sudden surge of confidence. “Lord Lumley is more of a gentleman than you, Lord Bridgerton.”

Benedict lets out a low chuckle before leaning down, his mouth right by your ear.

“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps Lord Lumley isn’t plagued by the same un-gentleman like thoughts that fill my head the moment you step into a room.” he sighs, his breath on your skin only making matters worse.

Your hands find his half buttoned shirt and you press your hands lightly to his chest “Benedict.” you warn.

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes with his own. Your noses practically grazing as he speaks. “Tell me now that you do not desire me.” His hands rest on either side of your face “Simply speak the words and i will respectfully withdraw and allow you to be with whomever you like but first you must tell me you do not desire me and you wish for me to leave you alone.”

“Ben.” You mumble quitely. Every feeling or emotion that the second eldest Bridgerton has ever caused immediately rises to the surface. At a complete loss for words, you do what you feel is right in the very moment and you bring your lips to his.

The kiss quickly fills with passion, weeks of hidden adoration and care comes bubbling over the surface.

“Marry me.” he say breathlessly as he breaks from the kiss. “You have shown me what is it truly like to admire a woman. To look at her and feel inspiration. To delight in her beauty. So much so that all of her defenses crumble and that you would willingly take on any pain or burden for her. To honor her being with your deeds and words. You make me feel what only a true poet describes." his works nearly bring you to your knees as tears threaten to escape your eyes. “I would move the heavens down to earth for you if i knew it would make you smile.”

“Benedict.. Je vous aime.” you reassure him “I love you mon chéri, more than the moon loves the night sky. You are my everything, my best-friend. I would give anything to be your wife.” He pulls you back in for another kiss which very quickly becomes heated.

He trails hot kisses all over your jaw, neck and bosom. “My beautiful Fiancée.” he mumbles, his wandering hands sliding their way up your thighs, threatening to breach the hem of your nightgown. You are immediately reminded of your current location and you push the dark haired boy back “Ben.. not here” you breathe out, The second Bridgerton son just smirks before kneeling down in front of you.

Unsure of what he’s planning, you remain silent, eyes trained on his as he begins trailing kisses up from your ankle to your inner thigh. His hands trail up the back of your legs, giving your ass a playful squeeze as he reaches it, causing a gasp to escape from your lips.

The mere sight of him like this sends heat directly between your thighs, all logical thinking thrown out the window as he begins to tug your panties down your thighs. A blush creeps over your cheeks and your hands find his hair, tugging lightly. Benedict continues with no hesitation, pressing light kisses all over your inner thighs, leading right up to your aching core. You’re unable to fight back the sounds that leave your lips as you feel his tongue pressed against your clit. “Christ Benedict… you’re going to be the death of me.”

He wastes no time, lapping, kissing and sucking at your soaked heat as strong hands grip on to your thighs, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder. You lean against his desk to keep yourself upright while quiet moans and whimpers escape your lips, your hands pulling and tugging at his messy black hair, only encouraging him more. He pulls back only for a moment to look up at you “You taste fucking divine, my beautiful work of art.”

He is quick to return to your soaked heat. As his tongue works relentlessly on your clit, he slowly pushes two fingers inside of you, giving you a moment to adjust before slowly thrusting them in and out. Shortly after, you feel an unfamiliar knot form in the pit of your stomach and Benedict is aware immediately due to your incoherent mumbles and the way you clench around his fingers. “That’s my girl..” he says breathlessly “just like that..” After hearing his words, you completely unravel, shaky moans escape your lips as one hand grips on to the table and the other with a tight hold on your Fiancées hair.

Once your body has relaxed, he gently pulls your panties back up before standing to face you. You watch as he brings his fingers to your mouth “Open.” he commands and you immediately oblige, opening your mouth as he slides his fingers past your lips. The unfamiliar taste and the sheer sight in front of you causes a blush to fall over your face. He removes his fingers with a groan and offers your a smirk “You, my dear Fiancée are going to be the death of Me.”

A/N: Hi guys! I really hope every likes this :) if you have any request, feel free to send them to me :)

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x fem! reader #benedict #bridgerton #smut #anthony bridgerton #benedict smut #benedict bridgerton smut

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itsnevercasual · 1 year ago

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Uptown Girl

pairing: fashion designer!harry x younger!fashion designer!reader

summary: you’re working in a designer boutique, and just so happen to have a late entrance when world-renowned designer harry styles visits for a collaboration. he seems to take a liking to you, and you aren’t sure if that makes you relieved or more anxious

warnings: some cursing, not edited as usual

harry styles was a well-known name. ceo and founder of pleasing, a nail polish and perfume company. he also owned many other companies, but really, there were too many to keep track of. he was also, most importantly, one of the biggest fashion icons.

you were very familiar with him— had saved up every penny when you were younger to buy a pleasing perfume and now owned a very small collection of their nail polishes.

so, of course, you lost your shit when you found out he’d be coming into your job.

you were a fashion design major at nyu, and had gotten a job at a very esteemed designer (not one of the name brands, but still). although you did expect the job to have more opportunities to.. actually design fashion, you were still grateful nonetheless.

it was just your luck that the day that harry styles was coming in, you were late. it wasn’t your fault! really, it wasn’t! you were always on time because you got anxious at the mere thought of being late.

by the time you parked, you practically ran to the store, silently praying you wouldn’t break a leg as you were running in heels.

“i’m not late am i?” you ask breathlessly as you finally enter the store, fixing your hair and outfit.

you had curled your hair the night before, so they were still pretty much intact. your outfit consisted of black heels, brown dress pants, and a black, tight-fitting turtleneck.

“yes, y/n. you are late,” your boss gave you a look, and you knew you’d be in trouble. “mr. styles, i am so sorry. our employs are.. usually punctual.”

your head snaps over to look in the direction she was talking, and your heart drops when you make eye contact with harry styles.

great.

“mr. styles, i am so sorry,” you apologize.

“it’s perfectly alright,” he gives a kind smile.

that makes you feel a bit better.

“y/n, a word in my office please.”

you deflate as you look back to your boss and follow her to her office

the second the door is closed, she’s chewing you out.

“how unprofessional can you be? i know you are in college, but jesus christ!”

“i’m sorry! there was so much traffic, and my car is so old it stops working if i go faster than 50, and—“

“i don’t need excuses,” she cuts you off. “i need you to be more professional.”

you inhale, “i am sorry, but it was not my fault. i have never once been late before, and you know that. it was a one-time mistake.”

“it better be.”

she walks out and slams the door to the office, leaving you alone in there.

you look up to the ceiling as you bite your lip and try not to cry.

after taking a few minutes to collect yourself, you walk back out into the otherwise empty store and slap a smile on your face.

you do your usual tasks of tidying the store and fixing the mannequins.

mr. styles, his team, and your boss (her name was diane but she was more like satan) were all working on sketching designs and throwing some fabrics onto the mannequins to get a rough idea of what they wanted.

“i don’t know if i like it,” mr. styles murmurs, staring at the mannequin. you glace over at it and have to force yourself to not make a face.

no shit, he didn’t like it. it was bad.

the sketch was good, but the color combination was all wrong and the whole thing was too.. chunky. in the way that everything was flowy and baggy, so it had no shape.

“well, what do you not like about it?” diane asks.

“i’m not sure. it doesn’t look quite right.”

“you have to fix the shape,” you say to yourself as you fix the files of custom orders to be done.

“what was that?”

your head snaps up, and you realize he heard you.

“oh. uh.. i was just—“

“talking to herself,” diane interrupts, glaring at you. “she’s an intern. don’t mind her.”

“no, i’d like to hear what she has to say. might have the answer to our issue. let’s hear it— what was your name again?”

“y/n l/n,” you squeak out.

“well, y/n, what do you think is wrong?”

you hesitantly walk over, “well.. i can see the idea. but it’s just not.. executed well. the whole thing is too flowy.”

“isn’t the point for it to flow?” he asks, raising a brow.”

“it is,” you answer quickly, “but.. there has to be something that isn’t as.. baggy, i suppose. something has to be tight-fitting. it doesn’t have any shape. it just kinda.. looks like a box.”

he stares at you for a moment, and diane clears her throat.

“y/n, this is time for the professionals. get back to—“

“no, diane. she is.. she’s right. it does need shape.”

at his words, the people around him begin to pin it differently.

“and the colors,” you rush out. “the colors don’t.. it’s supposed to be a statement piece, right?”

“that’s the goal,” he nods.

“well.. the colors are too.. light. they’re more pastel, which is fine, but for it to really be a statement, it’s better to use brighter ones. or at least make one of them brighter. i would.. i think make the base the brighter one.”

diane looks ready to kill you.

mr. styles laughs, “well, don’t you know a lot? diane, where did you find her? wish my interns knew half as much as her.”

your face grows hot.

“she’s a student,” diane sighs.

“a student?” he asks.

“i… uh.. i study fashion at nyu. fashion design— i’m in my last year.”

he seems to sense that you're damn near about to shit your pants, because he grins at you (slightly patronizing, but also kind), before turning back to diane.

"i'd like her to be with me for the rest of the project. y/n, darling, how much are y'makin' here?"

your stutter, "uh--... $15 an hour."

he tuts his tongue like that's horrible, "i'll pay.. ten times that while y'workin' with me."

your eyes widen, "wh-- that's not-- you don't have to--"

"nonsense. it's what most people i work with start with. i'll up it if needed, of course. and you obviously don't have to, but i'd love your insight."

"i-- no, i-- i'd love to, i.."

"great," he grins, and you're extremely dizzy. what the hell was going on?

"uh.. mr. styles, if i may give my opinion," diane pipes up.

"you may," he eyes her skeptically.

"y/n is a student. she's still learning, and she's never worked on anything here. it's very risky to--"

he cuts her off by asking you a question, "have you designed things? sketched 'em out and all that?"

you nod.

"i'd hope you've also done the whole... actually sewing things together and really making them?"

you nod again.

he turns back to diane, "seems like she's got experience," he looks back to you, "do y'have photos of any of those?"

"yeah-- they're.. i think i left them in my car. i have photos on my phone."

"we'll meet later to look at all that, then. i'll give you my number later. for now.. i'd like your input on our other ideas."

for the rest of the day, you follow harry around, and you sort of feel like a lost puppy just following him around and answering when he asks something of you.

after a while, you got more comfortable giving your input without being prompted, but you always tiptoed around what you were really trying to get at in fear that you'd anger him.

at the end of day, he put your number in his phone with the promise that he'd text you later about more details.

the text came three days later.

From: (Maybe): Harry

Hello, Y/N. This is Harry. Would you be free to meet tomorrow at noon to discuss the details of the project? Please bring your sketches and any photos of designs you've done, and anything else you feel necessary.

To: Harry Styles

Hi! I should be free tomorrow, yeah. Where do you want to go?

From: Harry Styles

I'll let you decide.

To: Harry Styles

There is this one coffee shop named Maman?

Sent Location: 239 Centre St, New York, NY

From: Harry Styles

Alright. I'll see you tomorrow, Y/N. Have a nice rest of your day.

To: Harry Styles

You too!

you spend the rest of your night fretting about what to wear. you were stuck in between classy but not too fancy, but also not too casual. comfy, but not so comfy that you looked like you didn't give a shit. but also not so uncomfortable that you were, well, uncomfortable, and looked like you were trying too hard.

you'd eventually settled for something simple. long, light-wash denim skirt, a plain black top, and some mary janes. you tied some of your hair back with a white ribbon, did some natural makeup, and called it a day.

you got to the coffee shop at 11:45 and ordered your drink, as well as a chocolate croissant.

harry walked in at exactly 12:00, and grinned when he saw you sitting at a table, scrolling on your phone with a manilla folder and sketchbook beside you.

really, you can't blame him! you were pretty, he'd have to be blind to not know that. and really, you weren't that much younger than him.

he's 29, and you're 23. he's not a stalker, he just did a background check like any good business person would do.

so what he finds you cute? the relationship would be strictly professional. besides, you deserved a break from your horrible boss. contrary to what diane thought, the walls were not soundproof, and he could hear her chewing you out.

sure, he'd done that to one of his employees once or twice, but it was always deserved, and never on the first time of being late. that was ridiculous.

"good morning, y/n," he greets. your head snaps up to make eye contact and he has to force himself to not laugh. he wasn't laughing at you, per se. it was more so the fact that he found it amusing how jumpy you seemed around him.

"good morning. did you order?"

"not yet. never been here, so i've got no clue what's good."

you open your mouth to respond, but the barista calls out, "large iced honey lavender latte with a pain au chocolat for y/n!"

you give a sheepish smile and run up to retrieve your food and drink. when you come back, you take a sip of your drink and set what looks to be a chocolate croissant down on the table.

"well, i'm more of an iced coffee girl. and i also don't really like the taste of coffee, so i've got a bunch of sugar in mine. what do you usually drink?"

"'m more of a black coffee, to be honest. iced is fine, but hot's better."

you wrinkle your nose, "i don't know how you stand the taste of coffee. it's so bitter."

"better than what you've got!" he laughs, "might as well just down a sugar packet."

you giggle at his teasing, "only psychos drink plain black coffee. this," you hold up your drink, "is so much better."

"oh, is it now?"

"yes, it is," you cross your arms proudly.

"lemme have a taste."

you hand over the drink, and he takes a small sip before coughing, "christ, y/n! that cannot be good for your health!"

"hey, i'm still alive, aren't i?" you shrug.

“that you are.”

“well… just ask for an americano, i guess. the rest of their drinks are kinda sugary and fun.”

he got his drink, and once the both of you were sat down, he got to business.

“so, how long have you been designing?”

“i’ve been doing it since middle school. i.. uh.. i saw that one american girl doll movie. where she was a designer. and i just got obsessed. obviously they weren’t good, but…”

“so you’ve got a lot of experience then?”

you nod. he grins.

“may i see the sketches?”

you grab the folder off the top of the sketchbook and pass it over to him.

he flips through it in silence for a few minutes, and you anxiously nibble at the skin around your fingernails.

“..so?” you ask.

“they’re great. really, you’ve got talent. i can’t draw for shit, so you’ve got me beat,” he laughs.

you laugh with him, “most of those are just ideas, i’ve never made them. but i have photos of the ones i have made. i printed them so it’s easier.”

you pass over the manilla folder, and he opens it to look at all the photos you’d printed out. there was around fifty— those were just the ones you actually liked and were confident showing.

he holds one up, and your cheeks flush. “why’s this the only one where you’re the model?” he asks.

“that was.. uh.. that’s my senior prom dress.”

his eyes widen, giving you an impressed look, “you made your own prom dress?”

you nod, “i just wanted something very specific, so.. i figured i’d just make it myself.”

“y’look great— the dress looks great,” he coughs. “you’re very talented.”

“thank you,” you blush.

“so tell me why someone as talented as you is working in diane’s shop not designing a single thing?”

“i didn’t realize that was the job. i just got excited when my professor told me they were interested in my work, so i took the job. i thought i’d at least do a little designing, but.. it pays.. decent, though.”

he scoffs, “darling, 15 bucks an hour is not decent pay. that’s what you make being a hostess. you’re an artist. someone would pay thousands of dollars for just your sketches.”

“i don’t think i’m that good—“

“you are,” he’s firm. resolute. there is no room for argument with him. “i think you’ll be a great asset to the project. i could use your�� talent. i’ll send you an email with the nitty gritty details. i’ll see you soon, y/n.”

and with that, he stands and leaves, leaving you to sit there, dumbfounded, confused, and grinning.

a/n: guys i have too many series going on 😭😭

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles fic #harry #harry fic #harry styles au #harry styles fluff #designer!harry styles #designer!harry styles x reader #harry styles x designer!reader #harry styles x fem!reader

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mooishbeam · 2 years ago

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『♡』 Extra Credit

♡ featuring: gojo & geto x f!reader

♡ summary: class is getting too hard for you, so you seek help. unfortunately, the help you receive is not what you expected. wc: 2.8k+

♡ cw/tw: manipulation, praise, light degradation, throat-fucking, edging, threesome, spit roasting, rough sex, pretty mean gojo, cum play

notes: helloo! a slightly shorter one this time. hope u like :) my first jjk fic!! art by _3aem on twitter <3

You twiddle your sparkly pen with your fingers and eye the blank page. Chemistry-201 started an hour ago, and you’ve got nothing to show for it. Truthfully, you were exhausted thinking about having to attend. College was easy for the most part, even calculus. You couldn’t tell anyone the reality behind your performance block in this specific class. The excuse your friends heard was, “The slides are hard to read.” They were hard to read, but they’d probably be clearer if you actually looked at them. What you did like to look at, were the boys who sat two rows in front of you in lecture hall. The one with frosty hair would whisper through the entirety of class, while the quiet one diligently wrote down organized notes. That’s how you picked up their names:

“Quiet, Gojo.” he snapped, tapping the paper with his pencil as if Gojo would catch the hint. He smiled and poked his temple. “Chill Geto, the best doesn’t need to study.”

Geto sighs and waves his hand. “Not everything is about you.”

“Why not?”

Geto and Gojo you thought. Their names were sweet on your tongue. You squeezed your thighs together, imagining how their names would sound on your lips. On rare occasions, Geto would face your direction. Even though it wasn’t for you, it felt special, like you were the only person in the room. You wanted someone as hardworking and kind as him to notice you. Sometimes you’d catch yourself sketching the back of his head, promptly shredding the page after the bell. What started to unnerve you was Gojo, who was always aware of your shy glances even when his back was turned. His crystalline azure eyes bore into yours and you’d fumble for anything to look at. Even when you daydreamed dirty scenarios, he reads your mind. It made you feel guilty. When your professor dismissed you, you’d scattered up the steps, bag already packed. This strategy was efficient until the day you dropped your book walking out of class. Pale slender hands grabbed it before you could reach it. “Ah! Thank you-” You met eyes with Gojo, smiling above you like reborn divinity. You almost felt the urge to bow. “Gotta be careful, yeah? This shit's expensive.” You nodded another thank you and took the book, hasting away so he couldn’t see your flustered face.

All these minor incidents accumulated into the major issue currently surfacing; you are on the cusp of failing. Your parents readily applauded the other classes, perfect A’s. Just visualizing the scenario where you show them a D sends you into grief. You vow to change this outcome today. Your final exam is in a month and a half, enough space to master important subjects. No distractions, no Geto and Gojo. You meet with student resources after Chemistry to inquire about your study options and settle on weekly tutoring. You’re determined and prepared to give your all for this exam.

Next week arrives and you're full of vigor. You try your best to rationalize each problem, no matter how wrong you are; and you were very wrong, frequently. You’re mentally apologizing in advance to your tutor. You see Geto and Gojo quietly bickering. Gojo has long pretty eyelashes, and you can’t stop glancing at them. They swiftly point to you. Nothing unusual, until—for the first time—Geto turns to you. His eyes are fixated solely on you. You're startled and knock over your water bottle, pouring it all over your notebook. A domino effect ensues. The valuable notes you took smear from the liquid, and it drips from the table onto your mini skirt. You stand to dodge it but your open bag tips over and out the chair, spilling the contents all over the floor. The room is silent, and everyone in your vicinity is staring. Time stops as you gather your stuff and leave the hall to dry yourself. You’re in the bathroom now, dying from embarrassment as your brain recalls the moment repeatedly. The sly smirk on Gojo’s face. I have to get over this you thought. Your session is in an hour, and you don’t want to waste crucial experience. Surely it can’t get worse than this.

You show up five minutes early and patiently wait for their arrival. Fortunately, you’re afforded a closed off workspace with the tutor. You draw dainty flowers in your book until the door creaks open. To your surprise, you see tidy black hair and chiseled features. It’s Geto. Your personal tutor is Geto. The stars must’ve aligned to dispatch one horrific cataclysm. You contemplate what you could’ve done to the gods for them to punish you so harshly. He pretends that he’s never seen you. “(Y/N), right? My name is Geto, I’ll be tutoring you for the rest of the semester.” His professionalism makes you breathe easier, and you’re relieved, content with maintaining this attitude. Together you set up your notes and the first 15 minutes go without a hitch, simply reviewing the topics you grapple with.

“A lot of these are early concepts. They’re used in basically every class. Forgive me if this offends you, but how do you not know these?”

“Ah, I get a bit distracted.”

“By what?”

“Oh… um.” You shift your thighs back and forth, pondering a justifiable answer, oblivious to the way Geto ogles them. "I just have a hard time focusing.”

He scans your tight fitted shirt, then your lips. “I see.” Suddenly, the door swings open. Bright orbs piercing you, capturing you. You drop your head, hoping he won’t recognize you from the scalp.

“Yo Geto, look at this game I- oops.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to barge in while I’m tutoring?”

“Haha, sorry ‘bout that…wait, I know you!” He exclaims. Gojo snatches a chair and sits so you’re sandwiched between them. Intently skimming the textbook as if you didn’t hear him, he grabs your cheeks and twists you to him.

“You’re the girl that wet herself today, right?” He laughs.

“C’mon, she's dealt with enough already.” Your wishful thinking fell on deaf ears; they clearly didn’t forget that easily.

“Heh, it’s too funny though. Geto, I told you about her remember? She’s always looking at us in class.” he teases. You felt a shiver go up your spine and your face get hotter. “That isn’t-”

“Shh” Gojo interrupts you. “Tell me, are we more handsome now that you have a closer look?” Your heart drops to your stomach and you stumble over your words.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to look. If I made you uncomfortable, I’m deeply sorry.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I like the shy type.”

“I think I should go.” You try to rise, but Geto pulls you from your skirt. If they wanted you, they would have you. "I didn’t permit you to leave. Sit. We'll continue.”

“I don’t know if I should-”

“Are you disrespecting the time I’m putting in to ensure you end with a decent grade?” he questioned. You went meek, reconsidering the effort you’d be wasting, and how badly you wanted Geto to acknowledge that effort.

“No. I’ll do it.” His smile is saccharine and alluring, masking the dark intentions pulling at his conscious.

“Great. Next chapter.”

You’re eight paragraphs in, a sheer glistening sweat on your legs. You can barely mouth the words. Gojo’s breath is painfully close to your ear, tickling it as he follows along the page, his thumb running under the hem of your thigh high socks. “You wore these for me, yeah?” he whispers. You clamp your thighs, and a scheming grin creeps up his face. Meanwhile Geto’s fingers are behind your neck, brushing it gently with his other hand steady on top of yours. The bare skin contact is disorienting, so much so that you hadn’t noticed you’ve read the same sentence for the past minutes.

“(Y/N)?” You snap out of an affectionate trance. “Huh?”

“Is something troubling you?” His nose is inches away from yours, taunting you.

“Mm, no.” Your trembling voice exposes the truth. “You seem frustrated. Do you need help alleviating that frustration?” Such a straightforward question is nerve-wracking. You've only imagined this in your dreams, calling out both of their names. The scandal that unfolds if people find out would be reputation-shattering for you. But desire burning in your dampening core blanketed those worries. “I don’t know what to say.”

“(Y/N), when someone offers you something, you should accept it and say thank you” Gojo adds. His hand slides deeper in your socks, groping the plush fat.

“Do you want it, yes or no?” The decision tosses in your mind. Until you finally manage a soft-spoken “yes.” Instantly, the air in the room switches, their gaze encapsulating you like prey. You feel smaller.

“This won’t be easy, though. I’m teaching you concentration. If you get through this quiz with us touching you, I’ll reward you. Understand?” Geto says. You nod at him like a lost puppy, ready to please him.

The quiz starts with ten entry-level questions. You get to work, and they get to devour you. Gojo parts your legs, salivating from the strings of slick sticking to your underwear and inner thighs. He litters kisses and lustful bruises along your neck, his hands trailing to your chest. Geto’s hands hike your skirt up and move to your underwear, circling the erect nub through the fabric. You’re on question three and can hardly achieve a scribble. He pulls your panties to the side and spreads your folds, toying with the mess. You have a loose hold on his shirt that tightens whenever he presses on the bundle of nerves. His fingers are skillful, knowing the right buttons to push to coax whimpers out of you. Meanwhile, Gojo tugs your shirt up, exposing your nipples to the cool air. He flicks one with his tongue, then envelopes your breast in his warm wet mouth. He sucks and bites the bud, tasting it and fondling the other. He moans, light pops as he comes up, gazing into you for approval. The walls are thin, you can’t get caught, but you need them deeper. They make you fall apart just to punish you, a sharp sting from Geto’s palm directly on your clit.

“If you can’t keep your voice down, I’m gonna stop. Are you sure you can handle it?” Geto teases. He definitely isn't stopping, but your panicked, yearning expression made his cock twitch.

“Yes! I’m sorry, I can be quiet.”

“I don’t know, you seem to be struggling. You wanna make me proud, right?” You nodded frantically.

He places a gentle, almost manipulative kiss on your lips. “Good girl. Then you’ll take everything I give you.” His digits glide vertically on your vulva until they slip inside, scissoring and massaging your g-spot. You somehow make it to question 6, but your mushy thoughts aren’t sure if they can recover from the rhythmic pumping and juices running down his knuckles. Gojo releases you for air, bite indentations dotting your mounds. “Geto. Switch?”

“Okay.” He says and begrudgingly drags his fingers out. You whine from the emptiness, but Gojo quickly replaces him. He gets under the table on his knees and forces your legs wider, appreciating the upcoming feast. His pink muscle licks a long harsh strip against you. The new sensation makes your back arch, and your hand cards through his hair.

“Too sensitive? Aww.” He moves roughly, slurping and lapping up everything he can get his mouth on. His grasp is tight, even with all your strength pushing him off is a challenge. Question nine passed, still shaking and stuttering. Geto pinches and twist your nipples but showers the pain with loving kisses. He pecks the back of your neck. You’re so close you start to involuntarily buck your hips. Gojo stops immediately, grinning at your frustrated cries, your essence covering his jaw and chin. “Don’t come yet, wanna feel you.”

“One more question, baby.” Geto says, caressing the swollen marks. You put your heart into finishing the last problem, an unintelligible number for your response. You can’t decipher the words; all you want is Geto’s praise. He takes the pencil out of your hand and counts the correct solutions.

“8 out of 10. I’m so proud of you, angel.” None of your answers were right. But he relished how effortless it was to make you happy, how much you starved for his attention. He searched to lock you away where no one could find you. You’re beaming nevertheless, smothered by his kindness.

“C’mere. Taste yourself.” Gojo husks before French kissing you, tongues intertwined. He moans into your mouth. “Want your reward now?”

“Please” you rasped, and he picks you up, pressing your stomach flat on the desk. Geto wraps around in front of you. He pulls his throbbing cock out and lifts your chin, propping it on your lips. “Open.” he coos. You loll your tongue out, looking up at him expectingly. He smiles and drives his length into you until your nose is flush with his pubes. His cockhead is deep in your throat, it burns, but you’re the center of his world in this moment and it makes it worth the ache. You worship it, savor him. Hollowing out your cheeks, you start bobbing your head. You drool on his balls, gently sucking them and tracing his veins with your tongue. His moans are breathy and deep, hand firm on the back of your head to prevent you from bailing. He denies your pleas for air.

Gojo taps his leaking tip against your clit a few times and slides himself in, whimpering from the soaking grip molding to his shaft. “A-ah, so tight.” he choked. His balls collide with your ass, and your orgasm hits hard. You tremble, eyes rolling to the back of your skull as you try to ride it out. But Gojo doesn’t let you and jerks your arms behind you with one hand. He pounds deep and fast, noisy plaps and squelching fervor pushing your limits; at the same time, Geto is face-fucking you. You were sure students heard the commotion by now. The men ravaging you sent a trail of fire crawling up your body. Tears smear on your face, gagging spit drips from your bottom lip, a mixture of fluids soak your socks, but your fuzzy senses can only drown in their pleasure. The spring coiling in your body is quick. Gojo’s tip kisses your g-spot perfectly and you embrace him. “Hey, you on the pill?” he asks. You're about to answer but he shoves your head down to Geto’s hilt. “Never mind, I don’t care.”

Geto’s movements quicken. Your disheveled face sends him over the edge. He blesses you with his creamy hot gift, spurting inside your gullet, accompanied by guttural sighs. “Swallow all of it.” You struggle but slowly get it down. You polish off the rest of his twitching length in revere and open your mouth for proof. “That’s my good girl.” He pats your head, and you lean into the warmth. Waiting for his confirmation.

“You wanna come? I’ll let you come, baby.”

“Don’t you fucking dare, you do it when I tell you to.” Gojo snaps. Tears prickled your lashes from overstimulation. Your whimpers stream out the room and he laughs through breathy whines. “Little pervert. You want people to hear you getting railed?”

“It's t’much! Gojo I can’t-”

Geto cradles your jaw. “(Y/N). Ask him for permission.” He is suddenly stern, and you obey him.

“Please lemme come!” you babble. His concern is clouded with sin.

“Yeah? Beg for it.” An orchestra of please’s sing, and you mean it, but Gojo didn’t care. He’d much rather watch your rippling ass and melting figure. Each thrust has you incoherent, and you plead more, enough to satisfy his smug demeanor.

“That’s better. Now come for me, all over my cock.” His command splinters, and your gushy walls convulse to form a white ring around the base. Gojo’s strokes get desperate as he approaches his release from your slippery heat. He pulls out and holds you in place, a few pumps before he shoots ropes across your ass and paints your vulva. “Yeah- you’re so fucking good.” he moans, mumbling and quivering through his orgasm.

They get dressed while you lie on the desk. You’re breathless and trembling, but they’re focused on cleaning themselves up. Gojo gets eye level with you.

“If you tell anyone, you know I’ll ruin your life, right? Keep it hush.” You can’t speak. He grabs your panties off the floor and pockets them. “These are cute. Imma keep it.” Geto reties his hair and smiles at you. “See you later.”

They abandon you, covered in come and items strewn across the table. You’re left to wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into. One thing was undeniable, however; you were really looking forward to next week.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk #jjk smut #geto suguru #geto x reader #geto smut #gojo satoru #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x geto x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut

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armiliadawn · 4 months ago

Text

Muse

Word count: 3700

Masterlist

Synopsis: It’s an ordinary day aboard the Victoria Punk, and you’re going about your daily tasks. As you turn down a corridor, you notice that the door to your captain’s workshop is slightly ajar. Driven by curiosity, you slip into the forbidden space, and what you discover there far exceeds anything you could have imagined…

Tags: Kid x f!Reader, SFW, complicity, slow burn, silent confession of love.

Notes: I hadn’t planned on publishing another one-shot so soon, but I recently watched a (very old!) movie, and one tiny yet intense scene inspired me! I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I wrote this. I spent several evenings working on the translation because I was so eager to share it, I hope it turned out well (my husband helped me a little, thank you to him ^^). Yes, it’s another Kid x Reader, what can I say? That fiery, angry man lives rent-free in my head. English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes.

That day, you’re absorbed in your usual tasks, the gentle rhythm of waves lapping against the ship’s hull providing a steady backdrop. The sun hangs high, its light spilling across the deck of the Victoria Punk as the rest of the crew busies themselves with their own routines. The air carries the briny scent of the ocean, mingling with the tang of grease and metal wafting up from below deck, where Kid is deep in his projects.

As you move through a corridor, your eyes catch on a door left slightly ajar to your left; Kid’s workshop. You pause, your gaze lingering on the shadowed space beyond the opening. This place is forbidden. A personal sanctuary where the captain channels his inventive genius and passion for metal. No one enters without his permission, except perhaps Killer. And yet, an irresistible pull of curiosity stirs within you.

What could Kid be creating, hidden from prying eyes?

For a moment, hesitation takes hold, your heartbeat quickening at the thought of stepping where you shouldn’t. But something about that open door feels like a silent beckoning, drawing you closer. Carefully, you edge forward, nudging the door wider as your eyes adjust to the dim interior.

The workshop unfolds before you, revealing its chaotic splendor. The room is expansive, cluttered with raw metal, scattered parts, crumpled sketches, gears, chains, and half-finished weapons. It’s a captivating mess, a mirror of Kid’s explosive creativity and relentless energy.

A fire burns steadily in the forge, while the muted glow of a single lamp throws flickering shadows onto the walls, amplifying the room’s organized disorder. The air is heavy with the scent of heated metal and grease, clinging to every surface. A familiar, comforting aroma that brings to mind the essence of your captain.

Your eyes drift over a collection of sculptures - weird creations and metallic shapes - that seem almost alive under the trembling light of the lantern. Metal hooks, mechanical parts, and intricate designs lie ready to be forged into weapons or inventions wild yet meticulously crafted. Beneath the industrial roughness, there’s a distinct elegance, betraying the precision and mastery behind the chaos.

Then, something at the far end of the room catches your eye. A large object draped in a thick, heavy cloth, imposing and mysterious. Almost unconsciously, you move toward it, curiosity guiding your steps. Your hand grazes the coarse fabric, fingers lingering before you carefully lift the cloth, as if afraid of disturbing something rare and precious.

When the cloth finally falls to the ground, your breath catches. Before you stands a metal bust, sculpted with a precision you never expected from Kid’s hands.

It’s you. Captured in metal, every detail of your face, every strand of your hair, rendered with astonishing accuracy. The polished surface reflects the light, giving the sculpture an almost lifelike aura, as if it could speak to you, as if it could watch you.

Your gaze lingers on every detail. The contours of your face are beautifully rendered. You can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the tenderness that emanates from each line, each curve.

Staring at the sculpture, you feel as if you’re looking into a mirror. But not the kind of mirror that cruelly amplifies every flaw. This is a mirror that reflects a version of yourself you’ve never dared to see. The features sculpted with delicate precision present an image you’ve never associated with yourself, a beauty you never believed you possessed. Your eyes, usually so weary from your own doubts, appear full of strength in this creation. Your lips, which you’ve always thought too plain, are drawn here with such softness it sends a shiver through you.

It’s strange, even unsettling, to see yourself like this. To see this version of yourself through Kid’s eyes. You’re not used to thinking of yourself as beautiful or even attractive. Your reflection in a mirror is always accompanied by silent criticisms, unfair comparisons, those little inner voices reminding you of everything you’re not. But here, for the first time, you find yourself discovering beauty in your features.

You feel destabilized, almost moved, by this vision of yourself that Kid has immortalized in metal. Not because he’s idealized you, but because he’s seen something in you that you refuse to acknowledge in yourself. He has made it permanent, tangible, as if to say, "This is how I see you." It feels like both a declaration and a challenge: "Can you see yourself this way too?"

" What are you doing here?"

Kid’s deep voice snaps you out of your thoughts, making you jump. He’s standing at the entrance, his brows furrowed, his eyes glinting with a hard intensity. Your heart races, caught between guilt and surprise. You know you shouldn’t have entered, but what you’ve just discovered surpasses anything you could have imagined.

" I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to..."

Kid strides toward you, his steps heavy and deliberate. When he reaches you, he towers over you, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the sculpture. A displeased smirk twists his lips. He doesn’t seem angry with you, but you can feel that something about this moment is troubling him.

"It’s a failure", he growls, grabbing the cloth and moving to drape it back over the sculpture.

You stare at him, incredulous. A failure? How could he even think that? This sculpture, with its intricacy and precision, captures far more than a simple resemblance. The details are so finely crafted that they reveal something of you that even your reflection in a mirror has never managed to show. This creation isn’t failed. It’s alive, vibrant. It shows a version of you that you never dared to imagine.

"Failed? Kid, it’s… it’s beautiful", you murmur, your voice sincere, your eyes fixed on the bust as if you’re trying to absorb every detail.

He shakes his head, frustration tightening his features. His fingers drum nervously against his arm - a mechanical gesture - so unlike the controlled force he usually exudes. Shadows of emotion flicker across his face; his usually hard features twist under the weight of agitation and something else… something vulnerable. Then, he lifts his gaze to meet yours. His amber eyes, always so piercing and brutally intense, now seem to search for something in you, something he can’t put into words.

"No, it’s not enough", he mutters, his voice rough but unsteady. "I… I can’t capture what I see when I look at you."

His words hit you like a thunderclap, a truth you hadn’t expected to hear in the raw, suffocating atmosphere of his workshop. Your heart leaps in your chest, every syllable vibrating in the charged air between you. Your throat tightens, and a warm flush spreads through your body, burning your skin and leaving your breath unsteady. How could he speak of you this way? His words, so simple yet deeply sincere, stir something within you. An emotion you weren’t ready to confront.

Your gaze shifts to him, taking in every detail: the taut line of his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders, but most of all, the way his eyes seem to devour you, as if silently pleading for you to understand what he can’t articulate. Beneath his gruff words, beneath the façade of a hardened and ruthless man, lies something disarming—a tenderness you never imagined, a vision of you that you struggle to comprehend. A beauty. A strength. Qualities you’ve always refused to see in yourself.

Your mind reels, thoughts tumbling over themselves in an unrelenting swirl. This isn’t just about art or a sculpture anymore. What stands before you is far more than a crafted piece of metal. It’s a reflection - not only of yourself - but of what Kid sees in you. It’s a glimpse into his most hidden thoughts, the ones he’ll never express with words but pours into his hands and raw talent instead.

You lift your eyes to him, your breath still uneven. Kid remains motionless, but his gaze pierces through you, vibrating with such intensity that it almost steals the air from your lungs. In this room filled with heat, metal, and tension, you feel something inexplicable. The vulnerability he’s showing, exposed despite himself, touches you deeply, far more than you could have anticipated. It’s no longer just his art you see. It’s him. His doubts, his hopes, his silent way of watching you, interpreting you, revealing you to yourself.

And that revelation unsettles you, stirring a mix of fear and exhilaration, an irresistible urge to see yourself through his eyes.

"I could pose for you, if you want."

The words slip from your lips almost without your permission, propelled by an impulse you can no longer control. The silence that follows stretches endlessly. Heat rises to your cheeks as the weight of what you’ve just offered sinks in, what it truly means. Posing for Kid, standing there under his sharp, unyielding gaze while he molds you, sculpts every detail of you… It’s far more than a simple proposition. It’s baring yourself to him, offering something intimate, personal.

Kid says nothing, his eyes locked on yours, but you catch the faint flicker of surprise in his gaze. His shoulders, once taut with tension, seem to relax, and the hard lines of his face shift subtly. A spark, barely perceptible but undeniable, lights in his amber eyes. It’s a mix of interest, intense curiosity, and perhaps something deeper, something he can’t put into words.

Your heart pounds wildly, each second of the tense silence amplified in your ears. He doesn’t answer right away, but his gaze speaks volumes, holding you as if you’ve just offered him a treasure he never dared dream of. The tension between you tightens further, like an invisible, fragile thread pulling taut under the weight of your suggestion.

Your breathing slows, almost as if suspended, each breath heavy with the anticipation of his response. It’s a moment of rare intensity, where even the smallest movement, the faintest flutter of an eyelash, feels magnified, as though the simple act of breathing might shatter the delicate balance of this charged instant.

Then, he tilts his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. That subtle movement, so small yet deliberate, feels like a tacit yes, an acceptance of what you’ve offered. His lips part slightly, but no words come, as if he refuses to break the moment’s fragile power with unnecessary speech. That silence, laden with meaning, sends a shiver cascading down your spine, awakening every nerve to the possibility that has just unfolded between you.

Kid takes a step closer, narrowing the distance between you, and you can see the focus in his eyes. That burning intensity that tells you he accepts, that he’s ready to explore this moment, but on his terms, with the same passion and force he pours into his art.

"Do you realize what you’re offering?" he asks, his tone a blend of incredulity and restrained desire.

Holding his gaze, you nod slowly, feeling the heat rise within you. This is no longer just an agreement but an unspoken promise of a connection you can already sense - intense, consuming - a path you’re about to explore together, with every glance and every gesture as your only language.

"Yes, Kid. I do."

The simplicity of those words carries a weight far beyond their sound. Kid remains motionless before you, his gaze searing, almost devouring. He steps closer, his breath mingling with yours in the heat-laden air. His eyes lock onto yours, and you feel the pull of a dive from which there’s no return.

Slowly, he reaches out, his fingers brushing along your jaw with a gentleness that feels almost impossible from someone of his stature. That single touch ignites every fiber of your being. He studies you, perhaps searching for any flicker of doubt, but you know he’ll find only the glow of certainty, a shared connection you’re offering, a bond you’re eager to explore with him.

Straightening slightly, he commands the space with his imposing presence. With a subtle motion, he signals for you to follow. He moves toward the center of the workshop, where shadows dance to the rhythm of the flames. His steps are slow, deliberate, echoing softly against the floor. You follow without hesitation, drawn by the gravity of his presence, each step pulling you closer to a moment that feels suspended in time. Your breath quickens, your chest tightens, but you continue forward, guided by the magnetic intensity surrounding him.

He stops and turns to face you, his amber eyes fixed on you with an almost devouring intensity. His hand reaches out, guiding you gently to a place where the dim firelight illuminates just enough to make every shadow more vibrant, more alive.

With deliberate care, he places his fingers on your arm. The touch is light, yet it sends a shiver through you, warmth radiating from the contact. He draws you toward a chair bathed in the soft glow of the hearthlight.

"Sit, he murmurs", his rough voice resonating like a caress.

You comply, settling into place under his scrutinizing gaze. Kid approaches, his massive silhouette casting an imposing shadow on the floor, yet his movements are surprisingly gentle. He leans in slightly, his large hands finding their place naturally on your shoulders, adjusting you with care. His fingers press lightly, guiding your body to find the perfect angle.

"There", he murmurs, almost to himself.

He steps back briefly, then moves forward again, this time to touch your face. His hand brushes along your jaw, his warm fingers gliding over your skin with a precision that feels profoundly intimate. He tilts your chin toward the light, his thumb grazing your cheek in a way that leaves you breathless. Your entire body seems to respond to his touch, every nerve heightened.

"Lift your chin… just a bit. There", he whispers.

His eyes linger on your face, tracing every shadow, every curve. He studies you as if he’s trying to etch this image into his memory. Slowly, his hands leave your face, but the warmth of his touch remains, imprinted on your skin.

"Look at me", he breathes, his voice barely audible.

You obey once more, lifting your gaze to meet his, and the tension between you becomes volcanic. His eyes drift in yours for a moment before he gently lowers your hand, placing it on your knee. Every movement, every adjustment he makes to your body feels both deliberate and laced with an underlying sensuality, as if he’s already sculpting - not with his tools - but with his hands against your skin.

At last, he steps away. His towering figure stands outlined by the flickering firelight, every muscle and scar cast into sharp relief—marks you find yourself wanting to trace with your fingertips. His eyes remain fixed on you, burning with a mix of intensity and admiration. The air feels thick, saturated with a heat that doesn’t come only from the hearth. As he retreats, he studies you one last time, then, in a silence that needs no words, he picks up his tools, ready to begin.

The crackling of the fire fades into the background, as if the entire world has shrunk to this workshop. To the flickering light of the flames dancing on the walls. To the intoxicating scent of heated metal and the magnetic presence of Kid, standing before his creation. His fiery gaze stays locked on you, but his hands speak another language entirely. They glide, caressing the polished surface of the sculpture with a delicacy that is almost hypnotic, a meticulous care that contrasts with the raw strength his body naturally exudes.

Every movement he makes seems to sync with your breath. You follow the precise motions of his fingers on the metal as if it were your own skin he was touching, and not the sculpture. When he slowly traces the line of the sculpted jaw, a shiver runs through you. He hasn’t even touched you, and yet, you feel every caress echoing within you, a wave of heat spreading under your skin.

You track his every motion, captivated by the way the metal bends to his touch, its surface smoothing or curving exactly where he wills it, each almost imperceptible adjustment betraying his absolute mastery over the material.

His hands move lower, tracing the familiar curves of the sculpted neck, following with an unexpected tenderness the lines of your body you know so well. Your eyes remain locked on his, unable to look away. It feels as though, in this silence heavy with tension, a wordless dialogue has formed between you. His gestures speak of intensity, of control, but also of a desire he seems to channel into the metal, perhaps unable to express it any other way.

Kid leans in slightly, his face drawing closer to the sculpture, and your heart skips a beat. His fingers pause on the line of the metallic lips, a motion so slow, so deliberate, it feels almost sacred. The tension in the air becomes palpable, almost unbearable. Every movement of his hands, every stroke against the metal, seems a reflection of what he wants, what he longs to do with you. Your breath grows shallow, every muscle in your body taut with the anticipation he stirs, even without touching you.

His fingers glide upward, tracing the curve of the sculpted cheek with unexpected tenderness. You can almost hear the material hum beneath his touch, ready to surrender completely to his will, and the shiver it elicits seems to pass straight through you. He lifts his eyes, and you find yourself lost in their fiery intensity, where an uncompromising flame burns. He’s not just capturing your face, he’s searching for something deeper within you, a silent echo of his own desire.

Kid barely moves, yet the intensity of his gaze, combined with the precision of his hands, pulls you into a whirlwind of sensations. This is no longer just a sculpture; it’s a bridge between you, a silent language where every motion of his hands on the metal reverberates through your body. When his fingers trace the curve of the sculpted shoulder, then slowly move down the metallic arm, it feels as though a trail of fire marks your skin, awakening every fiber, every nerve to an impossible heat.

At last, he steps back, observing the sculpture with a gaze as intense as ever. His fingers hover mid-air, as though hesitating to add one final detail. But he doesn’t. A deep silence fills the workshop, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. You remain still, captivated by what he has created—and by the man before you, whose tension feels almost electric, saturating the air between you.

The sculpture is breathtaking. It’s you, but it’s also so much more. Every detail seems to breathe, alive with the energy he’s infused into it. But what strikes you the most is how he sees you. Strong, beautiful, vulnerable, and intense all at once. Your features, shaped by his hands, capture something you never even knew existed within you.

Kid looks at you now, his eyes igniting something deep within your soul. He says nothing, but his gaze is enough. It’s heavy with meaning, charged with a desire he no longer tries to hide. You feel exposed under the dim light, as though the sculpture isn’t the only thing he’s laid bare tonight. And yet, you’re not afraid. You feel drawn, pulled by the magnetic force he emanates.

You stand, hesitant at first, but step closer, as if compelled by the invisible bond forming between you. His eyes never leave you, tracking your every movement. Your breathing quickens, and a burning heat floods your body, but it’s not the fire causing it. It’s him. His presence, his power, his mastery over everything around him, including you.

"It’s you I see in this sculpture", he murmurs at last, his voice rough and low, almost an admission he hadn’t planned to make.

The words hit you like a tidal wave. He doesn’t wait for a response, and you have none to give. You’re already too absorbed by what he’s created, by what he’s just revealed. Slowly, he approaches, and you remain still, unable to look away. When he’s close, so close you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, he raises a hand. With the same gentleness he showed while sculpting, his fingers brush against your cheek.

The touch is searing. You shiver under the caress, your lips parting slightly as a breath escapes you that you hadn’t realized you were holding. His gaze drops to your lips, and for a moment, he hesitates. But only for a moment, because the tension between you becomes unbearable.

At last, he closes the distance. His lips capture yours with a controlled urgency, a blend of strength and tenderness that makes you melt. You close your eyes, surrendering to the fiery wave rushing through you. His hands glide from your face to your waist, pulling you closer as if he can no longer bear the space between your bodies.

The fire in the hearth is nothing compared to the heat consuming you both. His kisses grow deeper, more demanding, and you match his intensity, your fingers tangling in his red hair, still damp with sweat. The room, the world, seems to fade around you. There is only the two of you, and this passionate connection, finally unleashed after being held back for far too long.

Kid lifts you slightly, gently pressing you against the workbench, his gaze locked on yours as he murmurs your name with a fervor you’ve never heard before.

You don’t know when the moment shifts. Only that you’ve both surrendered - slowly - to the purest expression of love, where silence and tension say everything, where every gesture becomes a promise of what’s to come.

And the sculpture, in its stillness, stands as a silent witness to this shared surrender, its metallic sheen capturing the passion that finally finds its way, unrestrained. In this workshop, where fire meets metal, your bodies come together with an intensity even the silence cannot contain, etching this moment into the flickering light of the flames and the eternal steel of what he’s created.

Tag list : @jintaka-hane @novemberhope @imveryyellow @pandora-writes-one-piece Feel free to let me know if you’d like to be added (or removed) from the tag list.

Masterlist

#kid pirates #kid x reader #captain kid x reader #one piece x reader #kid x you #eustass captain kidd #eustass kid #captain kid #eustass captain kid #eustass kidd x reader #eustass kid one piece

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balrogballs · 3 days ago

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Best-boy Finarfin

today’s (well, yesterday’s) sketches and ficlet for @spring-into-arda B2MEM music prompt, featuring Finarfin and a bonus Baby Finfin. Prompt lyrics included “I’ll tend to the flame, you can worship the ashes”.

Sketches are very rough for this one, apologies, but I was on a train and even Michelangelo did not paint the Sistine Chapel sat inside a Great Western Railway stopping service.

When he was knee-high, Finarfin had been Baby Finfin. Best-boy Finfin, eats-his-vegetables Finfin, easy-bedtime Finfin. He was content with unsolvable equations, and if bedtime was bedtime, then fine. In a way, he has not stopped being Baby Finfin.

Baby Finfin never really had anyone to play with because he was a baby and everyone was much, much older than him, and sometimes he would sit sulkily at the window all day long, stubbornly counting out the seconds. Sometimes he would tire of that, and so he would stomp back inside and build himself a house of wooden blocks and tell himself that it was just as good as racing horses in the fields outside like the big boys did.

It is much the same today.

Finarfin the Penitent lives half-awake as always, uneasy and inbetween, the lonely god of an empty world. Ponds and shallow hills and bedroom-shrines, dusk and dogged determination. He commissions statues to be carved from the steadiest stones and tells himself they are likenesses. In the face of loss he tells himself there will be a gain, that he will see everyone again. He puts mirrors at the end of most hallways in the palace, and is confident in their ability to reflect reality whilst providing the illusion that he is not alone. Finarfin sweeps up ashes and tells himself it is incense. He airs out empty rooms.

Dreams, however, persist. In Finarfin’s dreams there are miraculous returns, done things undoing themselves and it is fuelled by one of these dreams that he makes an effort to befriend his wan-faced granddaughter. Celebrían is as lonely as he is here, and their odd little friendship is dictated not by their blood tie but by their twin desires to tow lost ships back to their lonely shore.

“Arwen is a little like you,” she says. “Always sitting by the window waiting for people to return. Just like that, big-eyes and pout, my very-good girl.”

They look at each other and shudder. The fear of the left-behind steams up the mirrors, and they clasp their hands and tell themselves it is not foresight masquerading as hindsight but in fact the other way around. All their lost things would rise drenched from the sea, Finarfin tells himself, and there will be such glad cries all around. All will return. That other shore is only meant to contain them, not keep them. It is a repository, not an archive, this Middle-Earth.

Most of the time he thinks about the past. What happened then happens now in his mind, slippery and pervasive, piling up yeni after yeni. He turns old sequences over and over in his head, kneading the edges smoother and smoother until it is only rides-on-shoulders and stuck-in-apple-trees. He waits and watches, and knows that one day his future will come sailing sluggishly oversea, heads cast down, and on that day he, Finarfin the Penitent, will be magnanimous and benevolent and forgiving.

Until then, he is six-years-old with starfish hands, baby Finfin, best-boy Finfin pressed nose-to-window. He sits quietly, counting down the seconds till familiar faces crest snowcapped hills, and break through the bated blur of his breath.

#IF YOU MFS DONT LET BABY FINFIN JOIN YOUR GAMES RIGHT NOW I SWEAR!!!#b2mem25 #tolkien #lord of the rings #the silmarillion #finarfin #celebrian #lotr #house of finwe

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swagginmun · 3 months ago

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Hello!

I just wanted to tell you that your art and way of storytelling is AMAZING. You're one of my biggest inspirations, and one of the people who got me into LMK (which I am very grateful for! Thank you so much)!!

I also have two questions for you (if you're not too busy! I dont want to bother you-)

What's your process for making illustrations? Yours look so pretty and they are so wonderful to look at!

And, what's your tips for anyone who wants to make a LMK fan-comic, but is a little scared to get something wrong? (Like good representation and cultural no-nos for example. I've done research, but the internet can be a little confusing and messy about topics like this, so I wanted to ask for help!)

I do hope that I'm not bothering you in any way!

Have an amazing day/night!

This is an oldie ask, apologies, but I do have a better way to answer this now! Typically, when I work on my pieces, I have 4 main phases: Roughs, Lines, Flats, and Renders! I'll use this Nezha piece as an example!

My Roughs stage includes getting references, color themes I may want, and feeling out the general vibe I want out of a piece! For this one, I really wanted to push Nezha's face expression (my main) as well as try to emphasize the speed at which he was moving.

Once I do that, I try to space out everything in the background, and refine the sketch with one more rough draft before moving on to the lines!

The Lines stage is pretty self-explanatory: this is when I line everything and make additional changes I may not have thought of from the Roughs stage: For this one in particular, I remember wanting to add details of more wear and tear, such as the sash being a bit damaged, or his bracelet getting cracks, or his face being a little scuffed up.

Next up: Flats! This is when I would flat color, as well as adjust the lineart to have colored lines (its already colored in the prior screenshot, but my lineart starts out all black) I find coloring the linart helps make the colors feel more "lived in" for lack of a better phrase

Finally, the render portion, which usually starts with the BG for me most times; I find if I know the environments colors/lighting it helps concrete where light is affecting the characters

This is your overlays, mutiply, and shine layers in action! Flat coloring makes my soul itch, but rendering really helps quell that pain for me; esp if I get to work with gold/hair shine! I hope that was helpful! And as far as advice for respecting cultural-related things, honestly, as an American I don't know much in the realms of specifics, but I do know to try to have basics understood, which I gather from what has been made thus far within LMK, reading the source material/fact checking information I come across, my own experience of being black in America, and reviewing travel advise funny enough. I wish you a good luck with your artistic journey homie!

#swagginasks #i have so many asks from 2023 #soRRY I am easily #swamped #:')))

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monstermonger · 7 months ago

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Hi, I’ve been trying to practice my inking skills and love how you’ve captured the scenery and characters with such lovely shading.

Have you ever posted any of your pencil sketches that you do before inking? I struggle so hard going from pencil to pen with my drawings.

First of all, I apologize how long this took to answer :"D It took particularly long because my inking process involves me sketching->inking->erasing in increments... And I kept forgetting to take photos before I erased :"""")

Anyway I finally remembered for a piece I'm working on atm!!

Sketch (bad quality photo sorry):

It's quite rough. I like to focus exclusively on fundamental big shapes and getting the perspective figured out in the sketch.

My inking process involves me taking one of these "shapes" at a time and texturing/shading to my heart's content.

[I was using Caspar David Friedrich's: Wanderer above a Sea of Clouds as reference btw. Using references can help a lot with both fundamental shapes + the texturing]

But yeah, to elaborate on what I said earlier and what might help you for if you feel overwhelmed- this is a complicated piece, with a detailed foreground and background. So to prevent myself from being too overwhelmed, I:

made a "detailed" sketch of the foreground + very lightly made shapes for the background (you can barely see it in my crappy photo lol).

I inked the foreground and erased it.

I moved on to make the "detailed" sketch of the background.

Lastly, inked the background.

So yeah, it's a lot of breaking things down.

I've had a lot of practice with inks and art in general, so i can do a lot of inking with less clean sketch. But it all depends on your comfort. Hope that helps a bit C:

#random rambling

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 4 months ago

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@hammerhead96 I AM BITING THIS! I am so sorry it took 45 years <3

Anselm Vogelweide x gn!Reader • Rating: PG pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? • ask-travaganza masterlist •

Summary: You paint Anselm's portrait.

Warnings: Fluff, Anselm has siblings here, I'm just making stuff up, little bit of jealous!Anselm, kissing, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 2311

“Stop moving.” You glare politely at Anselm over the canvas.

He smiles sweetly at you from his position on the chair in the middle of the room. The large floor length curtains are drawn, letting in the late morning sunshine. He’s sat at a slight three quarter angle, his scared side facing you.

It had been his sister that had commissioned you, Adela Vogelweide, a gift for his birthday. The fact that she’d chosen you had surprised you. You knew she had enough personal wealth to hire practically anyone in the world for whatever exorbitant amount they wanted and still consider it small change.

Adela had seen some of your pieces at a local gallery showing, the curator an old friend of yours, where she had quite loudly enquired about the price of your largest landscape. Paid three times the asking amount, and then said it was still undervalued.

She had called you up personally after convincing your friend to let her use their phone. The first words she’d spoken to you when you picked up were, “Why are you underselling yourself?”

Adela was brazen and kind, with a quick temper she had never directed at you. She dyed her hair black, something she delighted in telling you, except for two streaks that framed her face, those she kept in her natural grey. She had also delighted herself in telling you all about her older brother Anselm, and what a nuisance he was, a rapscallion, but a loveable one. And wouldn’t you be a dear and paint his portrait?

This was your fourth sitting.

“You said I could move a little, my dear?” He gives you a cheeky grin.

You poke your head around the canvas again, purposefully benign a little more dramatic than you truly need to be, because you know it amuses him.

“Emphasis on a little.”

His smile widens. “Am I moving too much?” He feigns innocence badly.

You give him a look. “Yes. Stop fidgeting.”

“My leg.” He pouts, and rubs his thigh.

“Anselm.”

“Yes, my dear?”

“That leg is not the one with your brace on.”

He chuckles and then quickly puts on a mock serious expression. “Can’t my other leg hurt? My, my, this is most uncaring of you, and here I thought you such a sweet person.”

“Well, you thought wrong then, didn’t you?” You carry on painting, adding a little shading. Most of the sittings so far were just to get a feel for him as a subject. You’d completed several rough sketches and paintings, and taken umteenth reference photos.

“I don’t think so, my dear, I’m a very good judge of character.”

“Would you say that runs in the family?” You ask nonchalantly.

“How so?”

“Is Adela a good judge of character?”

He pauses for a moment and then nods, “She is.”

“She warned me about you.” You say offhandedly and Anselm cackles with glee.

“Did she?”

“She did.”

“How marvellous. Did she tell you I’m a wretched and depraved lust filled bloodthirsty tyrant?”

You pause, “No.”

“What did she say?” He strokes his beard slightly.

“That you were cheeky.”

He tuts. “Now, that is a gross misrepresentation, I will have to have words with her.”

“Don’t get me in trouble.” You giggle.

“Now, now, my dear. She’ll most likely tell me off for some reason, probably for my playful, but oh so charming treatment of you, wouldn’t you say?”

You give him another look and he laughs.

“You disagree?”

“Stop fishing for compliments.”

“Ah, but I must. You haven’t said one kind thing to me all morning.” He folds his arms, pretending to huff.

“First, that is untrue, second, stop moving.”

He grins, “My apologies,” and puts his arms back down. “My dear Adela does love to scold me, despite being the younger sibling. You would think she was twelve years my senior, not junior… It is the different father I think.” He smiles fondly.

“You have different fathers?”

He nods, “You are enquiring about the surname yes?”

You nod as well.

“Well, my mother is Magdalena Vogelwiede, the only child of my grandfather who lived past infancy. She kept the family name and refused to change it when she married, not that any of her husbands would have dared to argue with her, besides all of them coveted the prestige of being part of the Vogelwiede family. All of her children were given her last name.”

“Do you have other siblings?” You ask, still holding your paintbrush but you have given up most pretences of actually working. The way he talked was almost hypnotic. Soothing. You could happily listen for hours.

“I do, I had an older brother, Wilhelm, who died very young. When my father died, my mother remarried and had Adela and Helena. She divorced my step-father when Helena was two, shame, as I was quite fond of him. She didn’t marry the father of my youngest sister, Libeste. But that was a very good thing, he was a terrible bore.”

You smile, delighting in the fondness in his expression. “Is she still with us?”

He nods, “She is, going very strong. She lives in Italy with her suitor, a toy boy.”

“Toy boy?” You snort.

“He’s only sixty eight.” He chuckles.

“Scandalous.” You grin.

“I like him very much, his name is Alvin, like the chipmunks. Which is what he said to me the first time I met him, a very sweet man, utterly besotted with my mother, the poor fool.”

“The poor fool?”

“She bullies him so,” Anselm sighs fondly, “But he does love it. So I think they are meant to be with each other.”

You barely manage another five minutes of painting before Anselm has to take an emergency meeting. He apologises profusely and kisses your hand when you leave. You do your best to hide your giddiness when his lips touch your skin.

The following Thursday you’re back at his house, mansion, just about to get out of your car when your phone rings. Adela.

You press accept. “Hello, Adela.”

“My darling, how are you? Are you well?” Her voice practically purrs on the other end of the phone.

“I’m good, you?”

“Fine, fine, listen, I am having a small get together tomorrow night, I will send a car for you. Yes?”

“I,” You pause, ever so slightly taken aback. “Well…”

“You are free of course?”

“Well, I was going to work on the portrait-”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, you have plenty of time, I understand art works can take years.”

“I don’t think it’ll take me years, I mean-”

“See? You are already ahead of schedule then my darling, 8pm the car will come. It’s a small thing, barely a hundred people, casual dress. And I mean it, wear jeans and a t-shirt if you want, or nothing at all.”

You open your mouth to speak and close it again as she continues.

“I simply must introduce you to my son. Anyway, see you then, ciao!”

She hangs up before you can even say a word.

You’re setting up in the ground floor study when Anselm comes in. His expression is stormy, you would almost say bleak if it wasn’t for the hard look in his eyes.

He sits on the chair without his usual exuberance, muttering a quiet “Good morning.”

You pause, still setting up your easel. Part of you isn’t sure if you know him well enough to ask about what’s bothering him, even though he’s been nothing but forthcoming and charming with you. You swallow down your anxiety.

“Are you okay?”

“Hmm,” he nods and doesn’t look at you.”Perfectly well.”

You bite your thumbnail nervously, but don’t ask again. You set up the rest of your equipment in silence.

The quiet is odd. You realise you’re so used to hearing him talk, to being swept up in his tales that now the room seems hollow and barren without them. Cold and sterile. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks loudly, echoes sickeningly.

Nothing seems to be going quite right, your colours are wrong, the shape irregular.

You’ve been working for around twenty minutes when Anselm finally talks.

“Has my sister invited you yet?” He’s a little gruff, a huff in his voice.

“I’m sorry?” You look up from your work.

“Invited you… to her gathering tomorrow?”

“Oh, erm,” You stumble over your words, the hard look he gives you is practically alien, so unlike his usual smiles. “Yes, she called me just as I got here.”

Anselm’s expression hardens. For a moment you don’t think he’s going to speak again. “She wants you to meet David, her eldest.”

You pause, not sure if you should reply, but you do anyway. “Yeah, erm, she mentioned it briefly… not that I really got a word in.” You laugh weakly, maybe he was annoyed at how long it was taking you to start on the painting? “Honestly, I was planning on working on your portrait, but I didn’t really get a chance to refuse the invitation.”

He hums again, sighing and slumps down a little in his chair. “He got divorced last year, you know?”

It takes you a full minute to realise he’s talking about David.

“Clean break, his ex-wife was very reasonable. No children.” He sighs again, “A perfectly eligible bachelor.” He runs his hand through his hair, pushing his curls in a completely different direction.

“Anselm,” you tut, briefly forgetting the tense atmosphere, you walk around the easel and towards him, your hand outreached to fix his hair before you catch yourself. You stop, pausing right in front of him.

He looks up at you with soft eyes. “I apologise, my love. I did not mean to disrupt your work with my bad mood.”

“It’s alright,” you smile slightly, “We all get annoyed.”

“I’m sure you are rapturous in anger, all dragon fire and destruction.”

You snort. “I am not.”

He smiles and leans forward, pressing his head towards your hand. “I am sorry I disturbed my hair.”

“It’s fine,” you lightly run your fingers through his curls, careful not to catch or pull as you move it back into its previous style. You motion for him to sit back so that you can position the last few rogue strands. You touch his hair for a little longer than absolutely necessary, swallowing as you press your fingers deeper.

Anselm breathes in deeply, closing his eyes for a second and presses closer to your touch.

“Is your nephew getting engaged or something, does Adela want me to paint a portrait of him too? Is that why I’m invited?” You ask innocently as you finally adjust his hair to your liking. You drop your hand to your side, a little disappointed that you no longer have a reason to touch him.

He opens his eyes slowly, staring up at you with a small frown. “My sweet, are you being serious, or pulling my leg? Because if it is the latter, I must say it is poor form considering my injury.” He motions a little dramatically to his brace.

“What?” You shrug a little, trying to work out what the hell he’s on about.

A small smile pulls at his lips when he realises you are being sincere. “My dear Adela wants to set you up with David, tomorrow is a formal introduction of sorts.”

You pause, a little dumbfounded and Anselm chuckles.

“My, the look on your face, you do not seem pleased.” He, however, is the happiest you have seen him all morning.

“Here,” Anselm stands, “I’ll get my assistant to bring you a photo of David,” the tease in his voice is undeniable. “So that you may gaze about the face of your future beloved.”

You finally find your voice. “Anselm.” You scold.

He grins wickedly, turning to face you fully. “I do love it when you use that tone with me, my sweet. Admonishing me does suit you.” He steps a fraction closer, raising his hand to lightly brush your cheek with the tips of his fingers. “I would happily die a thousand deaths to be under your thumb.”

You swallow. “I don’t want you to die a thousand deaths… or be under my thumb.” You say softly, trying to say that you want him safe and alive and of his own strange but endearing free will.

But Anselm’s expression falls and he lowers his hand, mistaking your words for rejection. “I apologise again-”

Panic grips your chest and you blurt out the first thing that comes into your head. “But you can be under me if you want… as in…” Heat rolls over your face and you screw up your eyes.

He laughs happily, stepping closer again so that you are chest to chest. He lightly traces your bottom lip with his thumb. “May I kiss you, my love?”

With a giddy rush of energy, you lean forward and press your mouth to his in a soft, sweet kiss. Anselm moans happily, wrapping one arm around you. When you break the kiss he leans his forehead against yours.

“Please forgive my foul mood earlier, I was… distressed.”

“Why?” You tease, a sugar rush of happiness overtaking you.

“Because I thought you were going to spend the rest of your days riding my nephew instead of me.”

You snort, unable to stop yourself, and quickly cover your mouth with your hand.

“Oh no, please, let me hear you laugh.” He gently takes your wrist and litters your cheeks with kisses, until you’re giggling uncontrollably.

“Well, I’ll have to let Adela know there’s no need for me to go tomorrow.”

Anselm tuts and raises an eyebrow, “I don’t think so, my love, I think it will be much more exciting to turn up on my arm and then proceed to make out messily on every available surface.”

Thank you for reading!

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#anselm vogelweide #big gold brick #anselm vogelweide x reader #x reader #anselm vogelweide x you #x you #anselm vogelweide x gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #anselm vogelweide x gn!reader #x gn!reader #my writing #fanfic #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters

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