#when the title bodies begins to have more than one meaning

[lokis-army-77]

Private Viewing

Camboy!Eddie Munson x fem reader

Word Count: 6.8k

What happens when your favorite camboy is in your class? You should stop watching his content... or should you? What happens when you are eventually paired together for a project? Everything will be just fine, won't it?

Warning: 18 +. This is pure fucking filth. Spit, masturbation (m and f), use of vibrators and fleshlight, choking, multiple orgasms, squirting, oral (f reviving), fingering, voyeurism? Soft!dom Eddie, tell me if I'm missing anything.

Thank you @lesservillain for giving me this wonderful idea. 💗 and @munson-blurbs for figuring out if I should do this for Steve or Eddie and for helping give me a title💗.

Masterlist

Nothing but slick sounds filled your room, the occasional deep moan calling out from your laptop speakers accompanying your own sweet cries. The guy on the screen, Ed as he called himself, or DungeonMaster as he was known on Only Fans and Twitter, was fisting his cock in his heavily ringed hand. He was putting on a show for more than ten thousand viewers but the way he stared down the camera with those dark eyes made you think he was watching you, fucking his hand to the way you were pumping your fingers in and out of your soaking wet pussy. 

You had stumbled upon his Twitter three months ago and he immediately captured your eye. The way his tattoos wrapped around his pale skin, how he wasn’t all lean muscle like the other OF guys, his tummy by no means a six-pack but he still looked strong enough to sweep you off your feet with ease. His moans were heavenly and so was the deep timber of his force as he praised you through the thirty-second video clip. It was all enough to convert you from your usual consumption of smutty books to the infamous Only Fans sight. 

Since then, his streams and videos have become the one and only thing you get off to. And like then, tonight was no exception. 

You were so close to the edge, Ed’s moans spurring you on. Your fingers move at an almost inhuman pace in and out, in and out. 

“Rub that clit for me, baby. Need you to cum.” He groaned, head resting on his shoulder as he continued you pleasure himself. 

“Fuck!” You gasp as you rub your clit with your free hand. Your rhythm is horribly off but it doesn’t matter, you are so close to cumming. So so so close. “Please,” you beg out into your empty room. You aren’t too sure why or what you are pleading for. More friction? More fingers? More words of encouragement from him? Maybe you’re asking to cum? 

It’s like he had heard you through the screen as he moaned out, “That’s a good girl. Just like that. Doing so well for me. You gonna cum baby? Yeah? Me too. Want me to count for you?” He nods his head lazily. “I knew you would baby. Okay. Five.”

You want to cry.

“Four.” 

The strings tugging inside you are becoming taut.

“Three.”

You feel like you’re going to explode. He’s counting too slowly.

“Two.”

The tears are flowing now.

“One.”

You let out a strangled scream.

“Cum baby. Do it, now.”

Your walls clench around your fingers and your legs snap shut, trapping your fingers. Every muscle in your body is shuddering as those strings snap and your release comes out in a stream, wetting your hand and the bed. Your hearing has gone, there’s a ringing in your ears but you can faintly hear Ed cumming as well. 

With watery vision and slow movements, you turn to face your laptop screen just in time to see his tattoo-covered chest painted with milky white ropes of cum. 

When the ringing subsides you hear him say more clearly, “Thata girl. Always make me cum so much.” He takes a towel and wipes off his chest and stomach before adjusting the camera view to the shoulders up. “Get you some rest baby, I’ll see you on Thursday.” 

And then the live is over. 

Slowly, sluggishly, you remove your hands from between your legs and begin the now regular clean-up routine before going to bed. 

…

Three days later, Thursday rolls around, and thus begins the fall semester of your junior year of college. It’s a groggy morning, everyone is tired and very unenthusiastic about having an 8 a.m. advanced music composition class. 

You had struggled to get out of bed at six this morning just to get one of the dorm showers first before they were all taken up. Luckily two of the five were open and you were able to get to class a whole twenty minutes early, even having time to grab coffee at the on-campus Starbucks on the way.

The music building was old and the tables you and your fellow students sat at were even older. It all added to the sleepy ambiance. Your eyes drooped and you yawned every time someone else did, the black coffee you had chugged not doing anything for you. 

You’re only awoken when your professor, a stout old man with a very severe receding hairline, slams open the door to the classroom a little too hard and it hits the brick wall, creating a loud, startling bang. 

He apologizes before making his introduction.  He then gets out a clipboard with a sheet attached and hands it off to a girl in the front row, instructing everyone to fill in their name and school email for his role sheet.

It’s only once you’ve finished and passed the clipboard on, that you notice the guy two seats down from you looks vaguely familiar. You can’t quite put a finger on it and it bugs you. 

His hair is pulled back into a messy bun and his clothes make him look like the alternative guy of your dreams back in high school. He’s got rings on almost every finger and an aura that just screams confidence. 

It begins to become a problem, your inability to place this guy's face. You’ve only taken a handful of notes the entire first hour and thirty minutes into this two-hour class. Your eyes are constantly staring at him no matter how hard you try to make yourself pay attention. 

Then, he raises his hand to answer one of your professor's questions. That’s when it clicks. Your pen falls from your grasp and your mouth forms an O. 

“Oh my fucking god. No. It can’t be.” You think to yourself but just to be sure you take out your phone, turn the brightness and volume down, and hide it under the table. You open Twitter as fast as you can and you don’t even have to look for his user, he’s the first post on the screen. 

Ed @ DungeonMaster86 was boldly displayed above a picture of the guy sitting next to you with his massive dick in his hand. 

It’s a wonder you weren’t caught with how you practically choked on thin air and began furiously looking from your phone to the guy and then back to your phone. 

Your stomach drops. You can’t keep watching his videos, can you? That wouldn’t be right. That would be weird, watching the porn your classmate makes. 

When class is finally called to an end you pack up as quickly as you can and bolt out the door to your next class, hoping that by getting away from Ed, you'd be able to concentrate. Out of sight, out of mind.

That statement turns out to be false when he is in your next class and when you spot him in the student commons talking with another guy. It's like once you made the connection of who he was, he was everywhere.

…

Arriving back at your dorm, you throw your backpack on your desk, snatch your laptop out of it, and struggle to jump up onto your bed. Never had you been so thankful for the single dorm than this moment as your curser hovered over the bookmarked Only Fans page at the top of your screen. No roommate meant no one would see the moral dilemma you were currently losing with yourself. 

‘You know him, it’s wrong to keep watching his videos.”

‘What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him though. The only way he would know you are watching is if you tell him, you aren’t going to tell him, are you?’

‘No…’ 

‘Then it’s okay, it’ll just add an extra element of taboo to his streams. Plus, he’d miss you in the chat.’

You sigh as the devil on your shoulder wins out once again, talking you into something you know you shouldn’t be. But hey, it feels good to be bad. 

Steadily, you click on his bookmarked profile and the first thing to pop up is the live stream that is currently in session. And against your better judgment, you enter the stream.

He’s only just started, people are slowly filtering in. Ed is sitting on the edge of his bed, shirt off, and a singular, ringed hand teasing himself through his black jeans. 

You breathe a sigh as he looks into the camera, eyes half-lidded, luring you in. It does the job, because in an instant your fingers are typing out a message in chat. 

Princess23: hi Ed

His eyes flicker as he reads his messages, smiling as he replies to you. "Hi, Princess. How's my girl been?"

There's a bubble of excitement at the fact that he recognizes your username, even if you've been a regular in the chat for months.

Princess23: stressful… you've been distracting me.

The reply to his question is truer than he realizes. 

"Aww, princess, is that so? You've been thinking of me?" He leans back on his free elbow, still groping himself with the other hand.

Princess23: yes. been thinking about your cock, how much I want it in my mouth. 

It's one of the less bold comments you make but it makes you blush all the same, especially now.

"Yeah? You want me to fuck that pretty little mouth? Of yours?"

Princess23: yes please

"Mmm." He hums, fingers now fumbling with the button and zipper of his jeans. 

You set your laptop to the side and start to situate yourself. Slowly taking your clothes off one by one. 

Ed replies to a few more comments before announcing that it's time to start.

He leaves the screen for just a moment before coming back with something in his hand. Smirking at the camera he shows it. A flashlight in the shape of a mouth.

"This one’s for you, Princess. Since you need my dick so bad," Ed explains. He sets it on his bed before making a show of taking his jeans and boxers off. 

As you watch, your hands roam your body. Fingers pinching and pulling at your sensitive nipples before trailing down. The light touch over your ribs makes you giggle. Then you rub and scratch at the inside of your thighs. 

Ed's moans are now coming through your speakers, you tilt your head to watch.

"Spit on my cock baby, get it nice and wet for me." He commands before spitting in his own hand and rubbing it on his thick length. 

"Your mouth looks so pretty like this, waiting, drooling for me. Need me to fill it so bad don't you, baby?" 

"Yes." You answer him breathlessly, fingers teasing around your mound. 

You watch and he sits back down on his bed, thighs spread, a hand cupping his balls and the other grabbing the fleshlight. He lets out a long, drawn-out moan when he inserts his cock into the fake mouth. 

"Fuck baby, your mouth feels so perfect." 

You can't help but whine. Allowing your fingers to finally circle your clit. 

The both of you go one like this for a bit. Him fucking the fleshlight and you massaging your clit. But then you need more, more than your hand can give you. So you reach to your bedside table, stretching at an uncomfortable angle to open the drawer and pull out the purple mini wand you kept there.

The vibrations start slow and constant as you press the toy to your clit. It pulls soft, quiet noises from you as you watch your computer screen. Your mind is blank, filled only with the pretty sounds Ed is making, the way his body looks, and the pleasure between your legs.

There are no thoughts. You follow his lead. When his hand speeds up, you kick up the vibrations, when he slows down, you turn the vibrator back to the first level. 

It's a rollercoaster, almost, taking your pleasure for a ride. The stream isn't even done yet when you feel that tight pull in your abdomen. The toy works you up fast. 

So you stop. Taking the toy away and changing positions. On your hands and knees, you hug a pillow to your chest and prop the toy up under you, keeping it standing as you push your clit down onto it. It's not even on and it's making your hips buck in sensitivity.

You turn it back on and immediately feel the slick seeping from your cunt and running down the toy. 

"Oh fuck," you cry.  Your eyes locked on the screen where Ed has also changed positions. 

He's got his own toy lying on the bed and he's laying over it. The way his leg and glute muscles contract as he thrusts into the toy has you memorized. 

He chants, "Baby, baby, baby." Over and over. What you would give to have him chanting your name instead. Like a prearranged falling from his lips, praising you, worshiping you.

The need for him grows and so does the tightness in your core. 

Reaching your hand down you turn the speed up. Your hips buck into the toy and you bury your face in the pillow. You're close.

He’s not far behind. Peering up from your pillow you can see his thrusts are sputtering. Sporadic as he draws close to his end. 

“God dammit, baby. Gonna cum in this perfect mouth of yours. Fuck. Can you swallow it like the good pet you are? Hum? The good pet I know you can be?”

“Yes.” You turn up the vibrator. “Fuck, wanna swallow all of you. Please.” 

The vibrations are becoming too much but you keep the toy pressed into you, hips shaking at the feeling of being overstimulated. 

Without warning, you cum with a guttural cry into your pillow. Body spasming, muscles twitching. You can still hear Ed moaning and the sloppy sounds of his cock fucking the fleshlight. 

With barely any energy you reach down between your heavy body and the bed and turn your toy off. You don’t even bother with your computer, too exhausted and fucked out to exit the stream. You fall asleep to the sounds of your new classmate's self-pleasure. 

…

It’s October now. The semester is halfway over and you’ve still been watching Ed, or Eddie. You learned his actual name in class when your professor called role on him by name the second week. 

Today you are being assigned a partner for the final project. You have your fingers crossed that Eddie won’t be chosen as your partner but as your professor calls out pairs, it seems luck is against you. 

You freeze when your name is called and directly after so is Eddie’s. You groan internally. How the hell are you supposed to do this? You already have trouble concentrating when he sits two seats away, what’s going to happen when he actually interacts with you?

There isn’t much time to think about that as he abruptly moves from his seat to the one directly next to you. 

“Hi.” He says, eyes bright and expectant. “I’m Eddie.” He holds out his hand for you to shake but you just stare at him. He looks at you curiously before waving his hand in front of your face. “Hello? Cat got your tongue?”

You snap out of your stupor and accept his hand, shaking it as you introduce yourself. “Sorry. I was a bit out of it.” You say, trying to play it off as you just staring off into space. 

“No problem.” He smiles. “Uh, do you want to exchange numbers so we can figure out when we can work on this together?” 

“Oh, yeah. Here,” You open your phone and push it to him with the messages app open. “You can text yourself.” 

He does just that, even going as far as putting in his contact name as Eddie with the skull and crossbones emoji beside it. 

“Great. I’ll text you when I’m free. I have work on Mondays and Thursdays, sometimes on Saturdays, but other than that I’m usually free.”

You nearly choke when you realize he’s given you his streaming schedule. “I- uh. Okay. Just text me when you can.”

"Sure thing sweetheart." He grins at you before standing, grabbing his things, and heading out of class along with the rest of the students. 

You sit there for a minute, thinking. God, what are you getting yourself into?

…

You both have finally come up with meeting times that work for both of you. Tuesday and Wednesday after seven. Giving you time to get to the school library after the closing shift at your on-campus job. 

It’s been two weeks of working together on this project and it’s been easier than you had originally thought to concentrate on the task at hand and keep your dirty thoughts at bay. 

Right now, you are both sitting in one of the private study rooms looking at Eddie’s computer as he explains why this particular cord progression would fit with the emotions you are trying to convey in your composition. 

You sigh, “Eddie, as much as I love that sound, I really don’t think it fits with the overall composition of the song. It isn’t as emotionally charged as I’d like it to be.”

“Well show me something similar to what you’re wanting.” He rakes his hand through his hair. It’s been a long night for each of you. It seems that every new section of the song you are creating for the project gives you a new challenge to work through together. 

You pull out your phone and Eddie leans over to watch as you begin to type. There is a particular song you are thinking of that has the weight and emotion you are trying to convey with your own music and as you type the first letter of the song, O, the first suggestion that pops up is onlyfans/DungeonMaster. 

Mortified, you slam your phone down on the table. Eddie looks at you with an eyebrow raised. 

“What was that?” He asks.

“What was what?” You answer. 

“Why did you slam your phone down?”

“Oh, I just forgot the title of the song.”

“Right…” He scratches under his chin and then stretches back in his chair. “Why don’t we call it quits for tonight? It’s getting late and we aren’t going to agree on anything if we’re both tired.”

A yawn suddenly comes up out of nowhere and you then realize how tired you actually are. “That sounds good to me.” You agree with Eddie and begin packing up your things. You don’t want to be with him longer than you need to be right now, even if he seemingly didn’t notice his OF user pop up on your phone screen. 

“Bye Eddie.” You wave to him on your way out the door.

Faintly you hear him call out to you, giving a goodbye of his own. "See ya, sweetheart."

… 

After your little slip, you began avoiding Eddie. At least in person, you still tuned into his streams. You bailed on the next three meetups you had planned, helping only through voice notes and text. Eddie said he understood when you said your boss was forcing you to stay late to deep clean. 

It was Thursday now and when you saw him in class he barely looked your way and you wondered if he had seen what you hoped he had not. 

You tried stopping him once your lecture was over, feeling an anxiousness creeping into your mind. Your conscience had been telling you to come clean. To explain your perversion. Let him know you watched him, that you paid to enjoy seeing him fuck into a toy or his hand. 

You called out his name and reached for his arm. "Eddie."

He turns to you. "Hum?"

You take a deep breath to ground yourself. "I wanted to say sorry for not being able to come help with the project."

"It's okay, you said you had work." He replies, unbothered. 

"No, Eddie, I didn't get held back at work. That was a lie."

He doesn't look all too surprised. 

"I've kinda been avoiding you because- well, because of what I think you might have seen on my phone that day."

Eddie stops you there. "Can this wait until later? I've really got some errands to run before work."

"Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry to keep you Ed." You had meant it as a nickname but as it came pushing past your lips it was too late to take it back. You had never heard anyone call him that outside of his onlyfans. 

You watched as his eyes widened at the name and a spark went off behind them. "I'll see you later sweetheart." The smirk he gives you isn't the usual playful one you'd seen him throw before. No, this was sinister, like he knew.

Your heart fell into your stomach as you watched him walk away, leaving you alone.

Tonight as you logged into the stream, it wasn’t to get off. It was to see if he'd show any signs of knowing you might be lurking about among the thousands of viewers.

When the video loads, Eddie is sitting in his desk chair. He's talking to the chat like he always does. There's something different in the atmosphere around him, mischief if you've placed it correctly. 

He keeps replying to comments until the clock reaches 6:10. It's time for the show to begin. 

"Tonight I have a very special treat for you guys." Eddie starts as he reaches over just off camera to his desk. "I've got the wand out." 

The chat erupts. Eddie doesn't bring his vibrator out often, but when he does, you know it's going to be a good show for every party involved. 

"I would also like to say hello to a special quest in the stream tonight." Eddie��s smirk gets bigger and your heart pounds in your chest. "Hi, sweetheart. Hope you enjoy yourself." 

You feel like you've been shot. There's a ringing in your ears and your breathing has stopped. 

He knows. Fuck. He definitely knows. You've never heard him say that pet name on camera. It's always babe or baby when he refers to the collective whole watching the stream. Eddie has only ever used that name with you.

Eddie starts up the vibrator, tracing it over his covered cock. He hums at the feeling, loud and long. 

You clench your thighs together. You tell yourself you should stop watching but you can't bring yourself to. 

'He knows." You argue with yourself.

'But he wants you to watch. Why else would he say his pet name for you? Why else would he say he hopes you enjoy yourself? He knows and he likes it.'

The devil on your shoulder makes sense again and you curse it. 

So, you watch. Intently, you watch. Your eyes never leave the screen. 

Eddie whimpers once he has his cock out of his pants. The tip is a deep purple/red color, showing how worked up he's gotten already.

He lets his head fall back, resting on his chair as he moves the vibrator down to his balls. He presses it into himself before dragging it up his shaft and to the head. 

You feel a wetness seeping into the cotton of your panties and as his legs widen, yours press together more. 

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck, sweetheart." Eddie moans, mouth open slack and eyes squeezed shut. 

You can't believe he's saying your pet name and making those noises. You wonder what he's thinking about. How you'd look sucking on his cock? Maybe what it would be like to be pounding into you, watching your cunt suck him in and clench around him. 

Eddie grits his teeth when he turns the speed up. One hand is holding the vibrator just at the frenulum while the other is cupping and squeezing his balls. 

Your thoughts are running wild and your hips have started to rock in search of some kind of friction.

He moves his hand from his balls and begins to tug on his shaft. Deep guttural moans fill the air, and the sound of them turns you on even more. 

It's not long before Eddie is bucking his cock into his hand. You can see his muscles straining in his legs as he does. 

"Fuck fuck fuck- ah fuck sweetheart, you've got me so close. Fuck." His voice is pinched. You can see the exhaustion in the furrow of his eyebrows as he pressed the vibrator over his tip, the change in placement making his hips shudder. “God, I’m gonna cum. The thought of you is gonna make me cum, sweetheart.” 

Hearing his breathy, deep, timber of a voice say that the thought of you was going to do him in had you thinking you might just cum too. No touching required, just Eddie and his beautiful noises. 

In a matter of seconds, Eddie is choking on his words as his balls go taut. He lets out a drawn-out grunt and ropes of cum begin to spurt out over his chest, covering him like a painting. He doesn’t even bother to clean himself up before he looks into the camera and says good night, chuckling when he mentions your particular pet name again. Then, the screen goes dark. 

…

Fridays are slow in the used bookshop you work at. Especially after 4:30. No one had been inside in maybe an hour? Your boss left early, leaving you alone to close down at 6. For the past fifteen minutes, you’ve been putting misplaced books back where they belong, sweeping, and tidying up anything else you see. 

Because of the usual slowness, you have your headphones on. The music isn’t loud but it does drown out the sound of the bell chiming as someone enters the building. You are unaware of the person creeping up behind you until you are suddenly turned around and corralled against the bookshelf. 

You let out an alarmed screech only for your mouth to be covered by a big, warm hand. Your headphones fall to the floor beside you as they are accidentally knocked off your head. You hear his voice then, whispering in your ear. 

“Hi, Sweetheart.” 

“Eddie-” You heave, relieved it wasn’t someone coming to kill you in cold blood.

“Did you enjoy my show last night?” He leans back, caressing a strand of hair away from your face. 

You shake your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You deny. Even after you had told yourself you would come clean to him, granted that was before you knew he knew your secret. 

“You don’t know, do you? I think you do why else would my account have popped up on your search suggestions the other day?” 

Keeping your mouth shut, you refuse to answer. 

Eddie takes your chin between his fingers and moves your face to the side as he leans into you. His lips tickle the shell of your ear as he speaks again. “So… Which one of my subs are you? Hum?”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. 

Eddie tuts. “Don’t get all shy on me. Tell me. Now.” His tone is dominating. It’s one thing to hear it over a computer speaker, it's another when you hear it in person. His presence alone had your knees knocking. 

“I-I,” You can't help but stutter. “It’s Princess23.” You shamefully tell him your user, eyes looking anywhere but his.

He sucks in a breath. “Oh, Princess. That was you?”

He forces you to look at him and you nod your head. 

You hate that he’s making you look him in the eye, but you can see what’s swirling around deep within them. Desire, lust, dominance, but nothing mean. Nothing hurtful. 

As you watch him, you catch the minute changes in his expression. His jaw clenches and his eyes darken, a hunger taking over as he stares you down. 

“I can give you a private show if you want, baby.” He leans back in. “Right here,” He nipps at your ear lobe. “Right now.” 

“Eddie, we can’t… We’re at my work.” 

He looks around you, head swiveling to peer down both ends of the aisle. “It’s fine Sweetheart, no one’s here but us, right?”

“Yes, but-”

He cuts you off with a finger over your lips. 

“Then let me show you why the real thing is so much better than what you’ve seen online.” He doesn’t give you time to think before his lips are on yours. 

They are soft, almost pillow-like as they mold against yours. His tongue slithers its way into your mouth, tasting you, he moans when he does. 

To you, he tastes like menthol cigarettes and black coffee with the faintest hint of weed. It’s intoxicating, and addicting. You’ve only had one taste and now you won't be able to function without him.  

His hand cups your cheek and pulls you closer. Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers tugging at his hair. His body keeps you pinned to the shelves and he spreads your legs by inserting one of his own between them.

With him being so much taller than you, it only takes you barely bending your knees for you to make contact with his thigh. You are thankful when he doesn’t stop you from humping his leg. The friction of you rubbing yourself against him has the seam of your pants pressing against your clit. It’s a wonderful pressure that leaves your mind blank. 

When he pulls away, you follow, not wanting his mouth to leave yours. Eddie chuckles when you give a needy whine. 

"It's okay baby, I'll give you what you want." He coos. "But first, since you wanna get yourself off, you've got to make yourself cum on my leg."

You pout. "But Eddie…"

"Ah ah, don't complain sweet girl, you'll only make it take longer. Now get to work."

You do as he says, rolling your hips with purpose against him. He doesn't help you at all, he only provides support and kissed along your jaw every few seconds as he watches you work. 

It's harder than you thought it would be. The layers of denim dulled the sensations yet added to the tension your clit felt as the fabric rubbed against it. 

"Mmm, fuck." You gasp, fingers gripping onto Eddie’s shoulders. "M'so close. Eddie, I'm so close."

He smiles at you and he gives your body gentle touches. "That's it, Princess. Let go. Being such a good girl for me."

You moan loudly at his praise. 

"That right sweet girl, use me to get yourself off. That's it, keep going."

His words are spurring you on, your hips, although losing their rhythm and steadiness, keep going strong. Then, you feel it. That tautness in your tummy and the ache in your bones. You are so close.

"Please, Eddie. Ah- so close. Need more." Your words are short and your hips move faster. 

"What is it, baby? What do you need?" Eddie asks, willing to give you just a little.

"Kiss me again," you beg. 

He obliges. Taking your face in his hands and practically devouring you. 

The canter of your hips stalls as your body shudders against him. A sticky wetness can now be felt,  uncomfortably, between your legs.

"So good for me." He praises.

You can feel how hard he is, his needy cock prominently pressing into your thigh.

"Wanna feel you. Eddie please, I need to feel you." You're practically begging him to fuck you now.

"Yeah, sweet girl? You need me to stretch that pretty pussy on my dick? Make you feel so good, baby." He trailed his kiss down to your neck, stopping only to suck and nip at the sensitive skin. 

You nod frantically. "Yes, yes Eddie. Need you inside me."

Hands rush to unbutton pants, fingers caress bare skin, breaths hitch. You tug at Eddie's pants impatiently as he pulls your own down. The sudden feeling of cold air hitting the pool of slick between your thighs. 

You are both a whirlwind of arms and clothes and a few books falling from their shelf. Eddie’s fingers make their way to your center, exploring between your folds. 

You throw your head back, cracking it on the shelf above. "Ow," You moan out in pain.

"Careful there, Sweetheart." He gives you another kiss and moves his unoccupied hand to cradle your head.

The pain is instantly forgotten when two of his thick fingers circle your clit before pushing into your entrance.

"Mmmm- god." He feels so good inside you, fingers curling into your walls. The wet slick of him moving fills the stagnant air of the bookstore.

"You're sucking me in, baby. Pussy squeezing me so tight." Eddie rests his forehead on yours, his breath mixing with your own. "Can't wait to feel you around my cock."

Gasping in response, you buck your hips up into his hand. "More-"

It doesn't take much convincing for Eddie to pull his hand from between your legs and position his hard length at your entrance. Slowly he slips inside, meeting no resistance with how wet you are. 

Eddie pushes into you, cock stretching you out farther than you think you've ever been before. His one hand rests on the back of your head while the other pushes your shaking hand out of his way as he goes to press it against your neck.

You grasp his arm, nails scratching his skin as he chokes you. 

"Oh- oh, Eddie. Fuck me." You cry, cunt fluttering around him. 

Your words are music to his ears. His pace begins steadily. In and out at a lazy, leisurely speed. Then he picks it up, hips bucking faster and faster. 

He's giving it all to you. Everything you've dreamed of since you saw him on your Twitter all those months ago.

The head of his cock is repeatedly hitting that one spot inside of you that makes your toes curl. You can’t keep yourself up. The feelings coursing through you have your knees buckling and Eddie does a good job at catching your weight. 

He stops his movements to try and situate you. “Come on, baby, gotta stand up.” 

You shake your head. “I can’t, s’too much.” Your heart is pounding in your chest, if you even tried to stand you would just fall again. “There's a couch.” You point to the back of the store. “It’s in the break room.” 

Eddie grunts as he hoists you up in his arms and follows your directions. 

The couch is old and made of leather. It is cold on your skin as Eddie lays you down and you shiver as he rips your pants and underwear from around your ankles. Never would you have ever imagined being naked from the waist down in your work break room. 

In contrast to the cool leather, Eddie’s hands are searing hot. He grips the back of your knees, picking your legs up and spreading you out. You’re almost folded in half. 

“Jesus fucking christ. You. Are. Beautiful.” He enunciated every word. The complement has you keening and clenching around nothing. “Fuck, look at that pretty cunt. She’s gaping for me.” Eddie smiles, eyes flickering to yours before looking back to your most intimate part. 

You let out a wonton gasp when he spits, a glob of it falling right atop your parted slit. Eddie takes a hand away and grabs his cock. He rubs the tip through your folds, giving your clit a heavy tap tap tap before entering you again and grabbing the back of your knee again. 

Eddie wastes no time in pistoning his hips into yours. The new angle gives him free range of movement to fuck you fast and deep. The skin of his thighs makes a sharp slapping sound when he connects with your ass, it sets the rhythm for the song of your shared moans. 

“Pull your shirt up.” He commands and you do as he says. Lifting your shirt up and over your breasts. Eddie lets out an irritated grunt at the sight of your bra. “That too.” He puffs out and you pull it up as far as it will allow. 

Your breasts bounce as Eddie fucks you mercilessly into the couch. His eyes are shamelessly trained on them. “Fucking hell, Princess. Gimmie our hands.” 

You reach out for him and he grabs your wrists, guiding you to hold your legs back like he had been doing. With the newfound freedom of his hands, he extends them out to play with your tits.  He pinches and tugs at your nipples, making you moan in pleasure as he continues his assault. His thrusts become faster, harder, more desperate. You know he's close and you can't take much more either. 

“Eddie… Ah- Eddie-” You babble out his name. You wiggle under his hold and the harsh prodding of his cock into your cervix. The strings of another orgasm are being pulled tight. 

He growls. “I know baby, I know. Fucking cum for me. Cum on my cock.” 

Tears well up in your eyes and begin to overflow. Your body writhes, back bowing, muscles straining. You’re on the precipice. 

Eddie sees how close you are and moves a hand down between your legs, circling his thumb over your slick-covered clit. 

“Oooh- Oh fuck!” You scream. “Shit shit shit shitshitshitshit…. Ah!” 

“Louder.” He moans. “Want the whole town to hear you sweet girl.” 

“Eddie! Oh, I’m there. I’m fucking there.” You cry, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as you let go. A scream erupts from your throat. Even in your ecstasy, you can feel Eddie’s tempo shift. He’s losing speed. 

“Goddammit. I cumming too.” Eddie whimpers, sinking into you fully. His cum fills you up and you can fill you as it runs down your ass as he pulls out. 

Your body is twitching as he moves you to lay more fully on the couch. He doesn’t follow though. No. He sinks to his knees and before your foggy mind can even comprehend it, he attaches his mouth to your pussy.  

You are pliant under his touch, unable to resist. His tongue explores you and you moan in pleasure. He’s lapping up the mixture of his cum and your slick, humming at the taste the whole time. 

You choke back a sob when his tongue flicks repeatedly over your clit before he begins to suck on the already abused bud. “Eddie, please.” Reaching down you tug on his hair but he doesn’t move. “Ed-” He starts shaking his head, burying himself in your pussy. 

Another orgasm is quickly approaching. Your breathing quickens and you can feel your body trembling as he works you up, sending you higher and higher until you can’t take it anymore. Your orgasm hits you like a wave, and your body spasms in pleasure. He doesn't stop, continuing his ministrations until you finally come down from your high once more.

“Christ. You taste so good.” He says as he crawls up your spent body. Draping himself over you he places kiss after tender kiss all over your face. “Did so good for me. I’m so proud of you.” 

“Yeah?” You whisper. 

“Mhum. So proud.” He grins, the light of the room catching in the wetness covering him from nose to chin. 

Eddie cuddles into you more and your eyes close. He’s exhausted you. You both lay there in silence, content in each other's presence. Eddie eventually falls asleep, his breathing slow and steady. You don’t have the heart or the energy to wake him. You stay awake, just barely, still in awe of what happened. 

It feels like hours have gone by when you finally do shake Eddie, calling out to him softly. He stirs, grumbling as he looks up at you. 

“Eds, baby, I need to lock up.” 

He only rests his head back down between your breasts. You shake him again. 

“Eddie.” You say it a bit more sternly. “Get up and I’ll let you take me back to yours.” 

That gets his attention and he’s up and dressing himself in an instant. You on the other hand are slower, feeling the prominent ache between your legs. He has to help you pull your panties and jeans back on. 

He has to help you close the store as well, your legs weak and not trusted to hold up your body weight without crumbling to the ground. 

Never had you thought this was how this would end. Sitting in the passenger seat of your favorite camboy's car as he drives you to his apartment, grinning like the Cheshire cat as you both think of all the fun things you’ll get up to. Round two was bound to be wilder than the first. 

[txttletale]

hey what’s up, i think you’re pretty cool but disagree with you on the whole ai can make art thing. to me, without the purpose from an actual person creating the piece, it’s not art but an image; as all human art has purpose. some driving factor in a work, compared to a program which purely creates the prompt without further intention. i was wondering what your insight on this is? either way, hope you have a great day

well, first of all, does art require 'purpose'? there's this view of art which has very much calcified in "anti-AI" rhetoric, that art is some linear process of communication from one individual to another: an Artist puts some Meaning into a unit of Art, which others can then view to Recieve that Meaning. you can hold this view, but i don't! i'm much more of a stuart hall-head on this, i think that there is no such transfusion of Intent and that rather the 'meaning' of a piece is something that exists only in the interplay between text and reader. reading is an active, interpretative process of decoding, not a passive absorptive one. so i dispute, firstly, that 'purpose' is to begin with a necessary or even imporant element of art.

moreover i think this argument rests on a very arbitrarily selective view of what counts as "an actual person creating the piece" -- 'the prompt' is, itself, an obvious artistic contribution, a place where an artist can impart huge amounts of direction, vision, and so on. in fact, i completely reject the claim of both the technology's salesman and its biggest detractors that genAI "makes art" -- to quote kerry mitchell's fractal art manifesto: "Turn a computer on and leave it alone for an hour. When you come back, no art will have been generated." in the past, i've posed questions about generative art pieces to demonstrate this

secondly, of course, the process does not end after image generation from prompt for serious generative artists--the ones who are serious about the artform (rather than tech guys trying to do marketing for the Magical Art Box) frequently iterate and iterate, generating a range of iterations and then picking one to iterate on further, so on and so forth, until the final image they choose to share is one that contains within it the traces of a thousand discrete choices on behalf of the artist (two pretty good explanations of this from people who actually do this stuff can be found here and here)

third and finally, that very choice to share the image is itself an artistic decision! we (and by we, i mean, anyone who cares about what art is) have been talking about this since fountain -- display is a form of artistic intent, taking something and putting it forward and saying 'this is art' is in and of itself an artistic decision being made even if the thing itself is unaltered: see, for example, the entire discipline of 'found art'. once someone challenged me, yknow, "if you did a google search, would that be art?" and my answer to that is, if you screenshot that google search and share it as art, then yes, resoundingly yes! curation and presentation recontextualizes objects, turning them into rich texts through the simple process of reframing them. so even if you granted that genAI output is inherently random computer noise (i don't, of course) -- i still think that the act of presenting it as art makes it so.

since i assume you're not familiar with anything interesting in the medium, because the most popular stuff made with genAI is pure "lo-fi girl in ghibli style" type slop, let me share some genAI pieces (or genAI-influenced pieces) that i think are powerful and interesting:

the meat gala, rob sheridan (warning: body horror!)

secret horses (does anyone know the original source on this?)

infinite art machine, reachartwork

ethinically ambigaus, james tamagotchi

mcdonalds simpsons porn room, wayneradiotv

software greatman, everything everything (the music is completely made by the band, but genAI was partially responsible for the lyrics -- including the title and the several interesting pseudo-kennings)

i want a love like this music video, everything everything

cocaine is the motor of the modern world, bots of new york

poison the walker, roborosewatermasters (here's my analysis posts on it too)

not all of these were necessarily intended as art: but i think they are rich and fascinating texts when read that way -- they have certainly impacted me as much as any art has.

anyways, whether you agree or not, i hope this gives you some stuff to think about, thanks for sharing your thoughts :)

[starboygojo]

IN HIS CASTLE, I WHITER.

sukuna x concubine reader

slow burn ; drabble ; angst with a bit of comfort ; concubine reader ; smut ; everything is consensual.

author note: idk this was a random thought but ugh i love the trope of concubine reader x sukuna 💔 leave a like or comment if you enjoyed reading ^^

You were not the first woman to be brought to Ryomen Sukuna’s palace, but you are the only one who lasted. Originally gifted to him as a peace offering from a broken clan, you were meant to be a disposable concubine. Something to toy with.

But you didn’t flinch. You met the King of Curses with steady eyes and silence. Intrigued, Sukuna kept you close. At first, for amusement. Then, for convenience. And finally because he didn’t want anyone else to have you.

He makes you his official consort, a title just shy of wife. The others in his harem fade into the background. You’re the only one he calls for. The only one who dares speak back. But even with all his power and obsession, he never says he loves you.

No, you were not his wife. Everyday you had to remind yourself that you were just a mere concubine. You were not his wife.

But he summoned you more than anyone else. He called you to his private chambers, where no one else was allowed.

Sometimes he took you rough and fast like it meant nothing. Other times, he touched you like you’d break under him, his lips brushing your throat with something that almost felt like restraint. But afterward, he always left.

No words. No warmth. No belonging. You were not his, and you hated how your body still craved him.

You begin to wilt.

The castle is beautiful but lifeless. Cold halls. Locked doors. Endless winter outside. You’re dressed in gold, given jewels, kissed when he wants to but never chosen with his heart.

Your mind begins to fracture in the quiet. You miss the sun. His pride will be the death of you.

You are one of the only living thing in his castle. No birds. No flowers. No warmth. Sukuna keeps you close like a pet, yet never lets you bloom.

Because no flower survives long in his garden. And he likes them best when they wilt.

You and Sukuna fall into a rhythm. Arguments that end in heavy silence, touches that linger longer than they should, nights he stays longer in your bed than intended.

One night, after a rare moment of softness, he almost tells you the truth. That you matter. That he doesn’t want to lose you. But his pride chokes him. Instead, he leaves you shivering in silk sheets with nothing but silence.

You fall ill wether it’s real or spiritual, no one can say. The castle drains you. And still, Sukuna won’t name what he feels.

His servants begin whispering that the King has cursed himself with pride. That the woman in white robes is dying of unspoken love. And then the castle begins to rot from the inside.

1. He calls you after battle, blood still on his hands. You expect his usual cruelty. Instead, he kneels between your thighs and worships you like he’s been starving. His voice is hoarse when he murmurs, “Only you taste like this.”

But when you ask what that means, he pulls away, cold again. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

2. Another concubine tries to seduce him. He brushes her off. But that night, Sukuna comes to you furious, possessive, desperate to remind you who he chooses. A man full of pride and mind full of knowledge melts against your knowing touch. Sukuna wouldn’t dare do something without the go ahead from you.

You look up with your eyes that gleam at him to continue. And continue he did.

“Do you think I’d touch anyone else like this?” he growls, dragging your hips to the edge of the bed. “This body is mine.”

3. You try to leave—quietly, without a goodbye. You’re halfway down the palace steps when he appears. “You don’t get to walk away.”

“Then say it,” you whisper. “Say you want me.”

He grabs your chin, forces your gaze up. His eyes burn.

“I need you. Isn’t that enough?”

You shake your head. He breaks.

And when he kisses you, it’s not a demand. It’s a confession his mouth is too proud to speak.

Sukuna begins to linger after. Not every time. But enough for you to hope.

He touches your hair while you sleep. He kills a man for looking at you too long. He builds you a private garden in the middle of a castle that’s never known life.

But still he won’t say the words. Won’t call you “mine” where others can hear. Won’t admit that your absence guts him.

And as your humanity wilts, Sukuna begins to feel the ache of what he’s losing but love might not be enough to undo the rot. Your heart aches for him, you slowly begin to question. Can the man who destroyed your spirit before learning your heart ever love you back?

4. Ryomen Sukuna is not fond of asking for forgiveness. No empathy should ever linger in his head. Although one particular argument between you two finally made something in him change. The silent treatment was killing him.

His hands tremble. You’ve never seen him like this. Not when he’s bleeding. Not when he’s furious.

“I love you,” he says again, voice cracked and low, as if he still can’t believe the words live in his throat. You reach for his face, your fingertips brushing the blood on his cheek.

“Then stay,” you whisper. “Stay with me. No more leaving.”

He swears under his breath, breath hitching as he leans in. The kiss he gives you is nothing like the ones before there’s no hunger, no cruelty. Just ache. His lips part over yours slowly, trembling with restraint, like if he takes you too fast, you’ll break.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Tell me if I hurt you. Please.”

Your heart stutters. Sukuna—the King of Curses—is asking. Begging for permission.

You nod, whispering, “Touch me.”

And gods, he does.

He undresses you carefully, reverently, pushing aside silk and lace as if he’s peeling back petals. His calloused fingers skim every inch of your skin like he’s memorizing it just in case.

“You’re so soft,” he breathes, his voice thick with need. “So fucking perfect. How did I not see it sooner?”

When his mouth moves down your neck, over your chest, you feel his breath stutter.

He lingers. He kisses your ribs. Your stomach. Then he spreads your thighs slowly, like he’s opening a gift he thinks he doesn’t deserve.

“You always taste like honey,” he murmurs, settling between your legs.

And then he lowers his head. His mouth on you is worship.

His tongue moves slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on yours the whole time. One hand holds your thigh down while the other slides into your trembling fingers you’re holding hands as he eats you out like it’s his religion.

“Let me hear you,” he rasps. “Don’t hold back. Let me know I’m still making you feel good.”

You whimper. He groans.

He moans into you when you arch your hips, dragging his tongue deeper, flicking it in circles that drive you wild. He’s murmuring against your skin things like

“I should’ve done this every night…”

“No one else gets to hear you like this…”

“I’ll never let you go again…”

When your orgasm hits, it’s not sharpit’s devastating. Your body clenches, your chest arches, and you cry out his name, tears slipping down your cheeks as the wave crashes through you.

Sukuna kisses his way back up, tasting you on his lips, his breath heavy.

“I need to be inside you,” he growls, voice ragged. “Now. Please.”

He sinks into you slowly. Too slowly. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. Your walls flutter around him and he groans, burying his face in your neck.

“You fit me too fucking well. Like you were made for me.”

And when he moves, it’s gentle, rhythmic, hips rolling into you in a way that feels like he’s trying to imprint his soul onto yours. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit again, and your second orgasm builds with the pressure of all those unspoken years.

You cry into his shoulder. He whispers into your mouth

“Don’t go. Please, don’t leave me.”

“I love you—I’ll say it a thousand fucking times. Just don’t go.”

You come with a sob, clinging to him like you’re anchoring him in this world. He follows seconds later, releasing inside you with a shudder, biting down on your shoulder as his body locks with yours.

Afterward, he doesn’t move. He just holds you, one hand stroking your hair while the other stays tangled in your fingers.

“Stay,” he whispers again. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

And this time… maybe, you do. For now you are his wife.

[thisrots]

♡⋆.࿐࿔ omegaverse for our fav girls!

sevika:

- obviously a dominant alpha. no question or doubt about it

- would not hesitate to mark you the second she had the opportunity to, even if you bitched about it, that only made her want to do it again!

- she’d always take care of you and make sure to keep you safe. that was her goal in life, to be your protector. would go with you everywhere, cook for you, bathe you, etc. you’re definitely her soft spot (would def growl at whoever looked at you for too long). also! would NOT allow you to take heat suppressants, saying that she was your alpha and could take care of that little issue for you (and takes care of it VERY WELL)

- would purposely leave her pheromones on you, especially when you were heading out somewhere, letting everyone know that you belonged to her. not that they didn’t already know that to begin with, i mean, she made sure to make that known (everyone knew you as ‘Sevika’s girl’ owo)

- went into ruts religiously. like, every other week. would drill into you and come inside every time, fucking you anywhere and everywhere she wanted to. wherever it hit her, she’d find a place to rip your panties off and mate right there and then. her member would be… large, to say the least, her favorite part being the bulge poking out of your lower tummy when she’d fuck you. when you two would rut fuck at home, it’d be so rough the bed’s legs would snap, having you two out buying for a new one the next day (you two have definitely traumatized the furniture store employees). when she first knotted in you, you cried and whined, complaining of how badly she hurt inside. was more than apologetic, fucking hated herself in that moment, soothing you and kissing your tears away the best she could. again, you were always her soft spot.

jinx:

- dominant omega for sure, the omega part would make it hard for people to believe she actually has the power to destroy everything and anything (but trust… we know she can)

- would VERY MUCH be into marking, biting you everywhere and in the most visible places. also would ask to be bit back, as hard as you could (because it would turn her on).

- bossy and jealous! would tell you what to do/where to go but always join you, you know, to make sure no other omega catches your eye. and if she notices one looking, there will be hell to pay (do not underestimate her because she’s an omega). would play the ‘villain’ part outside the best she could, making others forget she was really an omega, but would melt at home the second your fingers grazed her skin.

- CONSTANT. HEAT. CYCLES. this girl is like a bunny on batteries, hole wet and ready for you always. would ask you to leave your pheromones on her so she could not only smell like you, but masturbate to the scent later if you weren’t home, making sure to continue until you walked through the door and fucked her stupid (and yes… she’d beg for you to come inside her). would also PLEAD for you to knot in her. she didn’t care how badly it hurt, she just needed to be as close to you as possible, needed to feel like she was owned. would always remind you mid fuck that you were hers, moaning and groaning it out as you were deep inside her. forcing you to say it, damn near making her finish when you did. would occasionally try to dominate you, and it would work at first, only for her to somehow end up underneath you again. at least she’d try her best!

cait:

- my girl gives beta vibes (wait hol up—hear me out!) BUT DEFINITELY DOES NOT comply to the title. was meant to be a dominant alpha, ordering everyone around, having power over everything, and her strength… yeah, no, she struggled a bit with identity crisis at first. but has learned to use it to her advantage!

- gives no fucks that she can’t really mark you, leaving purple and red bruises all over your body (where only people who could undress you would see, she respects you too much to have you walking around all bitten up).

- can’t smell pheromones, but CAN tell when they’ve been left on her. she’s a people reader, so she knows the exact face someone makes when she smells different. it frustrates her to the MAX, unless it’s you—then she smirks at the change of expression on their face, continuing the conversation like nothing (taking a mental note though, of course).

- would not give a fuck that she’s not labeled as dominant or submissive, actually, she’d take that for advantage. would fuck you senseless for hours, using her long fingers, toys, whatever she had available, no matter if you’re an alpha or omega, you’d crumble underneath her every time. even when she was taking it, cowgirl, doggy, didn’t matter what position, she somehow still had power over you. punishing you every time you took too long to make her come or for coming too soon (or without permission ;3). she had memorized everything that made you feel good. every spot, curl of her fingers, swirl of her tongue on your clit, and definitely used it against you. they were all the same to her, alphas and omegas, because at the end of the day, they’d all want to spread their legs for her.

vi:

- pretty puppy recessive alpha! strong to others yet nothing but a good girl for you.

- she’d definitely accidentally mark you during her ruts. would feel bad after, apologizing endlessly, despite you reassuring her that it was okay because you already belonged to her!

- think of having a human puppy around. would want attention, praise, pets, and would worship the ground you walk on. in public though, she’d definitely shape up and put on her big dog face (you know, to go along with the whole alpha thing).

- again, would ‘accidentally’ leave her pheromones on you half the time. though, when she would notice you talking to another alpha, would purposely push them out and swirl them around you the best she could, causing the other to choke up and wrap up the conversation. but just on accident, of course!

- her ruts happened once a month, seemingly pretty easy to deal with, right? wrong. pent up sexual frustration would eat her alive, letting it all out the second she felt the heat of the rut starting. pounding you into the mattress, no protection, cum leaking out of you from her constant orgasms. poor girl would just be so whiny though, whimpering and moaning like she was the one taking it. you’d take advantage of that, riding her until she cried from how good it felt, calling her your good girl for fucking you so well. they’d last days a time occasionally, nonstop fucking, making sure to let out every drop of cum she had inside of you. she’d be so worried about you after she snapped out of the rut haze, eyes tearing up from how sore you’d be. she’d bathe you, make your favorite meal (the best she could, not too good at cooking), and massage the soreness out of your body. you’d kiss and reassure her that you were okay, which didn’t mean shit to Vi, she’d spend the rest of the month making it up to you until the next rut.

[usualsworld]

A Dance of Thorns

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader ༊*·˚

Warnings: cheating; adultery; smut fight; makeup sex; slight dark Anthony Bridgerton; implied age gap; period-typical sexism.

Word Count: 6,000+

Inspired by gothicquill 

Trapped in a marriage of duty rather than love, the Viscountess Bridgerton finds herself locked in a silent war with her husband, Anthony. Once, there had been respect — now, only cold stares and cruel words remain. But when a late-night confrontation spirals into something far more dangerous, buried truths and unspoken desires begin to unravel.

Seated in the dimly lit bedroom, you feel the crushing weight of your title – Viscountess Bridgerton. Once, it had been an honor, a purpose. Now, it feels like a prison. The distance between you and Anthony has grown into an abyss, neither of you daring to bridge it. Nights stretch long and lonely, your marriage reduced to obligation and cold pleasantries.

The door swings open with force, the hinges protesting under Anthony’s impatience. He steps inside, the flickering candlelight casting harsh shadows across his face – tired, frustrated, yet unreadable in that way he has perfected.

"You’re still up?" His voice is clipped, edged with something dangerously close to disdain. He pulls off his gloves with slow, deliberate motions, his eyes never leaving yours. "One would think a Viscountess would have better sense than to waste her time waiting for a husband who clearly has enough burdens without adding to them. Or do you have something pressing to say? More grievances, perhaps?"

You lift your head from where it had been resting against your knees, your body still trembling from earlier sobs. But the sorrow fades as his words settle in. Too cold. Too cruel. Too much.

Anger replaces grief, sharp.

You push yourself to your feet, wiping at your face as if scrubbing away the last traces of vulnerability.

"Oh, forgive me, my lord," you bite out, the title twisted into something venomous. "Forgive me for wanting to lay eyes on my husband, if only for the briefest of moments before he disappears again into whatever… obligations keep him so very occupied."

Anthony stills, his expression impassive – but you know better. You see the flicker of tension in his shoulders, the minute clench of his jaw. He knows exactly what you mean.

Your marriage had never been one of love. That was no secret. It had been arranged, convenient, expected. But at the very least, there had been respect.

Once.

Now, there is nothing but silence, suspicion, and resentment.

Anthony exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Spare me the dramatics." He steps closer, slow and measured, like a predator sizing up prey. His gaze is unreadable – cold and calculating, yet laced with something far more dangerous.

"You knew what this was from the beginning," he says, his voice low but weighted. "Affection was never a requirement. Duty, however, is. Or have you suddenly forgotten the role you so readily accepted?"

The words cut deep, but you refuse to let him see it.

A bitter laugh escapes you, though there is no amusement in it. "Readily accepted?" you echo, incredulous. "I was a child, Anthony. A child promised to a man with power enough to shape my entire future before I could even dream of choosing it for myself."

His expression flickers, something shifting in his eyes. But it’s gone before you can name it, replaced by that same indifferent mask.

Your hands tremble, but you refuse to back down.

"You had a choice," you push, your voice rising. "You, with all your influence, all your control. If this arrangement was such an unbearable weight, you could have ended it. But you didn’t."

His jaw tightens, and you know you’ve struck a nerve.

"So don’t you dare stand there," you seethe, stepping closer now, "and act as if you are merely a victim of circumstance. You made your choices, Anthony."

Anthony’s jaw clenches tighter, his chest heaving with restrained emotion. The anger he felt moments ago shifts into something more complex, something he can’t quite identify. Your words sting, cutting through the layers of indifference he has built around himself.

He looks at you – really looks at you – and sees the exhaustion in your eyes, the frustration in your clenched fists. He sees the person he married, the one who stood by his side through the years, even when things were far from easy.

You lower your head as soon as the words leave your lips, your breath unsteady. But before you can retreat into yourself, his hand tilts your chin up once more.

Your gaze meets his, locking onto the dark depths of his eyes. Your own irises glisten, tears pooling but refusing to fall. They are born from too much – sadness, anger, exhaustion, frustration.

He watches you, his expression unreadable. There is no sharp retort, no immediate rebuttal. Just a steady, almost contemplative calm in his eyes, as if weighing something unspoken between you both.

You bite your lower lip, the silence stretching too long, too heavy. Waiting.

Waiting for him to say something. Anything.

Anthony’s fingers caress your chin, the touch surprisingly gentle, in contrast to the fire in your earlier exchange. He watches you intently, his gaze never leaving yours, and for a moment, just a moment, the intensity in his eyes falters.

Then, his thumb brushes the corner of your lip, smoothing over the indentation left by your teeth. The gesture is an unconscious one, born from something he doesn’t quite understand himself.

He opens his mouth, his throat feeling tight with emotion, and murmurs, "Why must you always challenge me?"

"You are the Viscount," you say plainly, your voice steady, unwavering. "If I don’t challenge you, no one else will have the courage to."

You hold his gaze, refusing to back down.

"I am simply fulfilling my role as a wife, husband," you say, your voice steady, almost matter-of-fact.

"So, that’s the only reason, then?" he asks, his thumb still tracing your lower lip with surprising tenderness. He seems almost in a trance, his gaze fixed intently on your mouth.

He leans imperceptibly closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Is it fun? Driving me up the wall? Testing my limits?"

"I manage the household. I tend to our guests. I handle the simpler matters. I build connections. And I…"– you tilt your head slightly, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world – "I challenge you."

Your words hang between you, deliberate, undeniable.

He freezes, his jaw tensing, his nostrils flaring. There it is, out in the open, his most shameful secret. His chest heaves, his body rigid, caught off guard by your unexpected mention of his indiscretions.

"If I didn’t, you would live comfortably on your pedestal of certainties. You would continue treating me like nothing. And you would keep spending your nights with whores."

You spit the last word like venom, sharp and cutting, daring him to deny it.

His hand falls from your chin, clenching into a tight fist by his side. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, the silence in the room palpable, charged with something he can’t quite name.

When he speaks, his voice is low, rough with barely controlled emotion. "What, did you think I was going to deny it?"

"Of course not. Why would you deny it?" you say, almost amused. "It’s the truth, and everyone knows it."

You shrug, feigning indifference – though you both know better.

"When I attend afternoon tea with the other ladies, Anthony, they all talk about it."

You tilt your head, watching him, watching for the flicker of something – guilt, irritation, anything. But he gives you nothing.

"Everyone knows the great Viscount Bridgerton works tirelessly, and when he isn’t working, he’s fucking whores."

The words are laced with mockery, punctuated by a humorless laugh.

"You think I don’t smell it? That I don’t see the marks on your neck?"

Before he can step away, you reach up, your fingers gripping his collar. In one swift motion, you yank it aside, forcing him to stumble – just slightly.

Even you are surprised by your own strength.

As his shirt is suddenly jerked to the side, Anthony stumbles forward, his body colliding against yours. He catches himself in the nick of time, his hands braced against the wall, trapping you between him and the stone. His chest rises and falls under your touch, his breathing labored and ragged.

"You seem awfully preoccupied with my…escapades," he bites out, his tone sharp, his eyes glittering with unsuppressed anger. "Are you jealous?"

"Me? Jealous?" You tilt your head slightly, your eyes darkening as a slow, knowing smile curls on your lips. "Don’t worry, husband… a mutual betrayal doesn’t hurt."

You bite your lower lip, watching him, daring him to react.

It’s a bluff, of course. But Anthony is barely home for more than five hours a day – how could he possibly know the truth?

Two can play this game.

His eyes flash darkly, your words hitting him square in the chest. "Mutual."

His gaze flickers down to your mouth, his own lip curling into a sardonic smile. He leans in closer, his body pressing against yours, pinning you between the wall and his unyielding frame.

"You expect me to believe that you’ve been unfaithful all these years?" he asks, his tone dripping with doubt.

His hands move to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, possessive and demanding. "Or are you just bluffing, wife?"

"However, husband…"

"I don’t expect you to believe anything," you say sweetly, tilting your head ever so slightly, your eyes wide, innocent – dove eyes. "You’re free to believe whatever you like."

Your voice is light, almost playful. But then –

Your expression shifts, the softness melting away like a mask slipping from your face. Your eyes narrow, sharp as a blade, the look of a woman who knows exactly where to strike.

"Before I was a Viscountess, I was a Marquess," you remind him, your tone softer now, but no less dangerous. "My family is wealthier than yours. And if there’s one thing I never run out of, it’s connections… and money."

The words spill from your lips like a secret shared between friends, a quiet whisper laced with something dark, something dangerous.

Then, you feel it – his grip tightening at your waist.

There it is. The seed of doubt, the tiniest crack in his unshakable confidence.

Your words echo in the silence, and he stiffens. No. He couldn’t possibly believe that you had taken a lover, could he? And yet, the image of you with another man – any other man – makes him see red.

He grips you tighter, his fingers bruising your skin, but he doesn’t care. That possessive part of him, the one he tries to keep contained, is rearing its ugly head. He hates the idea of another man with you, just as you hate the idea of him with any other woman.

The tension between you is like a taut wire, stretched thin, ready to snap. His chest heaves, his heart pounding with a mix of possessive anger and denial.

"Are you telling me you’ve been using your connections and money to… what exactly?" he growls, his voice low, barely above a whisper. "Is this your way of getting back at me? By paying someone to warm your bed while I’m away? By betraying me just as I have betrayed you?"

You merely shrug in response, offering nothing but a sharp, ironic smile. Then, without warning, you press your hands against his shoulders and shove.

He isn’t expecting it.

Anthony stumbles backward, the force sending him down onto the bed behind him. A rare moment of vulnerability – one you savor.

Now, you stand before him, tall, unyielding. But you don’t stay there for long.

Slowly, you lean down, lowering yourself to his level, your face inches from his.

"Let this be a reminder, husband," you murmur, your voice silk wrapped around steel. "If you are venom, I can be the very viper itself."

Your lips curve into something between a smirk and a warning.

"Don't test me."

The sudden shift in power dynamics leaves him reeling. He finds himself on the bed, pinned beneath your gaze, his breath catching in his throat as you hover over him, your face mere inches away.

He opens his mouth to retort, his usual sharp tongue ready with a scathing response, but your words silence him.

"Vixen," he mutters, his tone a mix of begrudging reverence and irritation.

He knows it. This woman, the woman he married, the woman he calls his wife, is a viper in disguise. Sharp. Dangerous.

"I’ll be sleeping in the other room," you say casually, as if the last few minutes hadn’t just been a battlefield.

Rising to your full height, you turn on your heel and stride toward the door. When you swing it open, you’re met with the wide-eyed stares of several servants – clearly caught in the act of eavesdropping.

Their eyes go wide in panic, and they immediately scatter, hurrying away as if they hadn’t been standing there, hanging on to every word. You watch them for a beat before letting out a short, amused laugh.

Still, a thought lingers at the back of your mind – Had you gone too far?

You had just all but confessed to adultery, a bold-faced lie, but one that Anthony doesn’t know is a lie. And knowing him, he will not let it rest. He will dig, search, turn the entire ton upside down in pursuit of this phantom lover.

Oh well. A problem for another day.

You lift a hand and beckon one of the maids forward with a single finger. The poor girl hesitates before approaching, eyes downcast, as if terrified of being caught in the crossfire.

"Prepare the guest room at the end of the hall for me," you order smoothly.

Meanwhile, Anthony feels a strange mixture of disbelief, irritation, and… something else. Something more primal, more possessive.

"Like hell you are." He gets to his feet, his gaze following you as you walk toward the door, his eyes dark and intent. He barely registers the scattered servants, too focused on you.

When you turn and order the servants to prepare the guest room, Anthony bristles. No. You aren’t doing this, not tonight. Not tonight after that conversation.

He stalks after you, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the hallway. "You’re not leaving this room." His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist. He whirls you around, your back colliding against the bedroom door. The force of it sends a sharp jolt up your arm, but it is nothing compared to the way your heart is racing now.

His grip is firm – borderline painful – and his expression is dark, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitching there. His body is close, too close, trapping you against the door, trapping you in him.

"Yes, I am leaving, Mr. Bridgerton," you say, your voice steady despite the shock flickering in your eyes.

Your heart stumbles over a beat – you hadn’t expected him to grab you. Let alone throw you back against the wall.

For a brief moment, you simply stare at him, processing the sudden shift.

"I’ve already asked Clara" – the maid you had summoned – "to prepare the room for me."

Your tone is cool, as if stating the obvious. As if his grip on your arm, the way his body towers over yours, is of no consequence. "There is nothing more for us to discuss tonight."

Anthony’s grip tightens, his free hand slamming down on the wall beside your head, effectively caging you in. His brown eyes are stormy, filled with a mix of anger, frustration, and something else, something dangerous. He leans in, his lips hovering dangerously close to your ear.

"Oh, there’s more to discuss," he growls, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "And we’re not finished until I say we are."

While Anthony continues his performance, Clara – poor Clara – remains frozen, eyes wide in fear. You neither move nor breathe, trapped between the two most relentless forces in this house.

The Viscount and the Viscountess.

Two worlds colliding.

You exhale sharply, throwing your head back in frustration before shooting a sharp look at the petrified maid.

"You may go. You’re dismissed for the night," you order, your voice rigid but controlled. No need to turn this into an even bigger spectacle.

Because by morning, the city will be buzzing – whispers of the scandalous Viscountess Bridgerton and her alleged affair, rumors of how her husband laid hands on her in a fit of rage.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

The moment Clara disappears, your attention shifts back to Anthony. Your gaze is pure fire – dark, untamed – like a predator watching its prey.

His body becomes a barrier against yours, blocking any chance of escape.

"So tell me, husband," you taunt, your voice as cold as a sharpened blade. "What else is there to discuss?"

Anthony’s eyes burn, ignited by your provocation. Without hesitation, he steps forward, eliminating the last shred of space between you, pressing his body against yours. He can feel the frantic beat of your heart, can taste your resistance.

"You really want to know, wife?" His voice drops to a deep timbre, a low growl vibrating through you.

The hand that once braced against the wall slides up to your cheek, a surprisingly gentle touch, completely at odds with the fury in his eyes.

"Then let me make it very clear for you…"

His fingers trace a slow path down your neck, a touch so light, so careful it almost contradicts the fierce hunger in his gaze.

You bite your lip, swallowing the gasp that threatens to escape. No, you will not give him that satisfaction.

"You," he pauses, savoring the moment, watching the way your breath stutters, how your chest rises and falls unevenly, "are not sleeping in the guest room tonight."

His hand drifts to your waist, possessive, determined. His thumb grazes the sliver of exposed skin in your nightgown.

"You’ll be sleeping in my bed."

Your eyes narrow, laced with judgment as they meet his.

"Now, you want me." Your smirk lands like a sharp slap.

"Funny," you murmur, your voice laced with mockery. "Not too long ago, you wouldn’t even think of touching me. But now that you think another man has…"

You lean in, defiant, even with his grip restricting your movements.

"You’re pathetic, Viscount."

His fingers tighten on your hip – a silent warning to watch your words. He’s teetering on the edge, patience wearing thin, worn down by every sharp-edged provocation. He’s not used to this – not to being challenged, to being resisted. And, damn it, as much as it infuriates him… it also excites him.

A low, dangerous chuckle slips from his lips.

"Oh, pathetic, am I?" He leans in, his mouth hovering over yours. "Let’s see who’ll be pathetic tonight, wife."

His fingers slide to your chin, forcing you to look at him. His face dips, nose brushing along the side of your neck as he breathes you in, inhaling your scent like a drug.

"You think you can just accuse me, challenge me, and I’ll let you go?" His whisper brushes against your ear, hot, laced with a quiet threat.

"Oh no, darling." His voice drips with arrogance. "You won’t get rid of me that easily."

His fingers glide from your face to your hair, tangling in the soft strands before giving a sharp tug, forcing you to expose your throat.

Before you can react, his lips claim your skin – teeth grazing, bites marking, just enough to steal your breath.

He doesn’t stop.

His mouth carves a burning path, invisible marks seared into your skin, as if branding you with a single truth: Mine.

You bite your lower lip, fighting to keep any sound at bay. But it’s useless.

Because he knows.

He always knows.

He feels the way your body trembles, the way your breath shudders. A satisfied smile ghosts over his lips as he presses a kiss to the pulse point in your throat.

"You can pretend all you want, wife," he murmurs, voice thick with possession.

His lips trail along your skin, his hand slowly traveling up your body, a touch balancing between tenderness and dominance. "But I know the truth."

A gasp escapes you, involuntary, tangled with a whisper.

"I hate you…"

You breathe it out between ragged sighs, your eyes fluttering shut against the pleasure. Your hand moves to his right shoulder, fingers finding rigid, tense muscles beneath them.

And he laughs.

And then, without hesitation, you dig your nails in.

Low, rough.

Like a man who has already won.

A sharp, stifled hiss escapes Anthony's lips, the pain blending seamlessly with pleasure. Your nails, digging into his skin, only fuel his desire. His grip on your hair tightens, pulling just enough to make you gasp.

"Hate me? No, darling," he murmurs, his voice thick with need as his lips resume their slow, tormenting assault on your neck. "You can try, but you will fail. We both know you can't resist me any more than I can resist you."

The sharp pull on your scalp intensifies, the sting spreading like fire. The pain – blistering, exquisite – sends a jolt straight through you. A moan tumbles past your lips, raw and unbidden, your body betraying you.

He knows you. He knows you've always liked a little pain.

Your hips move instinctively, rolling forward, meeting his. The friction, the heat – it’s intoxicating. His body, firm and unyielding, presses against yours, and through the thin fabric of your nightgown, you feel everything.

Anthony exhales sharply, his grip on your waist turning possessive, his fingers sinking into your skin. His free hand slides up, resting just below your ribs, anchoring you to him. His forehead nearly brushes yours as his dark eyes, wild and smoldering, lock onto your own.

"You want me, don't you?" His voice is a low rasp, teasing, taunting. "You can deny it all you want, love, but your body betrays you."

"Oh, really?" His voice is still low, dark. "You actually think you just want me for pleasure?" His lips hover over yours, his breath hot against your skin. "You think I don’t see through you? Through this cold, detached façade you cling to so desperately?"

Your jaw clenches at the pet name, anger flashing in your eyes. "I want you the same way I want others." Your voice is sharp, cutting, meant to wound. "Only for my pleasure."

The words hit him like a challenge. His fingers flex against your hip, his grip tightening just enough to remind you of his strength.

The loose neckline of your nightgown shifts dangerously, fabric slipping, baring more than intended. You bite your lip, gaze locked onto his, refusing to let him see just how much this – he – is affecting you.

He moves swiftly. Before you can react, his hands capture your wrists, pushing them above your head, pinning them against the wall.

Your breath stutters.

His eyes flicker downward, darkening as they take in your disheveled hair, your flushed cheeks, the way your chest rises and falls unevenly. He drinks in the sight of you – vulnerable, defiant, completely at his mercy.

"What are you going to do now, Mr. Bridgerton?" You ask, your voice laced with defiance, deliberately refusing to call him husband, refusing to call him Anthony.

The way you say his name – or rather, the way you refuse to – sparks something dangerous inside him.

His jaw tics.

"Now?" he growls, his voice rough, thick with frustration and something deeper, something unspoken.

"Now, I'm going to remind you who you belong to."

Before you can respond, his hands leave your wrists only to seize your waist in an iron grip. In one swift movement, he lifts you, carrying you across the room with long, determined strides.

The door slams shut behind him with a forceful kick of his boot.

You barely have time to process before you feel your back collide with the mattress, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp gasp. The irony isn’t lost on you – look how the tables have turned.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, your breath uneven, your pulse wild. Your gaze meets his, and in that moment, nothing else exists.

His gaze is dark and unrelenting as he takes a lingering moment to drink her in – disheveled, flushed, sprawled out across their bed. The sight of her like this, breathless and defiant, only feeds something primal inside him, a hunger sharpened by the way she looks at him with both defiance and undeniable want.

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, his body taut with tension, every movement exuding dominance. "You think you’re in control, sweetheart?" His voice is a low growl, smooth and dangerous. "You’re not. Not here. Not in my bed."

His hands move with practiced ease, undoing his belt without ever breaking eye contact. The sharp sound of leather sliding free from the loops cuts through the air, a silent warning. He lets it drop to the floor carelessly before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing his forearms, his movements precise and methodical. His fingers work deftly at the buttons of his shirt, revealing golden skin and hard muscle beneath.

You shift, rubbing one thigh against the other, the sight of him – unraveling, controlled yet lethal – sending a rush of heat through you. He is effortlessly beautiful, intoxicating in the way only a man who knows his own power can be.

He steps to the edge of the bed, towering over his wife, looking every bit the predator you refuse to admit that you want. His voice is deep, unwavering.

You part your lips, dragging your teeth over your lower one as you exhale through your nose, your expression shifting into something smug, defiant. You want to obey, to let yourself sink into the moment, but the idea of handing him that victory so easily is unbearable.

"Lose the nightgown." It is not a request. It is a command.

"If you really think I –" A gasp rips from her throat, sharp and unbidden.

Anthony’s patience has never been his strong suit. He moves without warning, his fingers catching on the delicate fabric of your nightgown and tearing it apart as if it were paper, the sound of shredding fabric filling the air.

His eyes are feral, burning with possession as he discards the ruined silk, his body moving over you, his presence all-consuming. He leans down, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"You were saying, love?" His voice is silk and steel, rough with amusement and something deeper.

You barely have time to react before he presses against you, forcing you down against the mattress, his warmth searing against your bare skin. The solid weight of him steals your breath, leaving you utterly trapped beneath him.

"You’re unbelievable," you breathe, your pulse hammering, your body betraying the irritation you try to hold onto. Even now, you can’t believe he had the audacity to rip your nightgown.

Anthony smirks, leaning in ever so slightly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

"Oh, darling." His voice is velvet-wrapped sin, deep and knowing. "You haven’t seen anything yet."

"You love it," he growls, his mouth moving to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "You love it when I’m like this – out of control, consumed with desire."

With deliberate slowness, he parts your legs, positioning himself between them, his movements filled with intent. You feel his hardness through the thin fabric between you, and despite yourself, a breathless sound escapes your lips.

He presses his body even more against yours, leaving no space between them. The feel of her skin against his is a delicious torture, only fueling the fire between them. His hand moves up your arm, his touch both possessive and tender.

Your fingers instinctively find their way to the back of his neck, gripping onto him like he's the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

"Fu– fuck..." you whisper, eyes fluttering closed.

A low chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest. "No need to hold back, sweetheart," he breathes against your ear. "I want to hear every little sound you make for me."

"You think you can fight this? Fight me?" His voice is dark, laced with amusement. His lips graze your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "But we both know the truth, don’t we?"

His lips return to your neck, teasing, biting – just enough to leave a mark. One hand holds yours above your head, effortlessly pinning you in place, while the other explores your body, tracing slow, burning lines down your sides.

You inhale sharply, refusing to give in, refusing to let him see just how much he's unraveling you. But Anthony is nothing if not relentless. He knows every tell, every weakness, every unspoken desire.

"Say it," he murmurs, his tone softer now but no less commanding. "Say what we both already know."

You still shake your head, refusing to answer. His hand then goes to your panties, wrapping his hand around them and giving a strong pull, ripping the fabric in one go.

Anthony’s eyes lock onto yours, his gaze dark and smoldering with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. He can see the desire burning within you, evident in the way your breath hitches and your chest rises and falls with each shallow inhale. But he doesn’t just want to see it – he wants to hear it. He needs you to admit it, to confess that you are his, completely and irrevocably.

He leans in closer, his warm breath brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a wave of heat through your body. His lips hover mere millimeters away, teasing, as his voice drops to a low, commanding growl. "Say it," he demands, his tone leaving no room for defiance. "Say you're mine."

Without warning, he guides himself inside you in one swift, confident motion, filling you completely. Your head falls back instinctively, a sharp cry of pleasure escaping your lips as he grips your hips, pulling you against him with a possessive urgency. Holy shit, you think, your mind spinning as the sensation overwhelms you.

Your eyes roll back, your body trembling under his touch. It had been too long since you’d last been together like this, too long since you’d felt this kind of raw, unbridled connection. The ache of his absence had been unbearable, and now, with him so close, so deep inside you, it’s as if every nerve in your body is alight with electricity.

Anthony is lost in you, his movements deliberate and rhythmic, a dance that is both familiar and exhilaratingly new. It’s been far too long since he’s felt this way, since he’s been able to lose himself in the warmth of your body, in the way you respond to him so perfectly. In this moment, there is no doubt – you are his, and he is yours, bound together in a way that transcends time.

His lips find your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His hands roam your body with a possessive hunger, mapping every curve, every inch of you, as if committing you to memory all over again.

"You're mine," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that reverberates through you. "Only mine. Always."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." You repeat the words under your breath, your mind spinning, completely lost in the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. You can’t think straight, can’t focus on anything but the way Anthony makes you feel – consumed, possessed, utterly his.

"I'm- I'm yours, Anthony," you manage to say, your voice trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Beads of sweat trickle down your forehead, your body trembling from the intensity of it all. Even in this state of blissful delirium, you muster the strength to shoot him a defiant, accusatory look, as if daring him to deny it.

"And you are mine..." you whisper, your eyes locking with his, the intensity of your gaze mirroring the fire in his.

"Absolutely, love," he growls, his voice low and rough, his dark eyes burning with a desire that threatens to consume you both. His hands tighten on your hips, his touch possessive, his body responding to every movement, every breath you take.

"You're mine," he repeats, his voice deeper, more commanding than before. "And I'm yours. Completely and utterly."

He rolls you over effortlessly, pulling you on top of him. His hands grip your hips firmly, guiding your movements as if you weigh nothing more than a feather. Your legs feel weak, shaky from the pleasure coursing through you, but Anthony holds you steady, his strong hands keeping you in place. You know you’ll feel the marks of his touch tomorrow, and the thought sends a shiver down your spine.

Your body moves with his, your breasts rising and falling with each breath, each motion. Sweat glides down your neck, tracing a path along your collarbone and down your chest, leaving your skin glistening like a rare jewel under the dim light.

The two of you are close, so close to the edge, and Anthony’s hand slides down to your ass, gripping it tightly, pulling you even closer to him. He sets a relentless pace, his body moving in perfect sync with yours, guiding you in a rhythm you couldn’t possibly follow on your own.

Your body responds to his every touch, your skin flushed and hot, your moans escaping your lips unbidden. You’re at his mercy, completely under his control, and yet it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

He lifts you higher, bringing you closer to him, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity of his gaze is almost too much to bear, but you can’t look away. He bites your lip, a sharp, possessive gesture that sends a jolt of pleasure through you.

"Say it again," he growls, his voice strained, his body taut like a coiled spring ready to snap. "Say I'm yours."

"You're mine, Anthony. Mine. And I'm yours..." you whisper, your voice weak, your eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you.

The moment the words leave your lips, he lets out a deep, guttural groan, and you cry out in ecstasy, your voices mingling as you both reach your peak together. Your head falls back, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you breathless and spent.

You collapse against his chest, your ear pressed to his skin, listening to the rapid thud of his heartbeat. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as you both try to catch your breath. He’s still inside you, his body slowly relaxing, but the connection between you remains, unbroken and undeniable.

You can’t form words, can’t think of anything but the way his heart beats against your ear, steady and strong. In this moment, there’s nothing else – just you and Anthony, bound together in every way that matters.

He feels your body go limp on top of him, your head resting gently on his chest as both of your bodies slowly relax, the tension melting away. His arms encircle you, pulling you tightly against him, his heart still racing from the intensity of the moment. The warmth of your skin against his is intoxicating, and he can’t help but savor the way you fit perfectly in his embrace.

He looks down at you, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled hair, the soft flush that colors your cheeks, and the delicate sheen of sweat that glistens on your skin. You are a vision to him – utterly breathtaking, a beautiful mess that he can’t tear his eyes away from. His fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch tender and reverent.

Gently, he lifts your chin, urging you to meet his eyes. His voice is soft but firm, filled with a possessiveness that sends a shiver down your spine. "You're mine," he repeats, his gaze never wavering from yours, as if he’s trying to imprint the words into your very soul.

You don’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between you for a few more moments. Then, unexpectedly, you begin to laugh – a soft, almost incredulous sound that grows louder, more unrestrained. It’s as if you can’t contain it, the laughter bubbling up from deep within you.

"I lied..." you confess, your laughter softening into a sly smile. Your voice is low, almost teasing, as you continue, "I don’t have a lover. I just wanted to make you mad." You bite your lip, a mix of shame and pride flickering across your face, as if you’re both embarrassed by your admission and delighted by the effect it had on him.

But then your expression shifts, the playfulness fading into something more serious. You raise your head higher, your eyes locking with his, and there’s a challenge in your gaze. "But if you keep looking for other women," you say, your voice steady and firm, "I won’t hesitate to do the same."

The room seems to grow quieter, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you. Anthony’s grip on you tightens almost imperceptibly, his jaw clenching as he processes what you’ve just said. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes – surprise, perhaps, or maybe even a hint of admiration for your boldness. But above all, there’s a fierce determination, as if your words have only solidified his resolve.

"You won’t have to," he murmurs, his voice low and intense. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a gesture that’s both possessive and tender. "Because now there’s no one else for me but you."

[communistkenobi]

Would you be willing to dunk on speak more on mainstream feminist theory you're reading? And/or share some of the non-juvenile feminist theory you've read?

(Note: I will try to link to open access versions of articles as much as possible, but some of them are paywalled. if the links dont work just type the titles into google and add pdf at the end, i found them all that way)

If there’s any one singular issue with mainstream feminist thought that can be generalized to "The Problem With Mainstream Feminism" (and by mainstream I mean white, cishet, bourgeois feminism, the “canonical feminism” that is taught in western universities) it’s that gender is treated as something that can stand by itself, by which I mean, “gender” is a complete unit of analysis from which to understand social inequality. You can “add” race, class, ability, national origin, religion, sexuality, and so on to your analysis (each likewise treated as full, discrete categories of the social world), but that gender itself provides a comprehensive (or at the very least “good enough”) view of a given social problem. (RW Connell, who wrote the canonical text Masculinities (1995) and is one of the feminist scholars who coined/popularized the term hegemonic masculinity, is a fantastic example of this.)

Black feminists have for many decades pointed out how fucking ridiculous this is, especially vis a vis race and class, because Black women do not experience misogyny and racism as two discrete forms of oppression in their lives, they are inextricably linked. The separation of gender and race is not merely an analytical error on the part of white feminists - it is a continuation of the long white supremacist tradition of bounding gender in exclusively white terms. Patricia Hill Collins in Black Feminist Thought (2000) engages with this via a speech by Sojourner Truth, the most famous line from her speech being “ain’t I a woman?” as she describes all the aspects of womanhood she experiences but is still denied the position of woman by white women because she is Black. Lugones in Coloniality of Gender (2008) likewise brings up the example of segregationist movements in the USAmerican South, where towns would put up banners saying things like “Protect Southern Women” as a rationale for segregation, making it very clear who they viewed as women. Sylvia Wynter in 1492: A New World View likewise points out that colonized women and men were treated like cattle by Spanish colonizers in South America, often counted in population measures as "heads of Indian men and women," as in heads of cattle. They were treated as colonial resources, not as gendered subjects capable of rational thought.

To treat the category of “woman” as something that stands by itself is a white supremacist understanding of gender, because “woman” always just means white woman - the fact that white is left implied is part of white supremacy, because who is granted subjecthood, the ability to be seen as human and therefore a gendered subject, is a function of race (see Quijano, 2000). Crenshaw (1991) operationalizes this through the term intersectionality, pointing out that law treats gender and race as separate social sites of discrimination, and the practical effect of this is that Black women have limited/no legal recourse when they face discrimination because they experience it as misogynoir, as the multiplicative effect of their position as Black women, not as sexism on the one hand and racism on the other.

Transfeminist theory has further problematized the category of gender by pointing out that "woman" always just means cis woman (and more often than not also means heterosexual woman). The most famous of these critiques comes from Judith Butler - I’m less familiar with their work, but there is a great example in the beginning of Bodies That Matter (1993) where they demonstrate that personhood itself is a gendered social position. They ask (and I’m paraphrasing) “when does a fetus stop becoming an ‘it’? When its gender is declared by a doctor or nurse via ultrasound.” Sex assignment is not merely a social practice of patriarchal division, it is the medium through which the human subject is created (and recall that gender is fundamentally racialized & race is fundamentally gendered, which I will come back to).

And the work of transfeminists demonstrate this by showing transgender people are treated as non-human, non-citizens. Heath Fogg Davis in Sex-Classification Policies as Transgender Discrimination (2014) recounts the story of an African American transgender woman in Pennsylvania being denied use of public transit, because her bus pass had an F gender marker on it (as all buss passes in the state required gender markers until 2013) and the bus driver refused her service because she “didn’t look like a woman.” She was denied access to transit again when she got her marker changed to M, as she “didn’t look like a man.” Transgender people are thus denied access to basic public services by being constructed as “administratively impossible” - gender markers are a component of citizenship because they appear on all citizenship documents, as well as a variety of civil and public documents (such as a bus pass). Gender markers, even when changed by trans people (an arduous, difficult process in most places on earth, if not outright impossible), are seen as fraudulent & used as a basis to deny us citizenship rights. Toby Beauchamp in Going Stealth: Transgender Politics & US Surveillance Practices (2019) talks about anti-trans bathroom bills as a form of citizenship denial to trans people - anti-trans bathroom laws are impossible to actually enforce because nobody is doing genital inspections of everyone who enters bathrooms (and genitals are not proof of transgenderism!), but that’s actually not the point. The point of these bills is to embolden members of the cissexual public to deputize themselves on behalf of the state to police access to public space, directing their cissexual gaze towards anyone who “looks transgender.” Beauchamp points out that transvestigators don’t need to be accurate most of the time, because again, the point is terrorizing transgender people out of public life. He connects this with racial segregation, and argues that we shouldn’t view gender segregation as “a new form of” racial segregation (this is a duplication of white supremacist feminism) but a continuation of it, because public access is a citizenship right and citizenship is fundamentally racially mediated (see Glenn's (2002) Unequal Freedom)

Susan Stryker & Nikki Sullivan further drives this home in The King’s Member, The Queen’s Body, where they explain the history of the crime of mayhem. Originating in feudal Europe (I don’t remember off the dome the exact time/place so forgive the generalization lol), mayhem is the crime of self-mutilation for the purposes of avoiding military conscription, but what is interesting is that its not actually legally treated as “self” mutilation, but a mutilation of the state and its capacity to exercise its own power. They link the concept of mayhem to the contemporary hysteria around transgender people receiving bottom surgery - we are not in fact self mutilating, we are mutilating the state’s ability to reproduce its own population by permanently destroying (in the eyes of the cissexual public) our capacity to form the foundational social unit of the nuclear family. Our bodies are not our own, they are a component of the state. Situating this in the context of reproductive rights makes this even clearer. Abortion access is not actually about the individual, it is the state mediating its own reproductive capacity via the restriction of abortion (premised on the cissexual logic of binary reproductive capacity systematized through sex assignment). Returning to Hill Collins, she points out that in the US, white cis women are restricted access to abortion while Black and Indigenous cis women are routinely forcibly sterilized, their children aborted, and pumped with birth control by the state. This is not a contradiction or point of “hypocrisy” on the part of conservatives, this is a fully comprehensive plan of white supremacist population management.

To treat "gender" as its own category, as much of mainstream feminism does (see Acker (1990) and England (2010) for two hilarious examples of this, both widely cited feminists), is to forward a white supremacist notion of gender. That white supremacy is fundamentally cissexual and heterosexual is not an accident - it is a central organizing logic that allows for the systematization of the fear of declining white birthrates (the conspiracy of "white genocide" is illegible without the base belief that there are two kinds of bodies, one that gets pregnant and one that does the impregnating, and that these two types of bodies are universal sources of evidence of the superiority of men over women - and im using those terms in the most loaded possible sense).

I realize that most of these readings are US centric, which is an unfortunate limitation of my own education. I have been really trying to branch into literature outside the Global North, but doctoral degree constraints + time constraints + my own research requires continual engagement with it. I also realize that most of the transfeminist readings I've cited are by white scholars! This is a continual systemic problem in academic literature and I'm not exempt from it, even as I sit here and lay out the problem. Which is to say, this is nowhere near the final word on this subject, and having to devote so much time to reading mainstream feminist theory as someone who is in western academia is part of my own limited education + perspective on this topic

[littlexdeaths]

what are friends for? - e.m.

best friend eddie munson x fem reader

18+ ONLY MDNI

warnings: period talk/period blood, eddie is the sweetest as always, grinding, fingering, one singular use of daddy

a/n: thank you to @callsignraver for the title idea 🤭 the eddie edit was made by me! you can use it, just please credit my side blog (strangergraphics), if you do. now enjoy xx.

“Come on, sweetheart. You can tell me,” he sounds so sincere, which is why you can’t even look at him.

Because looking at him would just open a set of floodgates that you aren’t prepared to deal with right now.

Looking at him is only going to fuel the fire that is raging in your lower abdomen— that was lit the moment you stepped foot in the trailer.

A fire that he’s been steadily stoking with each brush of his fingertips against yours as you reach for more popcorn. Or when his knee bumps casually into yours as he shifts on the small sofa.

Which for someone as fidgety as Eddie Munson— was a lot.

“I promise I’m not gonna laugh or anything, just tell me what’s wrong.”

Your best friend had been able to pick up on the shift in your mood almost immediately. But he chose not to comment on it until now, unable to handle it any longer.

But how in the hell were you supposed to tell him that it’s his fault? That he’s driving you crazy?

That you want nothing more than to have his fingers buried inside you?

“You wouldn’t get it,” you sigh, shifting your body further away from him on the sofa.

Clinging onto the arm for dear life as you pretend to watch the clash of light sabers on the tv screen.

His snort has your eyes rolling.

“Try me.”

Your hands move up to rub your temples, eyes slipping shut.

“It’s a dumb girl thing—”

He jumps up off the sofa before you can even finish your sentence, returning from the bathroom mere moments later with a bottle of Advil in tow.

Eddie doesn’t register your confused expression as he stands before you, holding out the bottle.

“Cramps, right?” he asks, a kind smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You feel embarrassed, because of course that’s what he would think. He’s heard you drone on and on about it over the years. He only wants to help, like the kind friend that is he is.

Friend, being the keyword here.

“I um…” you mumble, taking the bottle from his outstretched hand.

You attempt to ignore the heat that continues to pool in between your thighs as you stare at the veins protruding from his hand. The way his thick fingers were previously gripping onto the pill bottle.

How they would feel gripping your inner thighs….

No. Stop it.

You mentally scold yourself, chewing on your lower lip as he takes a seat on the sofa.

“I appreciate it, but that’s not the issue.”

Now he’s the one who looks confused, leaning forward as he scratches at the stubble on his jaw.

“Then what is it?” he prods.

Eddie knocks his knee into yours again, tingles shooting up your spine from the subtle touch.

“It’s just, I’m feeling…”

“Tired?”

“No.”

“Bloated?”

“No!”

“Hangry—”

“Horny!” you shout, startling you both, “I’m horny.”

Your voice has gone soft, a near whisper compared to your previous volume. The air around you is suddenly thicker, and you are once again unable to meet his gaze.

“Oh,” he says after a long pause.

“Yeah, oh.”

You feel the tips of your ears warming as you continue to stare down at your lap. The beginning chords of the imperial march are the only thing filling the uncomfortable silence between you.

“I mean, I could always help you,” he replies finally.

His words cause your eyes to shoot up in surprise, your head turning to meet his molten hues.

“That’s— I wouldn’t ask you to do that, Ed.”

His ringed hand suddenly reaches over to rest on your knee, fingers slipping beneath the rips in your jeans.

“What if I want to?”

Now you’re the one rendered speechless.

“What if I have wanted to… for a long time,” he continues, his other hand reaching up to cup your cheek.

His thumb brushes over your lower lip, determination in his eyes as he leans further into your space. You can’t help how your body gravitates towards him, your hands clutching onto the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

You can feel the way his breath mingles with yours, nicotine and movie theater butter. But it’s the flecks of honey in his eyes that break down your remaining defenses.

You answer him with a kiss, lightly pressing them to his. Testing the waters. Eddie eagerly deepens it, pulling you in closer until you’re in his lap. Your thighs bracket his hips, his hands encircling your waist.

The kiss becomes heated, faster than either of you are prepared for. You lower your hips harder onto his lap, inhaling his soft gasp as your bodies meld together. His grip tightens on your hips as you eagerly grind yourself against his crotch, welcoming the friction.

“Hold on, baby.” He groans again, his large hands stopping any further movement.

Baby.

He’s never called you that before.

Your lower lip juts out in a pout as he maneuvers you off of his lap, and back onto the soft cushions of the sofa. The male quickly sinks to his knees, his hands splaying across the tops of your thighs as he works himself between them. He chuckles at your expression, shaking his head slightly.

“Patience, pretty girl,” he hums as his hands slide further up your thighs until they reach the button on your jeans. “Let’s get these off, yeah?”

Your nerves suddenly kick back into gear, despite the flames continuing to lick your skin. Eddie has become so tuned into your emotions over the years that he can sense this new shift immediately. This was an emotion he has seen plenty of times, but it was never because of him.

The notion has his hands freezing as they hover over the closure of your jeans.

“Shit, did I do something wrong?”

You quickly shake your head, letting out a nervous laugh. “I just… don’t wanna make a mess.”

His expression softens as you gesture to the tan sofa beneath you. The male rises to his feet without another word, darting over to the laundry basket that is seated on top of their washing machine. He digs through a pile of clothes until he finds whatever he’s searching for.

A dark maroon towel.

He clutches the soft fabric in his hands as he makes his way back to you, resuming his previous position between your legs. He sets it next to you, his brown eyes nervously shifting between your thighs and your face.

“You can touch me, Eds,” you say, carefully taking his hands in yours to guide them up to the clasp on your jeans.

Eddie doesn’t need to hear anything else.

He makes quick work of removing your jeans, tugging the denim down your thighs. His eagerness has you giggling, the tops of his cheeks flushing a light pink even in the muted light.

He pauses for a moment, leaning back as he drinks in your newly exposed skin. His eyes darken even further as his calloused fingers grip the hem of your cotton panties.

“God, take them off— please,” you whine, no longer caring if you sound pathetic.

You’ve waited far too many years for this to happen, and your patience has finally run out. Eddie chuckles, sliding your panties (pad and all) down your thighs. The male carelessly tosses them over his shoulder, ignoring your small protest.

“Lift up,” he hums, motioning you to guide your hips up.

He easily slides the towel beneath you, letting your body relax against the plush material. Eddie gently rests his hands over the tops of your thighs once more, beginning to spread them even wider. Your cheeks warm as his eyes zero in on your core, whining softly as he licks his lips.

“Christ,” he breathes, inhaling deeply as he notes the way your arousal shines in the glowing light of the tv.

He leans back for a moment, dark eyes flicking up to meet your gaze as he slowly slides each of those gaudy rings off his fingers. Eddie takes his time in doing so, the clink of metal echoes in your ears as he gathers them in his palm.

“Gimme your hand,” he says softly, but the command in his voice lingers all the same.

You hold out your left hand towards him, ignoring the way it trembles as he begins to slide each of his large rings onto your fingers. His dimples indent his cheeks as he grins, carefully lifting your knuckles to his lips. He presses a soft kiss to each one, ensuring that he keeps his eyes trained on you as he does so.

“Keep those safe for me, sweetheart.”

He winks playfully, leaning forward to brush his lips over the bare skin of your shin. His hands hook under your knees, allowing you to drape your legs over his shoulders. His movements have slowed drastically, taking his time before his fingers finally dip between your thighs.

Your soft gasp spurs him on, his fingers running through your drenched folds. He gathers your arousal on his fingertips, dragging them up to encircle over your swollen bud. You let your body relax against the couch cushions, allowing your eyes to slip shut as he continues his gentle touches.

But as soon as his touch starts— it stops just as fast.

A whine spills past your lips as his large hands wrap around the meat of your thighs and squeeze.

“Eyes on me, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips to the curve of your knee.

His teeth lightly nip at the skin there, causing your eyes to flutter back open.

“Yes, sir,” you giggle as he groans.

His fingers are back on you before you have time to mention his reaction, circling your entrance before dipping inside slowly. It causes your breath to hitch, his middle finger able to stretch you out better than any of yours ever have.

Eddie curses under his breath as he adds another, your body almost greedily sucks him in. Your hand instinctively reaches forward to grip onto his bicep. The rings that adorn your hand are biting into his skin, the thought alone makes his jeans impossibly tighter.

“God, you’re so wet,” he moans, guiding his fingers even deeper inside you.

You reply with a soft whine, your thoughts entirely too jumbled to provide him with anything else. His eyes have momentarily dropped from your face to where his fingers are nestled inside you. He slides them back out, admiring the sticky pink mixture that’s coating his thick digits.

“Eddie, don’t tease,” you huff, guiding your hips back towards his awaiting hand.

Your impatient attitude has him chuckling, those dark hues flicking up to meet yours again.

“Oh, you want these back, baby?” He taunts, his other hand gripping onto your thigh as he eases three of the digits inside your entrance.

The brunette holds them there, enjoying the way your body begins to squirm beneath him. Taunting you.

“Go on, say it, sweetheart.”

He raises a brow at you, slightly pushing his fingers in deeper, before he quickly retracts them with your continued silence. Repeating the action.

“I want…” you start, but the curl of his fingers makes you lose your train of thought.

“Hmm, you want what?” he prods.

He completely removes them from your entrance, ignoring your pleading eyes as he slides them back up to dance around your clit.

Your soft mewl of his name does nothing to deter his actions, it only slows them.

“Come on, use that pretty little head of yours,” he hums as the tips of his fingers graze over your swollen bud.

“God, just— please!” your voice raises an octave, taking on a breathy quality.

The corner of his mouth pulls up in a smirk as he tilts his head at you. His fingers dip lower, circling over your puckered hole.

“Ya know, while I usually prefer something along the lines of master… or even daddy,” he muses, noting how your breath hitches.

“God, sure has a nice ring to it.”

His head falls back as he laughs, a playful pout adorning his lips as you swat at him. Those simmering embers have quickly morphed into a raging fire, ready to engulf you both in the flames.

“Eddie, I swear to God. If you don’t put those fingers back inside me, I will—“

The rest of your threat gets caught in your throat as he thrusts his fingers back in, a strangled moan takes their place.

“See, was that so hard, princess?” he teases.

You don’t answer him, instead grinding your hips down to meet his palm. Eddie pumps his fingers faster, his thumb pressing onto your clit. The wet squelch that follows has him moaning, nuzzling his face against your knee.

Your hand releases his bicep, slipping down his arm to tangle your fingers together. He holds them tightly, beginning to curl the others inside you. The calloused tips brush against your sweet spot, pulling another whine from your throat.

“Oh, right there,” you pant, chest heaving as his thumb firmly massages your clit.

That fire continues to burn brighter with each thrust of his fingers, ready to swallow you whole.

“That’s it,” he grins, watching in awe as you make a mess of his fingers, streaks of red and pink dripping down his knuckles.

“Makin’ such a mess f’me, baby.”

You barely register his words as your back arches up off the sofa. Your eyes squeeze shut as white hot pleasure bursts behind your eyelids. His rings dig into your skin from how tightly you’re grasping him, legs trembling as he coaxes you through your high.

Your ears are ringing as you finally collapse into the lumpy cushions, whining as he continues to gently thrust his fingers inside you.

“Come ‘ere,” you mumble, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

His cheek is smushed against your inner thigh, only breaking your heavy lidded stare to slide his fingers out of you. He hums, carefully lifting his fingers towards the dim light from the tv. He rubs them together, gazing in utter fascination at the sticky strings they leave behind.

You already miss his warmth, tugging playfully on his unruly curls to grab his attention. He chuckles, wiping his fingers on the towel beneath you before he’s hovering over your body. Hips pressed into yours, not caring if you make a mess on the front of his pants.

“Thank you,” you whisper, twirling one of his curls around your ringed finger.

“No need to thank me, sweetheart.” He grins down at you, his dark eyes almost sparkling.

“Besides…” he pauses, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. “What are friends for?”

tagging: @xxbimbobunnyxx @undead-supernova @munsonhoneybaby @hippiegoth97 @cinemabean @strangerstilinski @corrodedcorpses @curlyjoequinn @mugloversonly @eddiesxangel @hellfirenacht @splendiferous-bitch @razzeith @aleisashortcake @ali-r3n @eddie-is-a-god (i tried tagging you i promise 😭)

[carbonfiction]

Redlight.. Greenlight..

Summary: You and your stepdad Logan have an... Unconventional, kind of relationship. One that runs deeper and much more intimatly taboo than your mother knows. You need him? Heres there.. Except for, well, when hes not.

So what happens when wants to play a little game with the gift he gets you from the fair to fill that exact problem?

Warnings: p with v lil plot, stepdad!dofp!Logan, slightly more innocent!reader so tagging for innocence kink, taboo relationship, stepcest! (Logan is dating readers mom- should also come without saying but reader is absolutely of and above age!!) couple mentions of cheating, pillow/stuffie riding, size kink, mention of male masturbation, cum, cum swallowing, lil mention of reader having nipple piercings, slightly rough/mean logan, aaaand some daddy kink (Sorry :( i couldnt resist) i think thats it!

This piece is def more a dark fic so please please keep the tags in mind! This is all fiction and between adults, however you are aware of your media consumption; If you don’t like anything above, do not read. It’s not for everyone and that’s okay, I won’t be offended.

Masterlist Words: 2.4k

I.. Cant even explain the spiritual experience that writing this was. Y'all wanted it so, outta the love i have for you all, i delivered (or, attempted to!!) in typical me fashion It got nasty quick and i can only pray hell has an ac down there bc man.. Its exactly where im goin after this😭👹

"There you are sweetheart" Logan grins, one arm drawn up as he knocks gently on the doorframe for your attention.

You sqeak quietly in suprise, head flying up from the book your reading laying open on the bed. Your gaze meets him, stood wide and tall in the threshold of your room. His denim jeans and black shirt cling tight on his body, one muscular arm sitting tucked behind his back; holding something out of view.

You roll from your spot on your belly as he saunters further in. He shuts the door while you shift yourself until you kneel carefully on the edge of your bed. "Got a surprise for you.." he trails, chucking softly at the way your eyes brighten at the comment. Ever his sweet girl. "saw this at the fair and thought of you"

You cock your head like a confused puppy as he brings his hidden arm from behind his back. With him he pulls a big stuffed bear that has got to be at least a couple feet tall. the fur is pink, fluffy and soft as he places it into your grasp with a smile.

"Dunno if its a it's a little childish, you're uh.. probably a bit old for stuffies" he says, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. "but.. thought you'd like to have him around.. You know, as a reminder when I'm not here."

You nod, eyes glossing over slightly as you begin to understand the hidden meaning in his words. your fingers play with the fur of the bears shoulders, ruffling it a little as your lip tucks under your teeth at the thought. you know he's hinting at being on missions, for when he cant take care of you.. his sweet, slutty girl. His pretty little step daughter.

His bigger fingers join yours on the bear, another deep chuckle falling from his lips. "Your mom- she was practically avoiding me any chance she got as we walked around" he continues as you smile amused, looking from him to the bear like he hung the moon. "kept tellin me to just put him in the car and, well, you know me, if I'm gonna get pushed, I might as well find a way to make it more amusing. Piss her off a bit"

You giggle quietly at his antics, at the thought of the huge gruff wolverine carelessly carrying a giant pink bear around a fair ground. How he would so willingly embarrass his girlfriend- your mom, with a gift so clearly for you; her adult daughter.

"Well i love it.. Thank you daddy!" you beam, his title, reserved for those needy moment you spend with him, rolling off your tongue before you care to stop it. Arms reaching up as high as they can in an attempt to hug at his neck. He drops down for you to reach, but your fingers still hardly clasp around the bulk of him. his chest rumbling at your excitement.

"glad you love it sweeth-" he goes to say, but you cut him off, unable to hold your want for him back any longer tonight. Your lips pressing sweetly against his, kissing him sloppy as you hang from his neck. Damn near sucking on his tongue.

He savours the taste of you, of the lipgloss that so often glistens on your lips before he pulls away to mumble warningly, fingers splaying out on your back. His head dipping to nose along your jaw. "Careful. Your mother's downstairs."

"Want me to s-stop?" you murmer, stuttering slightly at a gentle nip he leaves behind your ear. Eyeing over the grey streak in his hair your Lips pout, dainty fingers pulling logan by the back of his neck to look at you.

One of his hands glides up from your back, cupping your cheek like a fragile piece of glass. "Never. Never want you to stop kissing me sweet girl. Just.. giving you a warning that your mother's home"

"Dont care" you mumble rebelliously, shifting forward until you press against his lips again. "love you daddy"

He grins at that and you feel it pressed to your face, his scruffy beard rubbing your skin. "love you too, little one" he murmers honestly, thumb stroking your cheek as he pulls away. "More than you know.."

The hand on your back slowly drifts again until Logans got a large palm filled with your shirt covered breasts. "Look at you, so fuckin pretty. Give me a peek sweet girl?"

You nod with a breathy whimper, unwrapping yourself from around his neck and tugging the shirt up before throwing it to the floor. Logans eyes rake over your body, a groan falling free at the sight of your bare tits, eyes immediately catching onto the little barbells peaking from the sides of both, not to mention your lacy panties. Soft skin fully exposed to him without the oversized shirt hiding you from his view.

"I noticed something when I went to bed the other night" he starts, the hand on your cheek moving to your hair as he roughly tugs your head up. A bashful pink covering your cheeks; already knowing what hes about to tell you.

"My side of the bed was all crumpled up, sheets at the foot of the bed. I thought it might have been your mom but.." he stops, thumbs swiping at the buds of your nipples, already taught and sensitive around the bars from his touch.

"It smelled like you and for a moment i though it was just your perfume.." he leans down, pressing the words below your ear. ".. It wasnt your perfume though was it sweetheart?"

Your body shivers, mischief twinkling brightly in your eyes. The picture of innocence is not you, practically naked in front of your stepdad- a man who should be bedding your mother- accusing you of rubbing yourself over his pillow.

"No. No it was that pretty cunt i could smell" His touch grows rougher, fingers pinching around the supple flesh at the same moment he nips your neck again. "Just like i can now"

You cry out a little too loud as his hand dips from your chest, fingertips brushing the waist of your panties and snapping them against your skin. He shushes you quickly, pressing your face into his neck.

"had to lie there, rock fuckin hard, listening to your mom play that game on her phone until she passed out before I could finally jerk off and get myself properly taken care of.. Would've found you to help but you chose your moment to 'Stay at a friends'.. just knew I'd fuck you stupid if you were here huh?"

"M-mhm!" you nod desperately, slick beginning to make the fabric of your panties damp. The same panties his fingers begin to trace over, touch fetherlight over your cunt. "J-just wanted to play with you"

"Wanted to play with me huh? Could've just asked sweet girl, you know that.." he tuts, speaking the words so honestly. So easily, like you wouldnt be asking him to sneak out of bed and cheat on his girlfriend- on your own mother, with you again. But You know deep down he doesn't care, especially not when he touches you so perfectly. "So, how about we play a little game now hm?

"W-what kind of game d-daddy?" you question with a whine, hips rocking slightly at the feel of his fingers applying more pressure to your covered clit.

His hand pulls away from your panties as quick as it had gotten to them, the grip on your hair still tight as he makes you look at him with a dark smirk. "you're gonna ride that cute bear daddy got you and stop when i tell you. Simple redlight greenlight.. That sound okay sweetheart?

You nod quickly, letting him move you to the position he wants until your straddling the pink fur in the middle of the bed- knees pressing into the mattress. Your Lip once more bitten as you eye over the bulge forming in his jeans.

"Good girl, there you go. Make yourself feel good like you did on daddys pillow.. M' gonna stay right here" he grunts then, standing with a hand against the foot of the bed.

Your hips rock experimentally, a gentle sigh falling from your lips at the contact. The fur tickles softly between your thighs, an added sensation as your clit grinds nicely against the gusset of your panties; further drenching them.

Logan observes the way your lip remains beneath your front teeth, denting the plump skin until blood pools red beneath it. He feels his own blood rushing down to his cock at the sight- senses already overwhelmed by you as he watches your bare tits move softly with each movement.

"That feel good sweetheart?" he rumbles, shooting a smirk at you as your hips begin to wriggle quicker.

"Ye-fuck- ah.. " you whine back, chest begining to heave from the effort your putting in. The mattress squeaking softly below you.

Its then he grunts a word you dont want to hear, not with how good it feels. "Red light.."

You stop immediately, figuring if you obey he might let you off quicker, a cute little pout falling across your lips as you look up at his heft. "Good. You got it."

He lets you breathe a moment more, relishing in the praise as he shifts one large hand to the crotch of his jeans; palming roughly at the bulge there. "Green."

Your hips roll once again, wasting no time in chasing the warmth in the bottom of your belly. the wetness of your panties providing a slick streak for you to rub quicker against the bear.

Soft bucks and wiggles soon change to quick grinds and bounces, the bears leg locked tight between your thighs. One hand holding the bear in place the other teasing a budded nipple. At the pace your going, its not long before your whining out again.

"O-oh Daddy- im- m' close." you whimper in that sweet little tone. The same one you use when his cock is stretching you cunt wide around him. Desperate eyes peering up to find his dark gaze.

"Red light.." he grunts meanly, hand still rubbing thickly over his covered cock. The pleasure of observing you rising in his belly. He watches the way your thighs tremble, barely there now he's stopped you again, a telltale sign of your impending release coling up. "Good girl, lookacha getting all shakey.." logans deep chuckle shakes his shoulders, a heavy squeeze to his cock as he nods at you "start again"

Your hips continue their past pace, rougher grinds and bounces squeaking the bed as you buck quicker. The feeling of your orgasm re igniting in your gut. Your clit pulses needily, panties so soaked through by this point that the bears fur bunches wetly beneath you. Your grip on the leg white knucked as you plead out to logan, who still stands heavy at the end of the bed.

"Pleasepleaseplease- daddy.. Can i? Need ta' cum.."

"You need it sweet girl? S'that right?" he rasps, treading closer until his hand gathers your hair from the side. The pull at your scalp is tigh just as before. Your eyes flutter and its then he yanks, pushing you to open your eyes and look at him.

"Yea! God fuck please.." you sob, pace beginning to grow unsteady from the exertion of chasing your orgasm. "Feels g-good"

"Go on, green light." he nods with a growl, lips pressingjust below your ear as he does so, egging you on. "Do it. Cum on that bear like you would daddys cock.".

You cum with a high pitched whine, blood pumping white hot through your veins. Your vision spotted and ears ringing as you tremble; pelvis still grinding away chasing at the aftershocks.

Logan feels his cock throb dangerously as he watches you tremble, his own underwear soaked in slick pre. "S-shit. Cmon," logan demands then, pulling you roughly down from the bed until you meet the carpet floor. "On your knees sweetheart.. " The hand not tangled in your hair tugs at his jeans to free his cock

You watch panting as he frees himself from the constraints of his clothes, belt, denim and boxers all quickly tugged just below his heavy balls. Hand working quick over his sensitive shaft before you reach for him. "Yeaaaa thats it, thats it. Make daddy cum all over that pretty mouth. Good girl."

You only have to give one, two, three languid strokes before hot white ropes land on your tongue as he groans much too loud; shirt pulled up between his teeth in a half harted attempt to muffle it. Your hand working from the base to tip until hes grasping at you to stop.

The hand in your hair shifts, pulling at the strands as he rounds to cup your jaw, a large thumb swiping at the corner of your lips. It keeps you open as he eyes how his release coats your mouth like honey.

You're smiling at him, a knowing look from times before in your eye as he pulls his thumb away to wrap that hand around the base of your neck. "there you go, swallow it all.."

Your mouth closes, throat bobbing beneath his touch as you swallow. A small hum sounding out as you grin back, tongue peaking out again to show him.

Logan simply groans at the sight, softening cock twitching. "God you take my cum better than your mom sweet girl... C'mere. Give me a kiss, let daddy taste himself on you."

You stand quick, aided by his grasp on around your collar. Logans kisses are hungry, a clash of teeth and quiet moans. Spit stricken as he savours the remaining taste of himself from your inside your mouth; lewdly suckling at your tongue. He only dares pull away when he can tell your need for breath is becoming overwhelming.

"Did so good you know that?" he rumbles earnestly, lips pressing against your forehead softly. "always making daddy proud of his sweet girl"

You grin a bashful smile, unable to hide the heat on your cheeks, a little giggle of "thank you daddy" slipping into the air that makes logan chuckle while you watch him tuck himself back into his clothes. Quickly fixing his appearance he gives you one final peck on against your bitten lips. Quite mumblings of how 'dinner's going to be ready soon' as he bends, handing you your ealier discarded shirt and tredding towards the door.

With one final glance cast to your appearance he makes sure to remind you that you 'Just have to ask' before the door closes behind him with a soft thud.

Until the next time you need him.

[piastriprincess]

honey  ,  you’re  familiar ⸻  max  verstappen  x  reader  .

featuring  max  verstappen  ,  established  relationship  ,  domestic  ,  fluff word  count  0.8k author’s  note  MY  FIRST  REQUEST  !!  genuinely  so  excited  to  have  been  able  to  write  this  for  you  and  i  hope  i  executed  what  you  wanted  .  ngl  i  got  a  little  bit  carried  away  and  it  ended  up  way  longer  than  expected  but  i  hope  you  still  like  it  !  my  inbox  is  still  open  ,  so  please  request  anything  you  want  and  thank  you  so  much  for  reading  ! title is from from eden by hozier .

56:  a  warm  palm  and  a  flannel  shirt .

You wake with a jolt, the Monaco light filtering through the gauzy curtains. Max had been gone for two long weeks for the grueling double-header, and you must have fallen asleep before he got home. It's happened before, but it always takes you a moment to get used to the weight of his arm draped over your waist, the warmth emanating from his body as he clings to you. You open your eyes slowly, blinking against the warm dawn, and there he is, curled beside you, breath steady and even. He looks younger when he sleeps, almost peaceful, like the weight of the world he carries on his back has finally slipped off. 

It’s hard not to wake him up. You want all the time you can get with him. But you can’t bear the thought of him losing those precious, peaceful moments. So you press a soft kiss to his shoulder and slip out from under the duvet. 

The apartment is cold, in that early morning way, where everything is quiet and still around the edges. The flimsy sleep shirt and shorts you’re wearing do nothing to protect you from the flat, air-conditioned chill. Your bare feet pad to Max’s closet, slowly rolling back the door and grabbing a flannel hanging on the rack. You’d bought it for him long ago, in a joint effort with Victoria and Sophie to get him to wear anything but that hideous Red Bull merch. But you should have known it wouldn’t work. Your Max is stubborn, and you end up wearing the button-down more often than he does — it’s soft and warm, and it smells like his slightly smoky cologne. It dwarfs your small frame, but with the sleeves rolled up it works just fine. 

You start the coffee on autopilot, measuring out the grounds carefully, methodically. The water bubbles inside the pot, gleaming in the pale light. You’re humming a song you heard the other day, something about a man slithering home to his lover’s door, and Jimmy is curling around your ankles in that familiar way. Max is home, and for the first time in two weeks the ache in your chest begins to lessen. 

“You look better in that than I ever did,” his voice sounds from behind you, still rough from sleep, and you smile to yourself, turning around. His blonde locks are messy, eyes still weary. But he’s real, he’s here in front of you, and your heart is swelling so much you think it might burst out of your chest. 

“You always say that,” you reply softly. 

“I always mean it,” he says, so matter-of factly, and extends his hand to you, palm up. 

You take it, because of course you do, fingers trailing over his. His fingertips are calloused, scratchy from years of slipping over steering wheels and bending the strongest machines in the world to his even stronger will. When you feel them, you understand how people speak his name with fear and awe. But his palms are soft, warm. This is the Max you know — the one who rubs your feet when you can’t fall asleep, who speaks with a softness reserved just for you, who smiles at you like you hung the stars in the sky. 

Your fingers stay intertwined for just a moment. Then he pulls you into him and wraps his arms around you, holding you like he’s holding something precious he’s afraid to break. “Good morning to you, too,” you giggle as he buries his nose in your hair, breathing in the familiar clean scent of your shampoo. 

“Missed you, liefje,” he mumbles, his hands skating down your sides to rest on your waist, and not even the flannel can stop the goosebumps that erupt where his bare skin touches yours. 

“I’ve only been out of bed for five minutes,” you protest, but you’re smiling. 

“That’s five minutes too long,” he states, letting go and nudging you back to look at you. Something slow settles in his gaze, and his eyes gleam in the morning light as he lifts you effortlessly onto the counter. 

“Max,” you protest halfheartedly as he settles in between your legs, his thumb grazing tenderly over your cheek. His lips meet yours, slow and soft, and you thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He sighs against your mouth, and you press yourself closer, closer, like you’re making up for two weeks of lost time.

The coffee is cold by the time you get around to pouring it, but it didn’t matter. You two had all the time in the world.

[reilemon]

♥︎Amore Immortale♥︎ Ch.4

Chapter Title ♥︎ Silk Dress and Soft Lips ♥︎ ch.3

♡︎ synopsis: Your first steps beyond the mansion lead to more than you ever anticipated.

♡︎ pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus x fem!reader (separately and together)

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ tags: there's nothing that spicy going on here

♡︎ word count: 7.3k

♡︎ a/n: i'm so sorry for the delay. this chapter had at least ten different outlines, and when i finally settled on one, i had to plan an outline for the chapter five. i hope you'll enjoy this chapter.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @/strangergraphics

When your eyes flutter open, morning light has already begun to bleed through the heavy velvet curtains. The bed beneath you still holds the warmth of sleep, cocooned in sheets that smell faintly of lavender and rose. For the first time since arriving at this secluded manor, you wake without fear. There's a faint ache in your muscles that reminds you of the day before. A dull throb stirs behind your eyes - an echo of overstimulation, as if your body is reminding you that too much pleasure, too much attention, comes with its own price.

Your mind, still fogged with sleep, begins to gather specks of memory:

Xavier’s fingers tracing underneath your blanket, Rafayel’s teasing grin, Zayne’s attentive gaze.

And then it dawns on you -

Today, you are meant to return to your home in the village. Zayne will accompany you. You hadn’t set a time, but you already feel a flicker of guilt at sleeping in. With a small sigh, you throw the heavy duvet aside and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, letting the chill of the floor remind you that this house is never fully warm.

That’s when your gaze falls on the nightstand.

A single folded note rests atop the dark wood. It hadn’t been there when you fell asleep.

You reach for it, fingertips brushing the thick parchment as you unfold it. The handwriting is neat and formal, though a bit hard to read. The small flicker of excitement you hadn’t even realized you were holding begins to dim.

I’ve been called on an emergency case.

I sincerely apologize for breaking our agreement.

I hope you will understand.

- Zayne

Your shoulders sink before you’ve even reached the signature. Zayne is a doctor, or something close to one, as he’d said. His schedule must be unpredictable. Emergencies do not wait for convenience.

You understand this. And yet…

You were looking forward to this morning. Not just to seeing your house again, but to his company.

You fold the note carefully and set it back on the nightstand.

Perhaps Xavier has returned from wherever Sylus dragged him last night. Maybe he would accompany you. If only you knew where you were - if the roads from the mansion weren’t still a mystery - you would go alone.

With a deep sigh, you rise from the bed, reach for your silk robe, and gather yourself for the day. The hallway is still dim when you step toward the bathroom.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You emerge sometime later refreshed, having washed away some of the disappointment.

Then you stop - a yelp escapes you before you can suppress it.

Leaning casually against the wall across from the bathroom door with arms crossed is Rafayel.

You exhale, one hand flying to your chest.

His grin widens, entirely too pleased. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” he says, in the tone of someone who absolutely meant to scare you.

You glare, but your pulse is already calming.

“Well,” you murmur, “I’m fully awake now. So… mission accomplished.”

You notice, then, his appearance - less careless than usual. His shirt is buttoned properly, with a tailored vest snug over his waist, and his long coat folded over one arm. His boots are laced, polished. He appears as if he’s ready to go somewhere.

Which is more than can be said for you.

You tug your robe a little tighter around yourself, suddenly too aware of the thin silk clinging to your skin, the lace at your collarbone. He’s seen you like this before - ill, half-conscious, far from alluring - but now there’s no fever, no excuse. And his eyes… though they wander, they don’t linger. He lets you keep your dignity.

“Do you want breakfast before we leave,” he asks, with casual smoothness, “or in the carriage?”

You blink. “Leave?”

He chuckles as he pushes off the wall and straightens. “I’ll be your escort today.” he says, with a mock bow. “Try not to look so shocked. I can be reliable. Sometimes.”

Your mouth opens and then closes again. Not because you disapprove - but because Rafayel, of all people, seemed the least likely to volunteer for the duty. He doesn’t strike you as someone who wakes up early or offers rides out of the goodness of his heart.

“Oh,” you manage, “Alright.”

Before you can gather your thoughts, he adds, “Also – I need new brushes and decent parchment, so I thought we might take a small detour to Linkon. It's a charming city. You’ll love it.”

A sudden invitation to the city you’ve always wanted to visit. As enticing as it sounds, you should ask questions.

Instead, you say –

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

In the carriage, as the village fades behind you, a swirl of emotions brews within you - surprise, relief, and something like confusion. You sit in the comfortable velvet-lined seat, fingers curled loosely around your skirt, watching the trees blur into dusk - stained light.

Your first stop that morning had been your little house. Nothing waited inside but stale air, a thin layer of dust that settled on your furniture. You moved through it methodically, sealing every window, locking every latch.

While Rafayel ventured into the village to gather lunch for the road, you used the time to pack. His voice echoed back to you when you reached for a fifth dress –

“Don’t pack too many. There are beautiful ones in Linkon. ”

You’d protested, of course - you couldn’t afford such luxuries. But he’d only sighed, theatrical and exasperated, like a man offended by your frugality.

“Please,” he’d said. “I would never suggest you spend your own money.”

So you packed only four of your best dresses, the ones you wore rarely. You added underclothes, a shawl, a few trinkets from your shelves, and your journal - still mostly blank.

You were nearly finished when you paused.

The truth was - you didn’t know how long you’d be gone. And you still hadn’t asked the bookstore owner for more time off. You’d meant to use your supposed head injury as an excuse, but now… you wondered if perhaps something truly had been knocked loose inside you.

Despite the comfort of the mansion, despite the attentiveness of the men beneath its roof, you still know nothing about them. You’ve seen their smiles, felt their touch. But you haven’t seen what’s behind the curtain.

You shake your head.

Across the room, your jewelry box glinted on the nightstand - a small reminder of why you fled here in the first place. Inside the bag, the journal, whispered its encouragement. Go. See. Let it unfold.

You’ve been offered something people only read about. Why not take it? How bad can it be?

With a trembling breath leaving your lips, you reach for the bottom drawer of your desk.

From it, you pulled a small bundle of old letters, their pages yellowed with age, tied together with a faded orange ribbon. Though you never wish to return to the life you left behind, there is one part of it you’ve never been able to let go of. You placed them gently on top of your belongings and closed the bag.

Now, the trees whip past the window. The sun is sinking low, spilling hues of rose and amber through the glass, warm light casting soft halos along the velvet seats. Rafayel dozes across from you, arms folded, head tilted against the padded wall of the carriage. Asleep like this, bathed in the pale blush of sunset, he looks ethereal - as though painted in some forgotten century by hands that knew beauty was not simply meant to be seen, but worshiped. You allow yourself a longer glance than you should. A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips before you quietly look away.

He’d returned from the village with a basket of fresh food wrapped in cloth. You had asked him to wait in the carriage while you stopped by the bookstore - he agreed with a wink, but didn’t hide his amusement at your request.

“You’re worried I’ll draw attention?”

“You do look like someone who stepped out of an opera stage.”

“Flattering.”

And so, he waited, lounging inside the too - grand carriage parked in front of your modest home while you walked to your workplace.

You’d expected the worst - scrutiny, resistance, judgment.

But the bookstore owner had barely blinked. He’d nodded as you explained, gesturing vaguely to the fading bruise on your forehead. He’d even offered to find a temporary replacement, suggesting that you return only when you felt fully recovered. You’d stood there in mild disbelief, muttering your gratitude as a strange pressure rose in your chest - a tight, unfamiliar weight that tasted like freedom.

Now, seated in the carriage, the wheels humming softly beneath you, you lean your head back against the velvet and exhale.

Maybe - for once - the world is giving you permission to want something more. Maybe the stars have aligned, if only for a moment. Maybe this isn’t danger.

Rafayel stirs, his eyelashes fluttering before his eyes open fully.

“Are we there?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile faintly. “Not yet.”

He stretches, long and catlike, spine arching until the seat creaks beneath him. His coat falls off one shoulder, exposing the fine linen beneath. He blinks at you, then turns his gaze to the window.

“We should reach the inn before dark,” he says, rubbing at one eye with the back of his hand. “Supposedly has a very charming garden view.”

Then he makes a small pause before his gaze returns to you, steadier this time. “Are you truly content leaving your house like that? Unattended, I mean?”

You nod. “I arranged for someone to keep an eye on it.”

He raises a brow. “Someone?”

“My neighbors. Two boys - Luke and Kieran. They live alone, I think. Still young and mischievous, but clever. I paid them while you were out hunting down our lunch.”

Rafayel hums, tilting his head. “I admire your pragmatism. Though I’m now picturing your little cottage being turned into some kind of goblin den by a pair of unsupervised village imps.”

You laugh. “They’re harmless. Just a bit wild. But they’ve always been kind to me.”

His expression softens, just slightly. “Kindness is underrated.”

He shifts again, reclining once more but this time keeping his gaze on the window. His voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Let’s hope they stay that way.”

You glance over, lips parting to ask what he means - but he’s already closed his eyes again.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

By the time you arrive, the sky has fallen into that soft blue hour between dusk and true dark. The carriage slows to a creaking halt before the inn - a modest two-story house, its stone walls covered in ivy.

Rafayel hops down first, then turns and offers you his hand.

Inside, the inn is warm in that old, lived-in way. The scent of stewed root vegetables, fish, ale, and beeswax candles fills your senses as you walk inside.

The innkeeper is an older woman with tired eyes but a kind smile. She welcomes you both as you approach her. When Rafayel inquires about rooms, she shakes her head with an apologetic look.

“I’m afraid there’s only one room left for the night,” she says. “It’s small but comfortable. Meant for two - but only one bed.”

Rafayel turns his head toward you. “Is that alright with you?” he asks, voice low.

There’s a flicker of warmth blooming beneath your skin. You swallow it down, lift your chin just slightly.

“It’s fine,” you say, maybe too quickly. “I don’t mind.”

He nods once and reaches for his coin purse.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The room is small but charming. The bed sits near a narrow window with a lace curtain swaying faintly from the breeze. The innkeeper lit the small fireplace, its glow painting the walls in gold and its warmth seeping into your limbs. There’s a single armchair, and a small desk.

You set your bag down beside the wardrobe, dust motes flickering in the firelight. Rafayel rests his coat across the armchair’s back, then turns to survey the room.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says after a moment. “Or the chair. Honestly, I may not sleep at all. I spent half the ride unconscious. I might end up sketching until sunrise.”

You glance at him, then nod after a moment, unsure what else to say yet, heart beating a little too fast.

He gives you space, stepping aside to let you prepare however you like. There’s still dinner to be eaten, and bathing to be done.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You sit curled on one side of the bed, your knees tucked beneath the duvet, the fabric of your nightgown rumpled from being in your bag. The neckline slips a little with each shift of your shoulders, but you are too tired to fuss with it.

A single candle flickers on the nightstand beside you, casting amber light across the open pages of your book. The words blur slightly at the edges of your focus, not from exhaustion, but from distraction. Your eyes read - your mind does not.

Across the room, Rafayel sits in the armchair near the hearth, his posture languid, one leg crossed over the other. He has changed into silk pajamas, the robe over his shoulders loose and open, revealing his collarbone. One hand holds a sketchbook balanced on his knee while he’s sketching something.

The only sounds are the turn of your pages and the soft scratches of his pencil.

You shift beneath the covers, smoothing the sheets over your lap, watching him settle into the armchair once more. You glance toward the hearth, then back to him.

“You barely touched your food earlier.”

His eyes flick toward you. “The fish disappointed me,” he says simply.

You blink. “How so?”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “It was too dry and too seasoned for my taste.”

You adjust your pillow and lie back. “Are you truly going to sketch the whole night?” you ask softly.

His pencil stills. He glances up, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That depends. I might borrow your book once you’ve fallen asleep.”

You smile and shake your head. “You’ll be disappointed. There’s not a single scandalous scene in it. No opera ghosts. No masked lovers.”

He chuckles, “I suppose it will lull me to sleep then.”

You watch him another moment. He’s still lounging, still pretending to be perfectly content away from the bed. But the fire is burning low now. The armchair doesn’t look nearly as inviting as the mattress beneath you.

“You know,” you say gently, your eyes returning to your book, “it’s perfectly fine if you want to sleep here. The bed’s large enough.”

There’s a pause, and you can feel his eyes on you. “Are you sure?”

You nod, and then proceed trying to read the words in front of you.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

Rafayel slowly slips under the covers, cautious not to disturb your sleep. He lies on his back at first, his arms fold loosely across his chest, and for a long moment, he doesn’t move - doesn’t even breathe deeply.

Then, slowly, his head tilts. Just enough for his eyes to find you in the half-light, drawn irresistibly to the slow, steady rhythm of your sleeping breath. His gaze traces the line of your shoulder where the blanket has slipped down just slightly, the delicate arch of your collarbone.

And then - your neck. The exposed stretch of skin, soft and unguarded, glows faintly in moonlight. He stares, not because he wishes to - but because he cannot resist.

He swallows.

Then, with a breath so quiet it might have been imagined, he turns away, and his eyes close.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The road to Linkon city is far longer than you anticipated.

You’d always known the city was distant, but somehow, since moving to the quiet village nestled in the woods, you had assumed it was closer. More reachable. More real.

And now, here you were, halfway into the journey, with another inn stay ahead of you before you’d even glimpse its skyline. Another night, another bed.

Hopefully there will be more than one room available, or at least a room with two separate beds.

Though… you can’t say you’re entirely opposed to sharing again. If you even shared at all last night. You fell asleep with Rafayel still curled in the armchair, and when you awoke this morning, the other side of the bed was cold.

But still - somewhere in the haze of sleep - you remembered shifting in the night. A subtle dip in the mattress. A breath not your own. The faint warmth of someone retreating just before your awareness returned.

Or perhaps it had been a dream.

“Cutie, are you listening to me?”

The sound of Rafayel’s voice draws you back. You blink, lifting your eyes to find him watching you from the seat beside you, head tilted in theatrical disappointment.

He has his sketchbook open across one knee, a pencil poised in his fingers. The carriage sways gently beneath you, but his hand remains steady.

“Sorry,” you murmur, offering a sheepish smile. “I lost my focus.”

His brow furrows, faint and brief. Just a flicker of concern. “Did you not sleep well last night?”

You hesitate, but only for a second. “I did. I think I’m just anxious. I keep wondering when we’ll finally reach Linkon.”

He glances out the window, his features bathed in the golden morning light that makes his skin look almost too smooth, too perfect, like something carved and painted rather than born.

“We should arrive tomorrow before lunchtime,” he says, then looks back at you. “I didn’t know you were that excited to see it.”

You sigh softly, your gaze drifting to the scenery rushing past the window. The world out there feels both impossibly far and achingly close.

“It always sounded like a place where life happens. Loud, inspiring, brilliant,” you say. “A complete opposite of where I’m from.”

You don’t realize you’ve gone quiet until Rafayel shifts beside you, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You blink, shake your head, and smile at him.

“I think I’m ready to draw you.”

That earns you a defeated sigh, yet he hands you the sketchbook.

“Since you were so eager.”

He leans back into the cushioned seat, arms crossed. You start with the shape of his face, tracing the curve of his jaw. You mark the arch of his brow, the slope of his mouth. But nothing sits right. Everything comes out just a little off. His lips are too wide. His eyes too hollow. His nose - good gods, what is that?

He watches the entire time.

At first, he’s quiet, eyes flicking between your hand and your face as if studying which one is struggling more. You can feel the weight of his gaze - not heavy, not judgmental, but patient.

Your strokes grow slower. More hesitant. It’s harder than you expected. He’d made it look effortless - lines gliding into shape, expression emerging from nothing. But now, your pencil skips, your fingers cramp, and the image looking back at you is not him. Not even close.

You stare at it for a long moment, then try to hide it behind your palm.

“No,” he says softly, amusement in his voice. “I saw that. Show me.”

“It’s terrible.”

“I’m your teacher. You must let me critique you.”

You shake your head, but he leans closer.

“Come on, darling. I can handle a poorly drawn nose.”

You exhale, defeated, and slowly turn the sketchbook toward him.

He takes one look, then raises his hand to cover his mouth. Not fast enough.

The laughter doesn’t quite escape him, but the betrayal is written in every twitch of his lips, every tremor in his voice.

He clears his throat, and composes himself. “It’s - charming.”

“Don’t lie.”

“No, no, I mean it. It’s… very expressive.”

You squint at him. “You’re holding back laughter.”

He holds up his hand. “Only because I respect your effort.”

Your cheeks flush, but despite yourself, a laugh bubbles up. “You’re impossible to draw.”

“You’re telling me. I’ve spent ages avoiding mirrors.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

After the laughter faded and the sketchbook was tucked firmly back into his satchel, you returned to reading your book. Rafayel didn’t push you to try again. He didn’t tease. He simply went quiet as he started reading a book he picked out before you departed, and the hours slipped by.

Now, you stand before the window of your room in the second inn - a taller, older building with high, arched ceilings. The curtains are pulled aside as you gaze at the deep navy sky. You’re not tired exactly, but there’s a weariness in your bones. It’s the kind of weight that arrives after trying, failing, and wondering if you should have tried at all.

You’d wanted to draw him. Not just because you wanted to learn - but because it felt like a way in. And you failed. You had felt incompetent - with the way your pencil refused to cooperate, the way your hands couldn’t capture a smidgen of his essence.

So, you had just laughed it off. And now… you don’t know what to make of it.

You turn around, ready to curl up in the bed with your book, but a knock on the door stops you. The familiar and distinct knock.

When you open it, you see Rafayel leaning casually against the doorframe, holding the sketchbook and a pencil. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, and the collar of his shirt is loose.

His eyes meet yours. “Let’s try again.” He continues, as you step aside to let him in. “You do realize drawing a portrait in a moving carriage is something even trained hands deem a challenge?”

There’s no trace of mockery in his voice. “You were ambitious,” he says, setting the sketchbook down at the edge of the bed. “Not foolish.”

With your permission he settles onto the bed, balancing the sketchbook on one knee. You follow, smoothing the fabric of your nightdress as you sit beside him, close enough for the heat of his thigh to brush yours when either of you shift.

“Start with pieces,” he says, glancing at you. “They’re easier to focus on. Less overwhelming than the whole.”

Then he begins to draw. You watch as a single eye begins to take shape on the page. First the almond curve of the eyelid, then the sweep of lashes, the iris unfurling effortlessly.

You can’t look away. It isn’t just how well he draws. It’s how easily it comes to him, how everything seems to obey his hand.

“Here,” he says, nudging the sketchbook gently toward you, “your turn. Just replicate this eye. Nothing more.”

You take the pencil from him, your fingers brushing his. You try to draw it exactly as he did. But it is so embarrassingly different than his.

He leans in - breath soft against your ear.

“Don’t think about making it beautiful,” he murmurs. “Just make it real.”

You nod, biting your lip slightly, and start over.

Somewhere between the third and fourth sketch, he shifts, stretching out his legs with a quiet groan, and you do the same, both of you sliding down off the bed to sit on the floor, backs resting against its edge. Now, you’re shoulder to shoulder.

You start to feel more confident, and now you’re itching to try your hand at drawing his eyes again. You steal a glance upward, then look away too fast. You try again, tracing the shape in your mind before putting it on paper. But when you lift your eyes for the third time, he’s already watching you.

“You’ll have to keep looking,” he says, voice teasing. “It’s difficult to draw something while avoiding it.”

Your eyes meet his. The candlelight reflects in his irises, painting them with impossible color-ocean blue melting into fuchsia dusk. They look unreal. Like they were never meant to be captured by anything as clumsy as your hand.

Your breath catches. You glance back down at the page, heart skipping once. But you try again.

His gaze doesn’t waver. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t tease - he simply lets you look.

You lose track of how long you spend on his eyes. The candle burns lower, the air cooler, and yet the heat in your cheeks doesn’t fade.

When at last you stop, your hand aching, your page smudged and worn at the edges, you look up at him. He leans closer, observing your work.

Then he nods once, “You’ve learned,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s good. Truly.”

You sigh in relief.

He looks at you a beat longer, then glances down at the sketch again.

“Shall we move onto the lips?”

The heat floods your cheeks at once. You close the sketchbook a little too quickly and give a small, flustered laugh.

“It’s late,” you murmur, unable to meet his eyes. “I think… we should leave that for tomorrow.”

You can hear the amusement in his voice. “Of course.”

He stands up from the floor, and then extends his hand. “Come on, artist.”

You take it, your fingers slipping into his palm, letting him pull you upright. His strength is effortless, his grip warm.

“Thank you,” you say, still holding his hand for a moment before letting go. “For the lesson.”

His brows lift slightly, and then he gives a soft laugh, “Cutie,” he murmurs, stepping back toward the door, “I’m more than happy to be your inspiration.”

When you reach the threshold, he doesn’t move immediately. He pauses, one hand resting against the doorframe as he turns to face you again. The corridor beyond him is dim and quiet, lit only by a line of low-burning sconces.

He looks at you then - not with mischief, not with bravado, but with something that feels almost like admiration and makes you hold your breath. He leans in, and then - his lips find your cheek.

He pulls back slowly, and he meets your eyes again, “Goodnight.” he whispers.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The kiss still lingers, somewhere beneath the surface of your skin.

You didn’t need to dream about it - the memory was vivid enough, playing on a loop behind your eyes as the morning sunlight spilled through your window, as your breakfast was served, as the two of you sat across from one another at the carriage. He hadn’t mentioned it. Neither had you.

And yet every glance, every word passed between you was tinged with something new.

Now, the city opens before you like a stage, and you step into it not as a dreamer but as a living part of it. Linkon.

It does not welcome you gently.

The streets are alive in a way you’ve never known - the clatter of hooves on stone mixes with the thrum of chatter and bartering voices, the rustle of silk skirts and crisp boots, the slap of linen being drawn back from market stalls. Color spills from the awnings of cafés and apothecaries, bookbinders and watchmakers, their storefront windows glowing with early afternoon light.

Perfumes drift through the air, mingling with pipe smoke, expensive leather, roasting nuts, varnish, the sweet tang of grapes and pomegranates from a vendor’s cart. Somewhere not far, a woman is singing in another language, her voice soaring above the clamor with eerie beauty, like a siren refusing to be drowned out.

Your steps are slow. You want to see everything. And you do - but perhaps too much.

You try not to show it. You keep your shoulders back, your hands at your sides as you walk, your eyes wide but not darting. Still, the sheer density of the world pressing around you begins to press inward. There are too many windows to peer into, too many conversations half-caught, too many directions to look.

And all of it is beautiful.

But it is also… loud. You’ve spent too long in rooms where the loudest thing was your own breathing. The hush of your cottage. The murmur of turning pages. The quiet hands of four strange men who moved with fluid elegance.

You should feel exhilarated. Instead, your breath quickens in your chest, just slightly. The noise doesn't grow louder, but it closes in. Your thoughts scatter like spilled seeds, struggling to hold onto anything grounding.

Rafayel, walking beside you with one hand in his coat pocket, slows his pace. He glances at you sideways, with quiet attention.

You feel his presence shift closer. Then, his voice - silky as ever - “Would you like to take my arm?”

You blink, staring at him for a moment. Then you nod, looping your hand around his elbow, the gesture settling in your chest like a soft exhale.

He leads you through a narrower street now, the crowd thinning just slightly. He guides you beneath a small archway, the stone overhead carved with faded floral reliefs. At the end of the alley is a wooden door painted in rich red color. A bell chimes when he opens it.

Inside, the air shifts and the city falls away.

The art supply shop is quiet - saturated with the earthy scent of aged wood, varnish, paper, and pigments. Shelves rise to the ceiling, stacked with hand-bound sketchbooks, jars of powders, brushes, wooden palettes.

A silver-haired man lifts his head from behind the counter, his face brightening with a respectful smile. “Ah. Mister Rafayel. It’s been too long.”

Rafayel inclines his head, smile faint but genuine. “You know how it is. I lose time when the seasons change.”

The man’s eyes drift to you, polite but curious. “And is this your apprentice?”

You flush at the word. Rafayel glances at you, amused.

“Something like that.”

You look around slowly, drinking in every corner of the shop. You exhale, deeper this time, and only then do you realize how tightly your lungs had been held.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

In your hands, you hold a new sketchbook and a couple of new pencils, wrapped neatly in brown paper. Rafayel carries his own bundle beneath one arm, mostly brushes. The two of you return to the busy city center, and your hand found its place back around his arm.

Then, a smooth, male voice calls out from behind.

“Rafayel!”

He stops mid-step, spine straightening with an audible sigh that seems to come for exasperation.

“Thomas,” he says, turning on his heel with a tight smile.

You turn as well, and your gaze lands on a tall, hazelnut-haired man in a crisply tailored suit.

Thomas’ attention turned to you for a moment as Rafayel introduced you, and then it returned almost immediately to Rafayel.

“I was going to send a letter,” he says, “about the new patrons. A few rather wealthy collectors with a particular interest in your work.”

Rafayel exhales through his nose, his voice dry. “Sending a letter still sounds good.”

Thomas lets out a slow, theatrical sigh. You catch the dynamic between them immediately -business tangled with camaraderie, wrapped in mutual irritation. It makes you bite back a smile.

“How about tonight?” Thomas offers, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel. “My wife and I will be attending the opera. You’re both invited to our box.”

You feel your expression brighten before you can stop it - Rafayel notices at once.

With a soft shrug that was far more graceful than indifferent, he says, “That might make the conversation tolerable.”

Thomas nods. “We’ll see you there. Half an hour before curtain. You remember the place.”

With a small bow he walks away, disappearing into the crowd.

Your excitement is short lived as reality settles in.

“Rafayel?”

He slows beside you, eyes flicking to you. “Yes?”

“I don’t have anything suitable to wear. Not for the opera.”

He chuckles and then without a word, slides his arm gently across your shoulders. The pressure is light, but firm enough to turn your path.

“That is easily remedied, cutie.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You sink into the soft, velvet-lined chair beside Rafayel. Just in front of you, seated slightly lower in the the private box, Thomas leans toward his wife - a sweet-faced woman with a softly rounded belly, her gloved hands folded neatly atop it as she murmurs something to him.

You glance down at your dress, still in disbelief that you’re wearing it.

It had all happened so quickly. Once you and Rafayel arrived at the atelier, he had requested something ready-made and elegant, but capable of last-minute alterations. The dress he picked out from the selection for you was a silk unlike anything you’d worn before, paired with gloves with pearls for buttons.

You had tried to protest, voice wavering with unease as the seamstress circled you, pins in her teeth. You’d told him the dress was too much. That you didn’t need it. That you’d rather miss the opera entirely than having him spend so much on you.

But Rafayel hadn’t even looked at you when he responded - just nodded at the modiste to continue, and said, simply, “No one should miss beauty for the sake of modesty.”

And now, here you sit, the silk with intricate details molded to your figure.

The opera house itself feels like another world entirely - its domed ceiling painted in lavish murals of gods and goddesses, the balconies dressed in red velvet and trimmed with gold, chandeliers gleaming like constellations overhead.

On stage, the first act unfolds in a fever of color and music.

You hadn’t expected to be captivated. Opera, in your memory, had always been too distant, too slow, even boring. But here, in Linkon, it’s different. The voices rise and fall like ocean waves, filling every corner of the space with raw, glittering emotion. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until the curtain lowers at the end of the first act and the world exhales around you.

Beside you, Rafayel’s attention remains elsewhere. He speaks with Thomas, the two men conversing in low, imperceptible voices. You try not to listen, and even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to comprehend their words.

Meanwhile, Thomas’ wife battles against sleep, her posture slowly slumping, her fan drooping ever lower with each yawn. By the end of the second act, during the intermission, she lets out a delicate sigh and leans toward her husband, murmuring something you don’t quite catch.

The two of them rise from their seats, and Thomas turns to Rafayel.

“We shall take our leave. You two stay and enjoy the rest.”

With that, he offers you both a shallow bow, and leads his sleepy wife out of the box, her gloved hand curled around his arm, her eyes already half-lidded.

The two of you are left alone in the private box - surrounded by hundreds of people, and yet cloaked in velvet shadows.

The third act unfolded in slow, aching brilliance.

The soprano’s final aria echoed through the vast chamber, her voice breaking just enough on the final note to shatter the silence before the ovation. You sat still, breath caught, eyes wide. You’d never seen anything like it. You weren’t sure you ever would again.

Beside you, Rafayel didn’t move.

He remained composed, hands folded, posture relaxed, but more than once you felt his gaze shift to you.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The air outside had cooled considerably, but you barely notice it. Not with your skin still tingling from the heat of the performance, from the music that still rings in your chest. Now, with your arm tucked through Rafayel’s once more, you walk through Linkon’s midnight streets, and it feels like the entire city had softened.

“Did you hear the way she held that note?” you ask, turning to him, your voice bright with awe. “I thought she would lose breath.”

Rafayel chuckles low in his throat, his gaze resting on you rather than the road ahead.

“Her name is Angelica. She’s very good at pretending to die.”

You laugh and continue talking - your words a cascade of impressions, hands gesturing as you try to describe the sets, the costumes, the singers.

“I thought I’d be bored,” you admit, shaking your head. “Or lost. Or tired. But I couldn’t blink. I didn’t want to miss a single moment.”

“I noticed,” Rafayel murmurs, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You leaned forward so far, I thought you might tumble from the box.”

“You wouldn’t have let me fall.”

“No,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t.”

You falter for just a breath. But the moment passes quickly, with the next wave of your excitement. You tell him about your favorite line - you try to quote it, mangling the phrasing, and he corrects you with the original cadence, eyes glittering when your laughter echoes the quiet street.

You didn’t realize how much you’d been smiling. How light your body felt, even in the heavy silk of the new dress. How much the city stilled, becoming nothing more than lamplight and his presence beside you.

Rafayel said very little. You didn’t notice it, but his gaze was warm, indulgent, like someone being handed the chance to rediscover the beauty of something he thought he’d grown numb to.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The hallway of the inn is quiet, dimly lit by wall sconces casting golden light across marble floors and rich green wallpaper. Your steps slow as you approach your door, but you hesitate for a moment.

Your hand lifts, to the base of your spine, where the fine silk of your dress was drawn tight with laces and buttons. You were too wrapped in the performance, in the city, in him, to think about changing out of the dress.

You turn toward him.

“Rafayel,” you say, your voice quiet.

He turns to you.

You try to sound casual, your hand gesturing vaguely behind you.

“Would you… mind helping me with this? I just need someone to… free me from the dress.”

The silence that follows isn’t long. Then he nods.

You open your door and let him inside.

Drawing the curtains closed and lighting the candles, while he sets up the fireplace for you, you stand in the center of your room, your spine impossibly straight as you turn your back to him.

You remind yourself that this isn’t new. He’d seen you sick. He’d brought you warm cloths, tucked you beneath blankets. He’d seen your bare shoulders before. Yet your heart fluttered in your ribs as he moved behind you without a word.

The first button slides free with a delicate tug, and then another. But it’s the laces he pauses over, his fingertips resting just below the knot.

When he finally begins to loosen the laces, he does it slowly - painfully slow. The fabric resists at first, tight from the wear of the evening, but his hands are diligent. With every loosened part, your breath deepens, your chest swelling against the bodice as it begins to give. Cool air brushes your skin where the fabric parts, making your skin prickle, but you don’t shiver.

With a slow exhale, you let the dress slide over your hips, letting it pool around your feet, leaving you in the soft silk underdress, the shape of your figure no longer hidden.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, your back still turned to him, as you step over the dress. “For helping. And… for tonight.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Instead, you feel him step closer, your bodies only a breath away now. You turn to face him, and he is so close you catch the firelight in his eyes, the bright blush high on his cheekbones, even the tips of his ears.

He doesn’t try to look away, and you don’t think you can.

Without a word, he reaches for your gloved hand. His own are steady, but there’s a tremor in his breath as he works the pearl buttons free. When the second glove finally peels away, his lips meet your knuckles. Then, he turns your wrist upward. The kiss he leaves there is hotter, hungrier, his tongue grazing the blue river of your pulse. The skin there is sensitive, thinner, and the way his lips brush across it makes your knees go weak, but you stay still.

His mouth travels higher. Another kiss, slow and careful, against your forearm. Then higher, where the strap of your underdress rests on your shoulder. His lips press there, and he breathes you in, like he’s trying to commit the scent of you to memory. A fractured sigh escapes him.

His other hand rises, steady and warm, and finds your chin. His thumb brushes your cheek, tilting your face up until your eyes meet his. His eyes are midnight storms, flickering to your mouth.

And suddenly, the world narrows.

All you can see are his lips - soft, parted, so close you can almost taste them. He doesn’t move yet. He waits. He gives you one last breath to choose.

You don’t step back. You don’t break his gaze.

So he leans in, and kisses you.

It doesn’t feel real at first. His mouth finds yours with a tenderness that steals your breath, his lips pressing softly.

Your heart stutters, and yet the rest of you goes still - utterly still. Because it’s him. Rafayel.

The one who always seemed a little too perfect. Too brilliant. Too untouchable. The man who filled a room with laughter but somehow remained just beyond your reach. And now - he’s kissing you like you’re the one he’s been reaching for all along.

You didn’t expect this. Not from him. Not like this.

His hand stays at your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek as his lips move over yours. And when his tongue brushes softly along your bottom lip, slipping past it to meet yours, tasting you for the first time - you melt completely.

Your hands float upward, unsure at first, then instinctive. They curl around his neck, sliding into the soft waves of his hair.

His kiss deepens - still tender, but deeper. He pulls you closer by the waist, your bodies flush now, the hard plane of his chest pressing against your breasts, his breath and yours mixing in the space between open-mouthed kisses.

One of his hands drifts lower, fingers slipping down the arch of your back before splaying at the top of your buttock. The touch sends a jolt of molten heat low into your stomach, coiling tight and needy. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. The kiss turns a little messier, your mouths opening wider, breaths coming faster, his grip pressing you against the hard ridge of his thigh.

But he starts slowing down. Bit by bit, the kiss turns liquid, the hand on your butt slides upward, fingertips brushing the sensitive dip of your spine.

He pulls away just far enough to rest his forehead against yours.

His thumb traces your swollen lips, his voice low and ragged. “You should sleep, darling.”

After a moment, you nod, though your eyes remain closed, lips still tingling, breath still uneven. When they flutter open, they meet his. The usual mischief in his eyes has dissolved, replaced by tenderness that makes your heart flutter. Moonlight spills through the window, glinting in his irises, and for a heartbeat, you see a flicker of something unreadable, that he quickly smothers beneath a slow blink. You don’t know if that was even real, or if your mind is playing tricks on you.

Then he leans in and presses a delicate kiss to your cheek, then the inside of your wrist. He wishes you sweet dreams, and steps out of your room.

When you lie in your bed, your body is still thrumming, your chest impossibly full.

And even as sleep pulls you in, the warmth of his kiss stays with you - on your lips, your cheek, your hand - as if he left pieces of himself behind to keep you company until morning.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

@verynormalsstuff @eliasxchocolate @haal07erlj @libriomancer @howvoiceless @celestialforce @tbaluver @zaynesjasmine1 @ladyparamount @xxfaithlynxx @totallytaurus4 @s-ugu @evil-mei @whatarewe-choppedliver @imeverycliche @blackwell-ninja @secretkiseki @kaya-nets @stellablobboo @ssetsuka @celestemcbrim @m00nchildwrites @yournextdoorhousewitch @mysticcoffeebean @beewilko @harmonyrae @animecrazy76 @hanamanefateris @itsmeaudrieee @gravity-valley @raiyuxa @skylaryoung2002 @dekiruxxx @angel-jupiter @daturasflower

[alllgator-blood]

PINNED POST TIME! I figured I should make one because I do comics, and I kinda gave up on linking all the parts in the description cause it got annoying.

Soooo...click "read more" to get links to all my comic pages in chronological order! This doesn't include shitposts for the most part but I added the untitled/short ones at the very bottom

My comics in order of when they occur!

I name every comic after song lyrics, but the song rarely has anything to do with the actual comic, felt the need to link them anyway though

'IT'S JUST A BURNING MEMORY'

A short while after the schism happened, Leshy starts to become frustrated with how Kallamar and Heket seem to be hiding Shamura from him. They try to convince him that Shamura isn't ready for visitors, but he slips past their defenses and goes to visit Shamura himself...only to realize his oldest sibling doesn't seem to remember him.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5)

(title is from Heartaches by Al Bowlly)

'THE UNPAYABLE DEBT THAT I OWE YOU'

Kallamar hasn't gotten a break from their duties for quite some time, and figures they've done enough good deeds for the family to earn a day off. But as more responsibilities pile up, more of the family gets hurt, more research needs to get done, Kall realizes they maybe won't ever catch a break.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5)

(title is from Kettering by The Antlers)

'IN LITTLE WAYS, EVERYTHING STAYS'

Leshy is having a good time on his way to a checkup, but accidentally sees his reflection for the first time since his eyes were removed. He ends up talking to Kallamar about it, and the two have a discussion about what it means to feel like a replica of the person you once were rather than the same person.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

(title is from Everything Stays sung by Olivia Olson)

'FOGGY STREETS AND CHRISTMAS LIGHTS'

Leshy throws a Yule party after many years of the family not celebrating it, but it's not really as joyful as any of the siblings hoped it'd be. Heket is drinking a lot, Kallamar is wearing their iconic fake smile, and Shamura is physically present but mentally absent. Leshy, trying to stave off a meltdown, starts to play a song that ends up being familiar to the entire family.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

(title is from Classic J Dies And Goes To Hell by Glass Beach)

'TAKE ME SOMEWHERE NICE'

The party is winding down. Shamura is tired, Heket and Leshy are rowdy, and Kallamar decides to put his sibling to bed in the guest room. But while Shamura seems happy and fairly lucid, the conversation turns dark quickly as they ask Kallamar to promise them something.

(full comic)

(title is from Take Me Somewhere Nice by Mogwai)

'YOU AIN'T AS YOUNG AS YOU USED TO BE'

After Kallamar was found unconscious on their bedroom floor, they decided from that point on that rest + relaxation were mandatory for the entire family. Heket begrudgingly agrees to take it easy for a single day to appease her sibling, but only then remembers why she wouldn't allow herself rest. Plagued by visions of Shamura's atrophying body, she returns to Anura and tries to work like normal, quickly realizing her own body isn't holding together well either.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (THIS ONE'S UNFINISHED, I didn't like the original ending so I'll get back to it someday!! Part 4 is pretty much complete I just haven't posted it yet)

(title is from It Might Be Time by Tame Impala)

'I WENT BACK AND WISHED I HADN'T'

Shamura, suddenly remembering a promise they made to Narinder many thousands of years ago, begins to look for him in the temple to finish a game of hide-and-seek. They grow increasingly confused as they struggle to find him, but swear they caught a glimpse of him when they walked in...

(part 1) (part 2)

(title is from The Moon by The Microphones)

'YOU'RE ALL I NEED'

After Shamura's breakdown over not remembering why Narinder is gone, Kallamar checks on them and is hurt by them accidentally. Heket happens to come by right as Kall is trying to leave, and the three simultaneously grapple with the memory of the schism in different ways. But despite the tension in the temple and the two most composed bishops being mentally incapacitated, Heket pulls it together long enough to help Kallamar out of a dissociative episode.

(part 1) (part 2)

(title is from All I Need by Radiohead)

'KIDS THAT I ONCE KNEW'

In the Lamb's cult, they and Leshy are kept awake by a screaming baby caterpillar who can't seem to be sated. They get into an argument with him, wandering off and not realizing until it's too late that the ex-god of war has managed to make off with the baby...and seems to find that it looks very familiar to them.

(full comic)

(title is from Dead Hearts by Stars)

the song is kinda "stomp clap hey" coded but I found it in a warrior cat AMV when I was a preteen and the lyric DID fit the comic, so....

'WE COULD BE HAPPY, YOU AND ME'

After a pretty average day in the Lamb's cult, the Lamb winds down and starts going over everything they've accomplished thus far. Shamura wanders in and seems to be talking crazy, as usual, but asks a simple question that begins to break the Lamb down quicker than any threat or attack ever has: "are you okay?"

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

(title is from Apple Pie by The Scary Jokes)

ASSORTED RANDOM COMICS THAT ARE UNTITLED BUT ARE STILL WORTH BEING ON THIS MASTERPOST:

The very first angst comic I ever did, about that "five becomes four becomes..." dialogue shamura has

The shamura-explains-their-gender comic

Two-panel comic about shamura telling the younger sibs a story, and then being told the same story in the future

Comic about heket someday being strong enough to carry shamura

Comic where the lamb abuses the shit out of the bishops in the cult, but gives shamura a break for some inexplicable reason

Comic where Narinder gives his siblings a little gift as reparations for his fucking war crimes against them

[tan1shere]

Keep Going

Billie Eilish x female reader !

A/n: got the title idea from the song private landing ... ENJOY 😈 - this is a teeny bit meh I'm sawry

Summary: Billie wants to try something new, how could you say no to your irresistible girlfriend.

Warnings: Smut 😋 like always mdni. Especially since this is more mean bill turday :D - ejaculating strap on 🤭 daddy kink, breeding kink, squirting, overstimulation, and I think thats it ! :)

Masterlist

"Babeee." You hear your girlfriend call out. You turn your head ever so slightly from the current task you were doing in the kitchen - washing dishes. Yay. "What's up Bill!?" Your voice was sweet, happy to see her finally. "I got something when I was out." There was a cheeky grin spread incredibly wide across her face. Was this a good thing. "Uh oh, what'd you do.." Her arms sneak around your waist, lips on the skin of your neck in seconds. "Something you're going to reallyyyy like." Her teeth bite down, making a gasp fall from your now open lips. You hum in response. "Go on."

There was a pause. "Well I can't tell you. I'll just have to show you." She smirks, swiftly turning you around to face her. Making you let out a slight yelp in the process, as you weren't expecting it. Her lips were on your neck again, sucking hard. "Baby- I was-" But her head shot up, looking directly at you. "You really want me to stop?" Knowing your answer, she tilts her head. "Yeah ok, let me shut up." Her head nods. "Justtt the way I like it." Your hand lands a smack on her arm. This woman.

This woman

She had dragged you up to your guys room, slinged over her shoulder and plopping you on the bed. She crawls ontop of you, biting her lip. Her eyes look at your cherry red ones, so plump, giving you a quick kiss before she speaks. "See. You're all fine now, talking back a little might i add." That made your eyes roll playfully. "But." She begins, going closer to your face. Making your body stiffen. "You really will be shut up when I'm done with you." She left you utterly speechless. Good. She gets up grabbing the bag with the thing she must've bought you. Interesting. As she pulls it out you were confused. It was just a dildo. What was she on about.

You give her a look of confusion, making her smirk again. Positioning it so the head was facing you. Then your brain clocked it. She bought an ejaculating dildo. You bite your lip. "You wanna use that on me Bills?" She comes back to your face. "Mhmm baby. Big time." You let out a soft giggle as she's back to messily kissing you. Her hands travel to your hips having them rest over the bone for a moment. "Should I prepare you." She says between kisses. You just shake your head with a smirk. She hums as a response. "My girl wants it raw, huh." The way she said that whole sentence made you shiver, your thighs squeeze together at her seductive tone.

You couldn't think properly, let alone speak any type of word. She gets off of you for a moment contemplating on how she wanted to go about this. As she was in thought she decides to get the harness and strap on. You watch closely, it was quite big. You didn't think these would be, but it sure was. "Think you can handle it?" Billies challenging tone pulls you out of your thoughts. You just nod. "Speak." She growls when you don't answer. This time you think for a moment, letting a smirk consume your face. "Yes daddy." Her eyes are on you in an instant, looking at you all over.

She nearly pounces on you like a wild animal, making you lay back on the bed. You look up at her as one of her hands bring your left thigh closer to her body. You had been wearing one of her large t-shirts and a pair of underwear, her fingers move to pull them down, not wasting any time as she wanted this just as bad. She's then quick to taking her shirt off your body, wanting nothing more than to watch your tits bounce as she fucks you hard.

"I wanna fuck you like an animal."

"Please.." You breathe out.

Her lips come near your ear, breathing her hot breath against it.

"I wanna feel you from the inside." She nibbled ever so slightly on your lobe, going to hover above you.

She lets her spit coat the fake dick attached to her, making sure the saliva coats it well. In the process it julting against her own cunt perfectly, making a low grunt come from her perfect lips. "The thought of using this on you is driving me nuts." - "then do it.. daddy." Her bright eyes grow dark, grabbing at your thigh again to bring you even closer, making your tits jiggle slightly. "I plan to." And without any other thought the rubber enters you, all in one swoop. Hard. Sending your head back into the sheets. She had no mercy with her pace, needing to fuck your brains out.

You moan out. "Daddy.." breathing heavily. It was all music to her ears. Her thrusts go harder. "Say it again." She demands. "Mmm, daddy .. keep going." You gasp as her finger lands on your clit, making you almost see stars as she moves it against you instantly. "So good. So fucking good for me." Her thrusts are relentlessly pounding into you. Feeling the strap slide in and out with ease considering how wet she made you, mixed with her warm spit. "You're enjoying me being rougher huh?" Your eyes were closed shut as you nod like crazy. You feel a warm breath on your face, opening your eyes to see her right infront of you. Her thrusts never faltering. Her hand moves to your neck. "You gunna answer me?" It slowly tightens the more you stay quiet. "Y-yes!" You squeak out, but she keeps her hand there. Tightening just a little more.

"Yes daddy!" You instantly blurt out, feeling her hand loosen a bit. "Good, using that mouth the way I like." You bite your lip, looking straight at her, keeping the eye contact. "Im so close.." you moan, breathlessly. But she says nothing. Absolutely nothing, continuing to abuse your sopping cunt. She leans down to your ear and to make this more realistic for you both as she says this.

"So am I."

As if it was actually hers. As if she could get you pregnant. God how she wanted to.

A whimper falls past your lips at the thought. "Gunna fill you up so good." Once again your eyes shut but she stops them from doing so, grabbing your jaw. "Look at me- Look. At .Me." You do just that. "I'm gunna make you a mama. Shoot it right inside you." You nod. Letting your mouth hang open as the strap hits that sweet, sweet spot inside of you. "Please.." you then say.

"You wanna cum?" - "Yes daddy please." You were so incredibly tired. You needed this, needed to feel it all. "Cum." She then says, feeling you suck her in as your walls tightened. You gushed all over it, soon after feeling something spill inside of you. "Feels good huh baby?" She kisses, bites your neck letting this orgasm last and feel amazing. You scream her name, moaning messily at every little feeling. She licks over the mark she just made until she hears your little voice say something. "Keep going.." Your breath returns to normal but not before shes rutting into you at the same ungodly pace. "So very slutty. You haven't even overcome the last one."

"Billie!"

You whimper. Whine. You do it all. Her hands grip your waist as she sits up slightly to get at a better angle. You see stars, feeling the second orgasm approaching faster. "You just want it all, don't you baby?" You were too fucked out to muster any form of wording. Her face is back infront of your own. "You just love daddy's cock sooo much. Don't you baby girl." And that sent everything inside of you to spiral, with her quick fucking, her words, her voice. You end up squirting. She smirks triumphantly. "Yeah. You love it."

[leighsartworks216]

Sweet Mindless Love

werewolf!Sylus x gn!Reader

Part Two

This is the sweet soft "only I can calm my beast down" fic just before the monsterfucking cuz I can't just leave that unsaid

Title from "Howl" by The Unlikely Candidates

Warnings: light angst, mild hurt/comfort, fluff, swearing, pet names, werewolf AU, scent stuff, painful transformation with minor descriptions, temporary character death (silly)

Word Count: 948

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

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Coarse, yet somehow soft, fur glides through your fingers. Powerful huffs of breath have it standing on end, shuddering with effort as the creature in your lap contains itself. Luke and Kieran are hiding in the safe room, no doubt. They have to. Otherwise, they'd be torn to shreds without a second thought.

You, however, are never safer than in these moments, your beast pressing his snout into your belly and your thighs and taking in your scent. You are the only one allowed to touch him like this, hold him like this - and the only one that can calm him down on nights like these.

"Good boy," you whisper into the electric air. His muscles are so tense, ready to jump up and lash out at anything that comes near. Mephisto is an unfortunate victim tonight, having been caught when he led Sylus straight to you. You're grateful for his sacrifice, and even more so for his mechanical nature that means it's not permanent. "I'm here, my love. It's only me."

Sylus whines low in his throat, a pleading sound that clings to your heart. You know he hates this. Hates becoming a monster. The first time you saw him is burned into his brain with every full moon. The way your eyes widened. Your arms coming up to protect your face as he charged right for you. The scream you let out as he toppled you into the ground. Your rapid heartbeat when he laid upon you.

The fact you stayed is a miracle in itself. He couldn't be more grateful.

You lean down to press a kiss to his fur, wherever you can reach with him laying like this. His claws curl into your back at the gentle contact, before quickly pulling away so as to not hurt you. He never would on purpose, but the thought of hurting you even accidentally destroys him. The amount of clothes he's torn and ruined just trying to hold you...

"It's almost morning. The sun's almost here. Just a little longer, okay?"

He inhales deeply. Your scent - the body wash and hair product and lovely smelling things you use - is like a sedative to his wild mind. Where normally he would be overwhelmed by all the sounds and smells of the world, here he can simply allow you to wash over him, block out the rest of the world, and put his instincts at ease. Of course, it comes with the caveat that any intrusions, be it smells or sounds, can be enough to set him off again.

You begin humming. The song doesn't matter. You can feel the muscles in his powerful back relaxing with every note. His fur does not stand so on edge. His breaths become less harsh and more even. This only becomes more true as the first rays of the sun hit the blinds.

It's always amazing to watch the transformation back into a man. It's painful - when he turns into a wolf, his cries and howls echo in your ears alongside the creaking of bones and tearing of skin - but also a relief.

His fur begins to shake as it recedes back into his skin. Bones pop and crack as they fit back into place. His fingernails - not claws - cling onto your shirt as his snout compresses into his strong nose. Until soon enough, instead of a half-wolf half-man laying across your lap, all that remains is a full man, laying on his stomach with his face pressed into your tummy and his arms hugging your waist, legs stretched out across the rug, entirely nude.

He sighs slowly, as if he's trying to adjust to his lungs once more. You comb now through his hair, soft and sweaty. Your other hand rubs reassuringly over his back, also slick with sweat, massaging his shoulder blades and spine after the transformations they endured.

You lean your head down slightly. "Okay?"

He nods and rubs his nose against your hip before turning his head to the side to uncover his mouth. "Okay... Did I hurt you?"

"No, I'm okay." You brush hair from his face. Though he doesn't open his eyes yet, his brow relaxes with the tender care you offer him. "You didn't even damage my shirt this time. And the boys are okay, too. But..."

He tenses, visible eye shooting open with a frown to look up at you. "But?"

You smile, though it comes out more as a grimace. You nod over to a pile of black feathers and exposed wires, sparking occasionally. "Mephisto wasn't so lucky."

He growls, closing his eyes once more and biting at your clothed hip. "Don't frighten me like that."

You laugh despite his upset. The sound puts him at ease. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry. I won't do it again." He can still hear the giggles bubbling out of you for the next couple minutes. Still, he's actually glad you can joke about his destructive nature. He'd rather have you laugh at him than scream because of him. "Do you want to take a bath?"

"Not yet. Just wanna stay here for a minute."

"You were there all night."

"Yeah, and he doesn't appreciate it enough. I'm just doing my due diligence, sweetie."

"Uh-huh. Well, my ass is starting to hurt."

"Tough."

You laugh again. He smiles for the first time since transforming. It's no wonder his wolf form is so infatuated with you when you make him feel like this normally, without heightened senses.

"Thank you for taking care of me tonight," he coos sweetly. "I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you, too, puppy." You bend over him to kiss his head. "In every form, always."

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko 

[moonlitstoriess]

Unseen, Unheard, Unloved- Initial Rhysand, Eventual Kallias x fem!Reader EPILOGUE

Summary: She had given him everything—her heart, her trust, and now, the child growing within her. But as Rhysand’s attention drifts elsewhere, as excuses pile up, and as whispers of a mortal girl turn into something far more dangerous, she begins to wonder: Was she ever truly seen? Was she ever truly heard? Or had she been unloved all along?

See masterlist

Part 1 Part 2

A/N: soo here is the long awaited small epilogue! I hope you guys enjoy it and thank you for all the lovely comments on this mini-series <3

Warnings: and they lived happily ever after

The last few months had been… different. A life she once thought impossible had somehow become her reality.

Her days were no longer filled with shadows and uncertainty, but with warmth. With laughter. With love.

Her daughter—Virelia. A name that felt like fresh snowfall under moonlight, like something delicate yet unbreakable. A name meant for a child born of both ice and fire, of past wounds and future hopes.

Virelia was growing too fast. Already four months old, her tiny hands grasped at everything, her bright, curious eyes taking in the world with a quiet sort of intelligence. Kallias was utterly besotted with her, as if she were his own flesh and blood. And in all the ways that mattered, she was.

He had been there through it all—when the nights were long and sleepless, when Virelia wailed for hours, when exhaustion made her body ache in ways she never thought possible. He had been the one to hold her through it, the one to press gentle kisses to her temple and whisper reassurances in her ear, the one to rock their daughter in his strong arms until she finally settled.

The Inner Circle had been just as present, their presence an overwhelming but oddly comforting force. Cassian had insisted on being the rowdiest uncle imaginable, constantly swooping Virelia into the air with a dramatic flair that earned him scandalized glares from both Y/N and Kallias. Azriel, by contrast, was softer, quieter. She still remembered the first time he had held Virelia—how his scarred hands trembled just slightly, how he had gazed down at her with something like awe. He had become her silent protector, watching over her with a quiet devotion that made Y/N’s heart ache in the best way.

Mor, of course, had spoiled Virelia beyond reason. “She’s my little star,” she would say, refusing to hear a word against it. Amren, on the other hand, had been… selective in her affections. But Y/N had caught her, once, when she thought no one was watching—gently tracing a clawed finger over Virelia’s cheek, murmuring something in a language Y/N did not understand.

And then there was Rhysand.

He was trying. Against all odds, he was truly trying. And despite everything—the betrayal, the heartbreak, the anger—Y/N could not deny that he was a good father. Not perfect, not by any means, but… present. Attentive. Devoted.

They did have a small argument, with Y/N coming out victorious as she insisted their daughter is still too young to be seperated from her mother every month. Rhysand at last begrudgingly agreed that it was best to wait until Virelia was older in order to have her go to his court and stay with him each month.

To her, he was nothing more than a ghost of the past. A scar that had healed but would never quite disappear. She had heard of his recent crowning of Feyre as High Lady. It had been an odd feeling, knowing that for so many years, it had been her. That she had once ruled at his side, had once been the one to carry that title, that power.

But the thought did not linger.

Not when her present—her future—was here, in Winter Court. With him.

Kallias.

Her mate.

Her husband.

Their mating ceremony had been only a month ago, a celebration of love and devotion that still left her breathless when she thought of it. And though their bond pulled them together in more ways than one, he was never anything but patient, nothing but a steady, grounding force. He was everything—her safety, her home, her heart.

It still amazed her sometimes, how a male so cold and unyielding to the world could be this to her. To her and Virelia, he was nothing but warmth. Fierce, unwavering, all-consuming warmth.

A soft cry pulled her from her thoughts.

Y/N turned from the mirror, her gaze finding the small bundle in the maid’s arms.

Virelia.

She smiled gently, lifting a hand to signal for the maid to bring her daughter to her, unable to move with the ladies still working on the delicate fabric of her dress.

As the maid gently placed Virelia in her arms, Y/N held her daughter close, inhaling the soft, familiar scent of her. A quiet warmth settled in her chest as she cradled the faeling against her, tracing her tiny, delicate features.

Today was the day.

In just a few hours, she would stand before the court and be crowned High Lady of Winter.

The weeks leading up to this moment had been filled with endless preparation—none of which Kallias had allowed her to lift a single finger for. He had overseen everything himself, from the decorations to the guest list, ensuring that every last detail was flawless.

“My wife deserves the absolute best of the best,” he had told her, his expression so serious, so determined, that she hadn’t had the heart to argue.

He had taken her to the most renowned crownsmith in all of Winter—Master Vareth, an ancient male whose hands had shaped the coronets of kings and queens long before her time. But Kallias had insisted that this would not be a simple commission.

“Give him your design, my love,” he had murmured in her ear as they stood in Vareth’s workshop, the scent of molten metal and old magic thick in the air. “This is your crown. I want it to be yours in every way.”

Even for Virelia, Kallias had left nothing to chance. He had personally sought out the most skilled seamstresses to craft a gown for their daughter—“our daughter,” as he always corrected, his voice unyielding, his love unwavering. A tiny, intricate tiara had been forged just for her, designed to be light enough for her small head but still fit for royalty.

Y/N smiled at the thought, pressing a gentle kiss to Virelia’s soft cheek. In the mirror before them, she took in their reflection—the regal High Lady and her little princess. The maids bustled around them, their chatter warm and joyful as they adjusted the final touches of her dress. One by one, they murmured their blessings, their voices filled with genuine happiness.

Amidst the noise, Y/N bent her head slightly, whispering into her daughter’s ear.

“Do you know what today is, my love?” she murmured, her lips grazing the shell of Virelia’s ear. “Today, I become High Lady of Winter. But do you know a secret? I have already been the queen of something far greater.”

Virelia blinked up at her, her tiny hands grasping at the strands of Y/N’s hair. A small, delighted gurgle left her lips, as if she understood—as if she knew she was the one thing Y/N would always cherish above all else.

A soft laugh escaped Y/N as she kissed Virelia’s forehead, before lifting her gaze back to the mirror.

Her gown shimmered under the morning light—a piece of artistry that blended both the home she had come from and the one she now belonged to. The fabric was deep midnight blue, a nod to the Night Court, yet laced with silver embroidery that curled like frost-kissed vines, an unmistakable mark of Winter.

The bodice was elegantly fitted, structured yet comfortable, adorned with a delicate scattering of crystal beading that caught the light like stars in a winter sky. The sleeves were sheer, flowing into ethereal bell-shaped cuffs, reminiscent of the way moonlight softened the edges of darkness. A long, sweeping train cascaded behind her, edged with intricate patterns of snowflakes and night-blooming flowers, hand-stitched with silver and white thread.

It was not over-the-top, not an overwhelming display of power—but it was regal. It was strong. It was her.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt like she belonged.

A gentle voice cut through the hum of the room.

“My lady.”

Y/N turned her head to see her lady-in-waiting, Lady Sylva, standing a few steps away, hands clasped before her. The female’s soft smile was full of warmth, of quiet pride, as she spoke the words that would mark the beginning of this new chapter.

“You are ready, my High Lady.”

High Lady.

The title settled over Y/N like freshly fallen snow—familiar, yet entirely transformed. Once, the name had carried pain, betrayal, a history she could not erase. But now… now it was something new. Something entirely hers. A crown of her own making.

Her throat tightened slightly as she looked at the women surrounding her—the maids who had dressed her, the ladies-in-waiting who had stood by her side through every trial. They were smiling, eyes alight with pride, and something in her heart softened.

“Thank you,” she said, voice steady, “for everything. For standing beside me, for helping me through this journey. I could not have asked for better sisters in this court.”

A quiet murmur of affection spread through the room. A few of the maids wiped away tears, while Lady Sylva gave her a knowing nod. “It has been our honor, my lady.”

One of the ladies-in-waiting stepped forward, hands outstretched, reaching for Virelia. “Shall I take her for you—”

Before she could finish, Y/N instinctively pulled back, holding her daughter closer. “I want to hold her until we reach the grand doors,” she said, a soft smile curving her lips.

The female hesitated for only a moment before nodding, returning the smile.

From her right, another lady—Lady Evelyne—spoke gently, touching her arm. “Take a deep breath, my lady. It is time.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, her spine straightening as she lifted her chin. She glanced down at Virelia, adjusting the tiny tiara atop her daughter’s dark curls before letting out a quiet, steadying breath.

“Right. Well, let’s do this, ladies.”

With that, she turned toward the doors, four of her most trusted ladies falling in step behind her. Their gowns—silver and gray, elegant and sparkling in the candlelight—flowed gracefully as they followed.

And together, they walked forward—toward history.

The grand staircase stretched before her, its polished marble gleaming under the soft glow of the chandeliers. As Y/N descended, all eyes turned to her—the servants lining the halls pausing in their tasks, their gazes filled with quiet admiration.

Not just for the regal beauty she exuded, nor for the delicate faeling cradled in her arms, but for what she represented. Their High Lady. Their future.

Her gown whispered against the floor as she moved, her ladies a silver-and-gray tide behind her, each step measured and steady. The air was thick with quiet anticipation, the soft rustle of fabric and the distant murmur of voices beyond the grand doors the only sounds that accompanied them.

They walked the long, vaulted hallway, its towering windows letting in the pale Winter Court sunlight, until at last—

The great doors loomed before her.

Beyond them waited the court officials, the nobles, the guests who had gathered to witness this moment. Beyond them waited her crown. Beyond them waited Kallias.

She took a breath, then looked down at Virelia.

The little faeling peered up at her with wide, curious eyes, her tiny fingers tangled in the fabric of Y/N’s gown. A soft, nostalgic smile curved Y/N’s lips as she stroked her daughter’s cheek, pressing one last, lingering kiss to her forehead.

Then, she turned and gently passed Virelia into Lady Sylva’s waiting arms.

A pause.

Y/N straightened, nodding once to the guards.

The moment their hands pressed against the doors, they swung open, spilling brilliant golden light into the hall.

And as the warmth of the great chamber washed over her, Y/N lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward—toward her future.

The Great Hall of Winter was nothing short of breathtaking.

The towering, ice-carved pillars gleamed under the soft blue light cast by enchanted chandeliers, their flickering glow refracting across the polished floors like scattered starlight. Silken banners of silver and white draped elegantly from the ceiling, embroidered with intricate patterns of frost and swirling snowflakes. The air itself seemed to hum with magic, cold yet welcoming, as if the very essence of Winter Court had wrapped itself around this moment.

And at the far end of the hall, set upon a raised dais, stood the twin thrones of Winter.

One already occupied by Kallias, resplendent and regal, a true High Lord in every sense. The other—waiting for her.

The first notes of the ceremonial music swelled into the air, and Y/N began to move.

Every gaze in the room followed her.

The court officials, the high-ranking Fae, the noble families who had come to witness the crowning of their High Lady. Among them were figures from beyond Winter Court, High Lords and their entourages, each standing as a testament to the shifting power in Prythian.

Her eyes swept across them, cataloging each face as she glided down the aisle.

Berron Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn, wore his signature sneer, his expression laced with his usual disdain. Beside him, Eris stood with his chin lifted, his sharp gaze unreadable, though a flicker of intrigue danced in his ember eyes.

Helion, High Lord of Day, watched with a charming, knowing smile, golden robes bright against the icy backdrop. Thesan, High Lord of Dawn, stood with quiet grace, his consort by his side, both watching with open curiosity.

Tarquin, High Lord of Summer, met her gaze with a small, respectful nod, the sapphire earrings dangling from his ears catching the light.

And then—

Her breath hitched.

Rhysand.

He stood among the High Lords, his midnight-black attire pristine as always. His expression—indecipherable at first, unreadable as his violet gaze held hers. But then, something flickered there. Something that looked almost like regret, or longing, before his eyes softened—

Softened as they shifted behind her, landing on Virelia.

And despite himself, despite everything, he smiled.

Beside him, Feyre stood—her face carefully composed, unreadable, but Y/N could feel the weight of her stare.

The rest of Rhysand’s Inner Circle flanked them, their reactions varied. Azriel’s expression remained unreadable, Mor’s carefully neutral. But Cassian—

Cassian’s expression was priceless.

The warrior winked at Virelia, pulling a ridiculous face that had the little girl cooing in delight, her tiny hands clapping together. A small, unwilling laugh threatened to bubble up in Y/N’s throat at the sight, but she refused to let her steps falter.

Because ahead of her—stood him.

Kallias.

He looked utterly regal, his presence commanding yet effortlessly elegant. His frost-colored robes, embroidered with silver and lined with the softest white fur, complemented the gleaming crown atop his head—crafted of ice and moonstone, its crystalline edges glinting under the chandeliers’ light.

But it was his expression that made her chest tighten.

Warmth. Pure, unguarded love as he watched her.

As if she were the only thing in this grand hall that mattered.

And when she reached him, when she stood close enough that their breaths mingled, Kallias took her hand, his thumb grazing over her knuckles before he brought it to his lips and pressed a slow, lingering kiss against her skin.

His gaze never left hers as he whispered, just for her, “You’re otherworldly.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered, but before she could reply, his attention shifted to Virelia.

A different kind of warmth filled his expression as he smiled at the tiny girl, a smile so full of quiet devotion that it left no doubt in anyone’s mind—she was his daughter.

The ladies gently stepped forward, keeping Virelia in their arms and retreating to the side as the ceremony continued. Y/N barely had time to process the absence of her daughter behind her before Kallias leaned in slightly—closer now, his voice softer.

“Are you ready?”

It was a whisper, meant only for her, barely audible over the grand music.

She smiled. Bright and unwavering.

“Always.”

A glimmer of pride flickered across his face before they turned together, facing the thrones.

At the base of the dais, a ceremonial pedestal stood, draped in rich, Winter Court velvet. And atop it, resting against a pillow of midnight-blue, was her crown.

Beside it, two attendants stood—Lord Arlan, Winter Court’s head councilor, and Lady Lyselle, her closest advisor and a high priestess. Both awaited her final steps toward the throne.

And as the music swelled, as the murmurs of the court grew hushed, Y/N and Kallias stepped forward—toward her destiny.

The hall fell into a near-sacred silence.

Y/N and Kallias stood at the foot of the dais, the towering thrones of Winter gleaming before them. Above them, the banners of Winter Court stirred gently, despite the absence of any breeze. Magic hummed in the air, thick and expectant.

And at the heart of it all—the crown.

She had designed it herself. Every intricate curve, every delicate carving of frosted silver and moonstone, every shard of enchanted ice that glittered like starlight trapped in crystal—all of it was a piece of her. A reflection of who she was, of what she had become.

And now, it would be placed upon her head as a final, irreversible declaration of her rule.

Kallias’s fingers brushed against hers.

The touch was featherlight, a grounding tether, and when she turned to him, she found his icy-blue gaze unwavering. Steady. A quiet strength meant for her alone.

He didn’t need to say anything. His touch, his presence—they said enough.

A deep, resonant voice broke the silence.

“Let the ceremony begin.”

Lord Arlan stepped forward first. The head councilor of Winter Court was a figure of deep wisdom, his silver-white beard neatly trimmed, his robe embroidered with ancient runes of governance and law. He moved with a solemn grace as he raised a rolled parchment in his hands.

“Before the gathered court and the High Lords of Prythian, we bear witness to this sacred moment,” Lord Arlan declared. “A moment in which Winter Court acknowledges its High Lady—not as consort, nor as queen, but as a ruler in her own right.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall, though it was quickly silenced by Lady Lyselle, the High Priestess.

She was an ethereal figure, draped in flowing silver robes, her white hair braided in an intricate coil. The crystalline pendant at her throat glowed softly as she stepped forward, hands outstretched.

“Let the Trials of the High Lady commence,” she intoned.

Y/N straightened. She knew of this ritual—it was an ancient Winter Court tradition, an acknowledgment of the burdens a ruler must bear. Three vows, three trials.

Lady Lyselle turned to Kallias first.

“High Lord of Winter, do you accept this female beside you not as a consort alone, but as your equal in rule? To honor her strength, her wisdom, her sovereignty?”

Kallias did not hesitate. “I do.”

“Do you swear to stand by her, not as a shadow behind a throne, but as a partner upon it? To rule beside her, not above her?”

“I swear it.”

The High Priestess turned to Y/N.

“Do you, Y/N, swear to protect the people of Winter Court, to rule with justice and mercy, to carry the weight of the crown with unwavering resolve?”

Y/N exhaled softly. “I do.”

“Do you swear to uphold the traditions of our court, not as a prisoner to the past, but as a guardian of our future?”

“I swear it.”

Lady Lyselle nodded, and with a flick of her fingers, the pendant at her throat pulsed with light, sealing the vows.

Then, she lifted her hands over the crown.

“Come forward, High Lady.”

Y/N stepped onto the dais, her pulse a steady drumbeat in her ears. The closer she got to the crown, the heavier the air around her became.

A test.

A final, unspoken test—to see if she was truly ready.

Kallias stepped beside her, his hand pressing lightly against her back in silent reassurance.

She could feel the weight of a hundred eyes upon her.

The court officials. The noble families. The High Lords.

And then, her gaze met his.

Rhysand.

He stood still as stone, his violet eyes locked on her. Not with mockery, not with amusement—but with something else entirely. Something soft, almost haunted.

Almost as if he were looking at a path he had once walked.

A path he had lost.

His gaze flickered—just for a moment—toward Kallias. Toward the way he looked at her. And something unreadable passed through his features.

Then, his eyes found hers again.

And he bowed his head.

Slightly. Barely noticeable. But it was there.

An acknowledgment.

A recognition of what she had become.

Y/N’s breath caught, but she forced herself to turn away, to face the High Priestess once more.

Lady Lyselle lifted the crown, the delicate silver gleaming in the candlelight.

With infinite care, she lowered it onto Y/N’s head.

The moment the cold metal touched her skin, magic surged through her.

It was not an attack. Not a battle to be fought.

It was a welcome.

A claiming.

The court’s magic settling into her bones, binding her to this land, this people.

And then—

She was crowned.

Kallias turned to the court, his voice ringing with undeniable authority.

“Behold your High Lady.”

The hall erupted.

Cheers, applause, murmurs of awe.

The sound nearly overwhelmed her—until her gaze flickered, almost instinctively, to Virelia.

The little girl was nestled in Lady Sylva’s arms, her tiny hands reaching up toward her mother. Y/N exhaled softly.

There it was.

That sense of calm. Of home.

Kallias leaned in, voice hushed. “Breathe,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against hers.

She did.

And then—she smiled.

Because at last, this moment was hers.

The grand ballroom of the Winter Court shimmered with a thousand lights, the glow from massive chandeliers casting a golden hue over the sea of silver and blue. The ice sculptures, enchanted to never melt, gleamed like diamonds, reflecting the light of the faelights floating above. Musicians played in the far corner, the soft melody of strings weaving through the laughter and clinking of glasses. Servants in crisp white uniforms flitted about, refilling goblets and ensuring that no guest was left unattended.

Y/N was surrounded, congratulated at every turn. Lords and ladies bowed as they passed, murmuring praises, their voices blending into a chorus of celebration. She nodded, smiling gracefully, accepting their words with the poise of a queen—because that’s what she was now.

Then, a familiar presence wrapped her in a tight embrace. Strong, calloused hands clung to her as if letting go would shatter him.

“Az,” she whispered, barely holding back tears as she felt his trembling exhale against her hair.

Azriel’s voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “I’m so proud of you.” He pulled back just enough to look at her, his shadows coiling protectively around them. His eyes were suspiciously bright, his throat bobbing as he tried to swallow the emotion down.

Her lips quirked. “Are you crying?”

He huffed a half-laugh, shaking his head. “No.”

She cupped his face teasingly. “Liar.”

Before he could reply, Cassian swooped in, draping a heavy arm around both of them. “Az is an emotional wreck, but let’s talk about the real tragedy here—how I have yet to dance with the newly crowned High Lady.”

She laughed, stepping back as Mor waltzed up to them, a goblet of wine in hand. “If anyone gets to dance with her first, it’s me,” she declared, looping an arm through Y/N’s. “Come on, my love, let’s leave these oafs to sulk.”

Cassian scoffed. “Excuse you, but I’m a fantastic dancer.”

“Sure,” Mor drawled, dragging Y/N toward the center of the room. “If stomping around and accidentally punching people counts as dancing.”

Y/N threw her head back, laughing freely for the first time that night. This—this felt like home.

But then, her gaze drifted across the ballroom, her laughter fading as she caught sight of him.

Rhysand stood across the room, a striking figure in deep black, the starry sheen of his attire making him look otherworldly. But her focus wasn’t on him. It was on the small bundle in his arms.

Virelia.

Her daughter cooed, tiny hands reaching for the silver embroidery on his tunic. And though Y/N had every reason to despise the male holding her child, she couldn’t deny the tenderness in his touch, the absolute devotion in his violet eyes as he cradled his daughter like she was the most precious thing in existence.

He may have failed her as a lover, but he was undeniably a good father.

Her lips parted slightly when Rhysand’s gaze lifted to hers. His expression was unreadable—something between regret and admiration, something softer than she ever thought she’d see from him again. Then, just as quickly, his features hardened, especially when Helion reached out, attempting to brush a finger over Virelia’s chubby cheek.

Rhys pulled her closer to his chest, his wings flaring slightly in warning.

Y/N nearly laughed. So protective.

A familiar warmth spread across her back, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Enjoying the view?”

Kallias’ voice was low, teasing, but there was something possessive in the way his arms curled around her waist, tugging her back against him as he took a few steps back into a darker part of the ballroom for a quick moment of privacy.

She startled slightly but melted into his embrace almost instantly, tilting her head so he could nuzzle into her neck.

“Hardly,” she murmured, leaning into him.

His lips brushed her ear, his voice a purr. “Good. Because the only male you should be looking at is me.”

She turned in his arms, gazing up at him as her hands rose to cradle his face.

“My High Lord,” she murmured.

His expression softened. “My High Lady.”

Her chest tightened at the way he said it—as if the words alone were sacred, as if calling her his was the greatest honor he’d ever been given.

“Waiting two hundred years for you was worth it,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against hers. “Because now, I get to have you for eternity.”

She smirked. “What if I fall in love with another?”

His irises darkened instantly, his grip tightening at her waist. “You won’t,” he said smoothly, his voice a calm-before-the-storm kind of quiet. “Because he will be dead.”

She arched a brow. “Will you kill me too?”

His breath hitched, but then he sighed, pressing his forehead more firmly against hers. “Of course not. I would kill everyone but you and our daughter.”

Her heart clenched at the words—our daughter.

Warmth bloomed in her chest, and before she could stop herself, she leaned in, brushing a featherlight kiss against his lips.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because that will never happen. I was joking.”

His answering laugh was deep, rich. Then he kissed her fully, hungrily, and she let him, her entire body pressing into him. Mother above, she always wanted him.

A growl rumbled against her lips. “You look absolutely delectable,” he muttered between kisses, his hands roaming lower. “But I can’t wait to have you naked beneath me.”

She laughed breathlessly, shaking her head. “You need to wait some more, then. The ball just started.”

He pressed her tighter against him, his breath warm in her ear. “Fuck the ball. No one will notice if we disappear.”

She was about to reply when—

“Where is the High Lord and Lady?”

Tarquin’s voice rang through the ballroom, drawing chuckles and murmurs of agreement from other nobles.

Kallias groaned in frustration, and she barely managed to break free, smoothing down her dress and fixing her crown.

“Nope,” she said, smirking as she saw the dark frustration in his expression. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

His eyes gleamed with promise. “Then you owe me later.”

She leaned in, whispering "Be patient, my love. The longer you wait, the sweeter I'll taste" in his ear, watching with satisfaction as his pupils blew wide.

“Mother above,” he exhaled, his voice thick with desire. “I am deeply and utterly in love with you.”

She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before slipping her arm through his. “Good. Because I, too, am irreversibly in love with you.”

And as they stepped back into the light, the nobles awaiting them with bright eyes and raised glasses, Kallias smiled down at her.

“Then it’s a good thing we’re stuck together forever.”

She squeezed his hand, matching his grin.

“Forever,” she echoed. And for the first time in a long, long while, the word didn’t scare her. It felt like home.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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[nightscythe]

legions reaction to their primarch wooing you?

but i would love love love to read the more taboo version of primarchs kinks :D

hope you have/had a wonderful day :p

thank you anon hope you have/had a wonderful day too!! i waited for a plumber all day. created this as I waited •⩊•

please forgive me for what this turned into. i have made it less serious that originally planned but it just happened i am so sorry. i live in a fantasy where 30k is sunshine and rainbows. hope you enjoy anyway!! taboo vers. of the kinks will be posted later this week.

this is all pre-heresy. little bit nsfw on one i think so 18+ please.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

lion: there was no evidence, until the very very end stage of his courting, that the lion even had the slightest feeling of love in his body. but when he didn’t react to you approaching him, when he spared a glance at you, answered questions as though he didn’t just see you as another person beneath him. oh. they knew. and no one even dare speak a word of it. no side glances, no reactions. they ignored everything that happened. it was luther who eventually started a conversation about it with some others that same evening, away from the prying ears of their primarch. he’s so fucked. literally. because there’s no way in hell that the lion was the one chasing you. whatever he had said, you’d reciprocated, and if luther knew one thing about the lion… it’s that he won’t let things go that he thinks belong to him. it’s the nightly gossip when they have nothing better to discuss, and the lion really thinks no one has even noticed. 

fulgrim: they were all enthralled by his tactics at first. such elegance, such style, fulgrim spared nothing in making you his absolute muse. but then fulgrim gets them all involved. they are delivering the pottery and jewellery to you by hand, ordered to protect you even (which they didn’t have the biggest issue with, you were nice) – fulgrim wanted to prove that even his finest warriors are on the table for you. and then it became all he talked about. and then, when you had finally been convinced of his love (because he told you his feelings father than gifted you a whole planet), fulgrim’s own ego was so entirely huge that he declared himself master of courtship. and now he’s got classes on how to make someone fall in love with you with guest speakers. eidolon is literally at the front seat, heart eyes, yes my perfect primarch please teach me your ways type thing. vespasian, on the other hand, is just wondering why he was even invited. 

perty: they didn’t dare question their primarch, but they weren’t stupid. the handcrafted tools that he would spends hours on just to give away. the armour customised to a much smaller body. the books he’s borrowedfrom magnus that he has no interest in. vhalen had noticed because he had stumbled on a book his primarch kept detailing interests of yours. connected the dots. didn’t say anything because it wasn’t his place. silently tried to help out by leaving flowers you liked or herbs you needed for perturabo to give to you. never wanted anything in return, but believed that maybe you’d be able to help ground him, truthfully. but forrix? no. this was weak. they were taught to never be weak and this was a weakness to its very core. out of their control, completely inefficient, a waste of time in his eyes. he would never understand why perturabo was doing, but at the very least he wouldn’t say a word – not the same could be said about everyone in the legion though. 

khan: at first it had started with the stashing of treasures he thought may be of interest to you. then, the invitation came. an esteemed guest would join for an adventure. and they were very amused. an esteemed guest? shiban might begin to joke, testing the khan’s reaction. and when his primarch looks up with the slightest smirk on his lips, there would be an immediate laugh. i think you may need to revisit that title my lord, perhaps something with… meaning. though many of the white scars would avoid asking questions, they enjoyed the details of it. it was a new adventure to them, and the khan was leading the way. but shiban would keep seeing this title, esteemed guest, and constantly change it to a new one. warhawk’s chosen was most common, because that’s what you were. and he’d probably be a banging wing man too, but the khan never needed it.  just asks every so often how things are going and reports back to the others.

leman: they’d critiqued you as they watched their primarch try to train you how to protect yourself. with a sword, with a gun, with whatever was around. your own fists even. and you may have been no match for leman, but they were still impressed in their own way. a collective nod between them as you flawlessly replicate something he showed you. it’s when leman has you pinned against the floor and it becomes extremely obvious that he got so carried away that his hard on is pressed against you and you most certainly have noticed. whatever happened next, they weren’t sure. leman’s courting may just have been giving you a taster of what might happen if you accepted his love. they’d all given you privacy to say the least. another collective nod between them, what a majestic man their primarch was. and if you were brave enough? join them for beer as well. 

dorn: it had been a normal day. life was just moving by calmly, not a thing or person out of place. dorn was discussing something about a building, the internal structure, yada yada. it was a really nice day to be an imperial fist. but then his hand reached for your shoulder, and the remnants of a smile fell on his lips as he lead you on to show you something else in the structure, something integral to building. and he wasn’t really wooing you in any sense of the word, but he was opening himself up in a way that only dorn could. he was… trying to impress you? no. archamus believes that there must be reason for this, his primarch is being tactical. you know something. sigismund believes the same. this is calculated and logical. explaining the internal structure must provide a benefit to the legion. perhaps you’re an expert of some kind. the pair don’t ever mention what they saw again, but they do consider what kind of expert you are later down the line when they’re standing outside their primarch’s doors waiting for the consultation to be over. whatever it was, you obviously felt very strongly. 

curze: jago sighs. he’d had to watch his stupid primarch stand outside your window for what seemed like weeks now, neglecting his duties, or anything other than you really, whilst never saying anything. curze didn’t know he was there, but jago was too curious to let it go. he thought you were just another victim, someone curze was taking his time with, but then he realised the whole situation. curze was just watching. staring. felt but never seen. stole an item of your clothing. jago didn’t want to find out what item, but deep down he knew. curze was spiralling, staring into the distance, eyes glued to you even when you looked uncomfortable, but never actually talking to you. so jago takes it into his own hands. sends you directly to curze, makes the primarch speak to you. really, curze is just haunting you, but that’s okay - jago will fill in the gaps, woo you with all his own tactics until you actually start to reciprocate whatever it is curze is feeling. and the rest of nightlords are confused more than anything. does standing in the shadows actually work? are humans that enthralled by primarchs? gendor tries it out for himself, wanting his own partner (or, human trophy). doesn’t work for him but claims it does.

sanguinius: what a pure demonstration of love this is. to see their angel, someone who would fight in battle for hours without breaking, stutter over some words in front of someone? to watch as he fought to keep a conversation going just to hear your voice? his sons are in awe. of you, because how pure must you be to have won the attention of their primarch? but also of him, because it was the most human he had ever felt. they saw his nervous looks, his shy appreciation of your perfection, and valued it deeply. and overtime you’d start receiving flowers from him, handpicked by his sons who saw it as a way to help steer their somehow clueless primarch in the right direction. azkaellon specifically had handed him roses for you, cut from the most perfect bush, claiming it was something romantic that you would appreciate. and you did. and sanguinius was extremely happy when you kissed his cheeks (and the silent celebratory crowd of blood angels watched on in joy). 

ferrus: you’re his personal project. he spent every hour of the day with you, it felt like. improving you, working on enchancements. making you perfect. but then something else started happening. it was no longer pride that kept him going. it was you. and they all noticed. at first he didn’t care for anything you said. now? he listens to every word. like you are another of his brothers, but it’s different, even than with fulgrim. he cares in a way they don’t understand. no one would ever say a thing – they’d all pass their silent judgement on how this went against everything he seemed to stand for. but maybe santor would ask about it just once. not for details, not for questioning. just to confirm. they are different, my lord? ferrus wouldn’t hesitate with his answer. they are everything. what does that even mean? it would never be mentioned again. by anyone. whilst some of them would question his decision internally, most would trust him – their primarch understood weakness, and if he didn’t see you as weak, neither would they.  

angron: does anyone even know what is going on with you? could it even be considered wooing? barely. angron would want to kill you some days, and want to fuck you other days. and somewhere in between he’d just want to be with you. it was within that where kharn saw a positive. he saw hope. angron was capable of something other than rage and somehow you could control it for more than a single sentence. and in that regard, kharn becomes your biggest supporter. he would do anything he could to not only protect you in moments of rage but to encourage you when angron needed it the most. he’d prepare for those small moments of clarity to see if you could help balance angron out. but the others? it was a fluke. you weren’t changing anything. angron would never be any different. but go off, try and kill them, that shows you love them right? 

rob: it only took one to notice. how a slight shift in his schedule put him back in the room with the same person he saw the week before, and the week before that. and he’s seeing them next week, and the week after. are they a diplomat? are they a specialised counsel of some kind? a small team of investigators forms, and no, you are none of those things. you are the object of lord guilliman’s attention. his carefully considered words. his offering of a basket of fruit you liked, supposedly something not liked by his offices. what a liar. they never receive baskets of fruit like that. it becomes a hot topic for gossip, and it isn’t until valentus asks if ‘this person’ he meets with so often may want something other than fruit baskets, and that he can ask for something to be custom made, that guilliman reconsiders his whole approach – and takes valentus up on that offer. speculations are common. whispers even more so. but they are all pleased for him in their own way. 

morty: well it wasn’t really courting. he gave you something, said that would care if you died, and then waited for you to respond. and when you finally said that, yeah… you would too? he nodded and took that as confirmation of, uh, something between you. so you’re confused, and so are his sons. you even catch eyes with one and shrug comically because what the fuck? the entire legion falls silent about the issue. no one says a word. but internally? what the fuck was about right. morty didn’t seem to care for anything, he barely even seemed like he cared for his legion some time, and now he doesn’t want you to die. huh. whatever. typhon would be the one to outwardly say something. my lord, is this not a shackle that binds you to humanity? and the primarch would dismiss the thought without doubt. not every attachment is a weakness. deathguard HATE this guy. 

magnus: ahriman should be ashamed of himself. he could be doing something important. he could be doing anything but this. but he’s silently observing his primarch, sat on the balcony of his private chambers, sharing a bottle of his finest wine with someone who has been here a few times now. sharing it with you. and he’s drabbling on about the universe and stars and how the universe began with his eyes all wide and bright, looking to see your response, needing to hear your voice and how you’re impressed by his understanding. ahriman isn’t spying. he’s protecting his primarch from the dangers at large. you could be dangerous. or, more realistically, ahriman wished to listen to magnus’ wisdom as well. but he can’t help but be genuinely impressed by how magnus handled himself, how he knew all the right things to say, how he was so genuinely charismatic with you. and equally, how he’d managed to hide this from the entirely population of tizca when he was right on the balcony. ahriman takes notes. he may need them in the future. 

horus: a couple of the mournival had watched him from the corridor. horus had basically made you putty in his hands, he knew when and where to touch you, how to exude the right amount of character and strength, mixed with emotions and feelings, at the exact moment it was needed. he’s a traditionalist, he knows how to make someone swoon. a compliment here. a smile there. it’s a masterclass. this must be where fulgrim learnt it from. and his sons are living for it. that is until tarik hums to himself knowingly. i know them from somewhere. and loken hesitates, because isn’t that the person abbadon kept talking about before. yes it was. horus was courting the one person who caught abbadon’s interest, clearly taking something from that conversation. the pair keep it to themselves for now. loken walks away wondering how horus managed to make the word sweetheart sound so different – and how long it would be before everyone knew about this, because it would be a good source of a amusement.

lorgar: erebus and kor phaeron rarely lorgar out of their sights, because it seemed their grand plan would fuck up each time he managed to escape. this time? it seems the primarch has gone and fallen in love. they’d watched as lorgar handed you a book. perfectly accompanied by sticky tabs, post it notes, underlined words and highlighted phrases that made him think of you. each page was absolutely covered. kor phaeron had been the first to laugh, seeing his pathetic attempt at worship only elicit an uncomfortable smile from you as you flicked through the pages and saw the depths that he was going into. erebus was quieter, but equally amused. so easy to manipulate, he’d comment, seeing the way the lorgar would quite literally fall to his knees and praise you, another weakness he falls so easily to.  but on the other side of things, argel tal is a few steps behind his primarch, peering around subtly in admiration of lorgar’s attempts. he sees it as sweet, actually, and rather than a weakness in his devotion to the emperor, saw it as an extension. some others may find it heretical, depending on where their loyalty stood. 

vulkan: he first crafted you a knife, such a beautifully build and shaped weapon that everyone could tell his entire soul went into it. but he could have done that for anyone. and then he crafted a necklace, forced from things he owned, and was not shy about handing it to you in front of everyone. he wanted every one of his sons to know his feelings, maybe without directly saying it, and begin to internalise what this all meant. which is exactly what they did. and it was like a tension lifted. every single one of them is rooting for him, for you, for whatever is going to come from it. and vulkan can’t be criticised in his ways either. numeon may even comment, offhandedly, that he would inspire generations to come with his actions. and xiaphas? would plan the wedding. the most normal legion on this list, it seems.  

corvus: he was silent about it, never revealing a thing to any other. his silent courting, his gestures that had no meaning until they did. it wasn’t until they’d see him protect you, maybe even just the flick of his wrist to prevent an action that he would never usually stop, that they all start thinking. wondering. could their primarch truly have feelings in this way? was there really one person who could capture all of their attention? it would come down to someone like sharrowkyn to say something. voice an opinion to his brothers and then to the primarch himself. with caution, of course. are they worth it, my lord? he wouldn’t hesitate. they are worth my entire being. and from then ravenguard watch in the shadows for you as well. they would accept it, they may not understand it, but they wouldn’t question it. he did not want to fail you. and if any of them did want to understand, he would explain it. 

alpharius: regardless of which one it is that’s wooing someone, they were all involved. because this is alpharius after all - he’s not just going to make someone fall in love with him because he’s really nice. or he couldn’t be bothered to try. so the whole legion is in on it. they are all courting you, working on this plan which they don’t really understand. they all think its part of something bigger. they all think you must be someone who is so important that all their attention has to be focused on you. but no, alpharius just has a crush. and it becomes obvious when pretty soon alpharius does not want to share with anyone. a few of them would be kind of pressed about it. didn’t want to be involved, didn’t want to carry it on. a couple accidentally catch feelings because they were forcing themselves to replicate what alpharius was doing and he’s a very touchy-feely man. or was it omegon? who knows. maybe it wasn’t even alpharius that started this all, he was just caught up in the cross fire. regardless, alpharius is smitten, and his legion is… not.

i am very sorry if any people/legions are mischaracterised at all!! i am more familiar with some legions which probably comes across in this, but please tell me if something wouldn't happen, so i know for next time ◡̈

[rawflwrs]

ONESHOTS / masterlist

▐ aaron pierre ୫ black!oc

summary: when saniah and aaron go on their annual picnic to commemorate the first time they fell for each other

warning: suggestive sexual content. fluff & a bit of angst

Red stained glossy lips, wispy lashes, vanilla scented body butter, gold jewellery, the smell of morning rain. Saniah loved the summer so dearly. It was the only season that cleared her of any lingering melancholy.

Having to handle the loss of a court case she was fighting to win, not only to bring justice to her client, but to prove to herself and everyone that she was worthy of having the title of an attorney general: Saniah felt worthless. Her mother would always tell her she was too hard on herself, although Saniah would argue that she simply wanted to be nothing more than a winner because her academic validation wouldn’t allow her be anything less.

It seemed like everything made her feel as though she was less deserving than the next person. All she wanted to do most days was lay in bed, cry and maybe binge watch a couple episodes of ‘girlfriends.’ However, today was not the day.

June 22nd.

She never thought that she would get so excited seeing a date pop up on her calendar, but today was a day full of core memories for her. June 22nd was the day she fell for her now husband, Aaron. Saniah remembers the day they confessed their love for one another like it was yesterday; always replaying that moment in her head when she feels down or when she begins to degrade herself unknowingly.

Aaron made her feel worthy. Sure, she’s had her fair share of boys come and go in her life because I mean Saniah was a gorgeous woman. Some would say her voice sounded like the princesses of fairytales you read about, her eyes glistened like oozing honey and her lips could be mistaken for pillows. But Aaron made her feel so different . . . He was a man.

A man who wanted to cater to her in every way possible. Whether it was rubbing her feet after work, carrying her bag and the groceries inside or simply replacing her body care, hair care and makeup products when he notices they are nearly finished. He loved taking care of her and she loved being taken care of.

As Saniah walked out of their shared bathroom into their bedroom, rubbing EOS Vanilla Cashmere body lotion on her arms, she saw her chocolate brown maltipoo, Coco, jumping around her husband who was holding a big bouquet of red roses, sitting with his legs spread on their bed. She smiled as she slowly approached him.

“And who are these for?” She teased, rubbing the back of his head, kneeling to smell the roses. “For my girls.” He smiled, looking between Saniah and Coco as she giggled. “You’re too sweet to me. Isn’t your daddy sweet, Coco?” Saniah asked rhetorically, watching their dog bark as though she understood her.

“I only give what you deserve, baby.” He paused, placing the flowers to his side before pulling Saniah to straddle his lap and wrap his arms around her waist. She leaned down to press her lip against his, feeling his hand rise up behind her back, placing his ring finger down the middle of her spine, pushing upwards. She gasped, allowing him access to push his tongue into her mouth as they fought for dominance. His touch. His touch said so many things without saying a single word and she loved it.

He pulled away to stare at the mess he created. Her red lip gloss smothered across her chin, her eyes watery as though she was hungry for more. Aaron was convinced he loved seeing her like this more than anything: desperately needing him. “Happy anniversary, my love.” She said in an almost whisper tone. He pushed a strand of her freshly bleached curls behind her ear with his right hand, pressing his left thumb down on her clothed clit. “Happy anniversary, beautiful.” He smiled, gently rubbing her clothed clit in a circle.

“Aaron . . .” She breathed out, eyes shut. “I need you.” Her admission almost sounded like a plea. Aaron simply smiled and removed his hands from her, giving her one last peck before tapping her thigh as a signal for her to stand up. As he stood, looking down at his needy wife, he said “we have all the time in the world for that. Let’s not forget what today is about.” However, Saniah’s reaction wasn’t necessarily appreciative as she sighed, wiping her chin, grabbing her flowers and moving past him to go downstairs to wait in his car, mumbling a mouthful of curse words on her way out.

He laughed, grabbing Coco, closing all the lights in their room and walking down the stairs towards the kitchen where he had left the basket with all of Saniah’s favourite snacks that he packed for their picnic. He walked to his car, opening the passenger side so he could place Coco on Saniah’s lap, giving her a peck on her forehead. “Don’t get bratty with me because I won’t give you this dick right now.” He joked, but Saniah just stared, clearly sexually frustrated. “Don’t speak like that in front of my daughter.” She covered Coco’s ears, causing him to give her one of his notorious deep chuckles and close her side of the door.

He got into the driver side, leaning over to the backseat to place the basket behind them. Aaron knew Saniah could never stay mad at him for long because they were both too down bad for each other that they couldn’t help themselves. The drive to the beach was peaceful. They both hummed to ‘sweet love’ by Anita Baker, with Coco asleep in Saniah’s lap. She loved small moments like this that may seem insignificant to others, but to her it reminded her of the little family she’s building with the man she loves so deeply.

“We’re here.” Aaron expressed calmly with a clear expression of excitement laced in his voice. “You girls find a good spot for us while I grab everything.” He placed a kiss on top of Saniah’s head and rubbed Coco’s ear before hopping out and grabbing all the extra necessities he packed earlier for them. Watching from a distance, he saw Saniah pick the perfect spot, not too close or too far from the sea.

Aaron approached them with his hands full, placing all his items down to lay the blanket down. Saniah sat down with her legs placed on the outer edge of the blanket. “Come here.” Aaron motioned pulling her legs towards him, removing her sandals. “I’m surprised you let me walk by myself.” Saniah joked. “You know you love this. Stop playing with me.” Aaron laughed, smacking her plush thighs.

After he placed her sandals to the side of her, he put all the food and drinks down neatly, knowing she would want to take a picture to show her friends. “This is so cute!” Saniah squealed, grabbing her digital camera taking a picture. “Let me take one of you before the sun goes down.” He motioned for her to give him her camera while she began to pose. He took a couple pictures of her and of the scenery around them, then handed the camera back to her.

She stared at him as he placed Coco between his legs. Their size difference was crazy to Saniah. She sometimes wondered if Coco thought Aaron was a giant because of how small the dog was compared to him. “What’s on your mind?” He asked still playing with their ‘daughter’ as Saniah referred to Coco as. “How lucky I am to have someone like you.” She started, smiling at him with nothing but love. He chuckled. “I’m the lucky one. I can’t imagine my life without you.” He responded honestly.

Aaron was more quiet and introverted compared to Saniah, but when he spoke, he made sure she understood every word he said with clarity. “3 years and you still give me butterflies.” She giggled, covering her smile. “To think 3 years ago, I thought you didn’t even want to be in the same room as me.” He admitted, looking at her teasingly. “What? I was not that bad, was I?” She questioned, knowing she used to hate it when people were quiet around her. “You really want me to answer that?” He asked as she shook her head no profusely, causing him to laugh.

“I was so insecure back then. I felt like everyone who didn’t talk, be loud or just do the most all the time was a weirdo. It’s so embarrassing to think about it now.” She put her head down. “It’s really not a big deal, Niah. It’s not like I was offended or anything.” He shrugged before continuing. “If anything I found your extra ass cute.” He mumbled, causing her to whip her head towards him abruptly. “So all this time you had me feeling guilty for being childish and come to find out you was fucking with it? You’re sick.” Saniah rolled her eyes, watching him laugh with his whole body, shaking Coco in the process.

“It’s not like you were rude. You’re just yourself and that’s what I like most.” He laid back on his arms, closing his eyes. “You’re corny as shit, you know that?” She slapped his chest. He grabbed her arms and pulled her to lay next to him, signalling for her to close her eyes too. “Wait, I didn’t eat the strawberries yet!” Saniah whined, thinking about the food Aaron packed that was going to go to waste, when she heard a hum from Aaron. “Aaron!” She hit his chest again. “Close your eyes and listen to your surroundings.” He told her, rubbing her back, soothingly.

The sounds of the ocean waves flapping, the birds chirping a song and children playing in the distance filled their ears. It was so calming. Saniah loved how easy it was for her to be serene under his arms, like she had no worries or responsibilities to attend to later. She loved being in the moment with him, where she knew she would never be alone because he would always be there for her no matter what they go through together or individually. He loved her too much to disappoint her.

“I love you.” Aaron broke the silence. “I love you too.” She looked up at him, leaning in for a kiss that he reciprocated. “Now, get your ass up before these fat ass seagulls eat my food.” She hit his chest again, jolting him up. He loved this life.