#and all the art in the gallery is hand painted by her

[clarisse0o]

Camp Wiegman-Part 77

Lucy Bronze x Ona Batlle

Alternative Universe: Military School

Words: 5K

Masterlist

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Saturday, April 2; 1:50 PM - Downtown.

Time is passing. Only one week remains before the holidays. I'm eager to get there. Lucy and I have agreed that I will give my all during these last weeks so that I can relax afterward. It's tough. I'm barely with my friends at school anymore, but I want to be ready for the big day. They know and understand that. Another thing that's hard is that Lucy doesn’t show me any affection at school. Ever since Wiegman found out, she's been very cautious. Sometimes she hugs me in the evening or gives me a kiss or two, but that's it. So, I'm glad it's the weekend. At least now, she doesn't hold back.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asks me.

"Of course," I chuckle. "It's not the first time I've been here."

Today is the second Saturday I'm going to work with Grace at the gallery. She wants to make sure we can work together and that we both enjoy it. Personally, I loved being here last week. It didn't feel like work. Grace has a much more modern style, thanks to street art. Mine is still very classical, so I understand why she said she could teach me a lot. We complement each other in a way. She asked me to come back today, and she'll give me her decision tonight. By the end of the day, I'll know if my future has a chance in this field. I sincerely hope so. It's the only concrete offer I have. I know that if I get my degree, I can find work in administration, but let's just say that’s not what I want.

"True," Lucy replies. "Will you text me when you're done?"

"Like last time, yes. Say hi to everyone for me."

Lucy is going to meet up with her friends at the venue. They need to clear out the last few things before next week. I think they still have a lot to do. I regret not being with them. I enjoy lending a hand, but I have other responsibilities today.

"I won't forget," she says with a smile.

"And tell Ale I'm supporting her with all my strength for tonight."

Lucy laughs, nodding. Leah party is tonight. I sulked about it for a long time. I felt a little guilty for not being there since I haven't been spending much time with them, but I can always count on Lucy to lift my spirits.

"I'll tell her. Now go. You’re going to be late again."

"How about a little kiss first?"

She smiles and leans over to kiss me.

"Have a good day, my love," I say before getting out of the car.

I close the door and walk toward the gallery. I know Lucy won't leave until I’m inside. And that's exactly what happens. I enter the gallery, triggering the little bell hanging on the door. I take the time to close it, and only then do I see my girlfriend's car pulling away. I smile at that but quickly refocus.

"Ah, hey Ona," Grace greets me.

"Hey," I reply.

The first thing she asked me to do last week was to speak informally with her. I must admit it’s a relief. She's young, probably around Lucy’s age. At least I’m sure I won’t mess up. It also makes me feel more comfortable.

"How are you?"

"Good, and you?"

I smile and approach her for a cheek kiss. The gallery she owns is nothing like Mr. Fields'. It's smaller. Much smaller, but I love it. It's very cozy. It's dark, with occasional light accents here and there. I recognize her style from Nyko's paintball artwork.

"You came at the perfect time. I was trying to hang a painting, but it’s up high, and I couldn’t manage alone. Can you help me?"

"Yeah, of course. I’ll just drop my stuff in the back."

"Oops, sorry, poor you," she laughs. "I'm already piling on the work. Go ahead, I’ll wait."

"Oh no, don’t worry," I giggle.

"Meet me in the back."

I nod while taking off my jacket. The gallery is shaped like an "L." It's on a corner, which is lucky. This way, each piece displayed is lit by the large windows. Grace had the entire place renovated, and I must admit it’s brilliant. Passersby can see inside without having to come in. I go behind the counter to reach a back room. There’s about 20 square meters of space here, which serves as a workshop, storage, and even a dressing room. I hang my bag and jacket on the coat rack before joining Grace at the back of the gallery. Now I understand why she needed my help. She’s waiting for me at the top of a stepladder, with a huge canvas on the floor.

"Wow, it's beautiful," I comment.

The painting is a street art piece of the city of Seattle in multicolored hues. I can totally recognize Grace’s style in it. It’s truly stunning.

"Did you make it?" I ask, just to be sure.

"Yeah," she smiles. "I want it to be the centerpiece, but as you can see, it’s quite big."

"Yeah, I can see that," I chuckle. "Hold on, I’ll lift it for you."

No sooner said than done. I lift the painting so she can grab it where she’s standing. I hold it until she manages to hang it from the suspended ceiling using hooks. Unlike the rest of the room, the ceiling is made of white oak beams. It contrasts nicely with the anthracite walls.

"Phew, thanks."

She climbs down the stepladder, and we step back to see how it looks.

"Not bad, huh?"

"It looks great," I reply. "I think the painting’s just a little crooked."

"Yeah, I just noticed that," she giggles. "Can you stay below in case it slips?"

I nod, and we adjust it until it's perfectly straight. Meanwhile, several people have entered the gallery. Most are just curious, but I think some of the paintings catch their eye. Grace told me that most people come back later for a painting that caught their attention. I guess business isn’t doing too bad.

"Have you sold more paintings?" I ask, noticing some empty spots.

"Yeah," she says with a smile. "Can you help me replace them? Then we can get back to the painting you started last week."

"Sounds good to me."

"Not like you have a choice," she teases.

I laugh and shake my head. We head to the storage room to get the new paintings. I’m supposed to stay until closing, but I can tell we’re not going to be idle. That’s fine with me. I prefer this to sitting around doing nothing.

Saturday, April 2; 5:20 PM - Gallery.

"Well, I think it’s time to stop," Grace tells me.

I check the time. It’s almost 5:30. I’m surprised. The time flew by.

"Oh yeah. I’ll text Lucy so she can pick me up."

"Don’t you have your own car?" she asks.

"Not yet, but I think it’s coming soon."

"That would be better, indeed," she smiles.

I text Lucy to let her know I'm done, then I start putting away the tools I used and wash my brushes in the sink. I haven’t finished my painting yet, but I’m sure I’ll have another chance to work on it. Grace’s advice has been really helpful. She has a completely different method than mine, but I appreciate her feedback. Once I’m done, I return to the front where Grace is behind the counter. She managed to sell four paintings this afternoon—and not just any paintings. I think she’s doing pretty well for someone who just started out on her own.

"All done."

"Great," she says. "I promised I’d give you my answer about next year, so here it is," she says, handing me a form.

I pick it up to see what it is. A small smile forms as I realize it’s an application for the Seattle School of Art.

- Does this mean…?

- These two half-days with you were cool. You’re nice, you know how to do good work, and you’ve got talent. That’s all I was asking for.

- Wow, I say, not knowing what else to say.

- I was able to enter one of your pieces into the school's last enrollment competition thanks to my contacts, and you’ve been selected, she tells me.

I’m having trouble understanding. She entered me into a competition without me knowing?

- You…

- Sorry for not asking your permission, but I didn’t have a choice, she giggles, seeing the look on my face.

- It’s no problem.

- You’ve still got a lot of work to improve, Ona, but you really impressed them, so… she shrugs. Welcome, I guess.

Unable to hold back, I hug her. It’s really the least I can do. She just saved my entire future.

- Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I’m so relieved. A huge weight has just been lifted off my shoulders. She giggles at my reaction, but she doesn’t realize what she’s giving me. I’m finally going to be able to live my dream. Just six months ago, I thought this was impossible. All my life, I’ve been told I couldn’t make a living from this, and yet here it is, happening. It feels like a dream. I release my new boss when I hear the doorbell chime. I smile when I see Lucy walk in.

- Well, it seems like there’s good news here.

- Oh yes! I exclaim, handing her the application form.

Lucy looks at it for a moment, then glances between us with a smile forming on her lips.

- Ah, yes, I see now. That’s really amazing. Thank you so much, Grace. Ona can finally relax a bit.

- Oh, it was my pleasure, Grace replies with a small laugh.

I go to Lucy and slip into her arms. She kisses the top of my head while still holding the form.

- Do we need to send this to the school? she asks.

- Uh, it’s better if you bring it back to me. I need to return it as soon as possible to my contact at the school.

- Alright. Well, do you have a little time? We can fill it out now.

- Oh, that would be great, yeah. I’ll get you a pen.

As soon as she leaves for the back, I let out a little squeal of joy. Lucy laughs, holding me tighter.

- Can you believe it!?

- Yes, yes, she giggles. This is really amazing, babe. I’m proud of you.

She kisses me softly. I feel like I’m floating on a cloud. I can’t believe all of this is happening so fast. Just a few weeks ago, I imagined myself sorting papers at a desk.

- You know what you have to do now, she whispers to me. You absolutely have to pass your exam.

- I’m working on it. I think I’m doing pretty well.

- Yes, that’s true, she smiles. Who would’ve thought you’d get serious one day…

I stick my tongue out at her teasing. Grace comes back with a pen, and Lucy helps me fill out my part. I realize I don’t even know her address, and it’s about to become mine soon. I can’t wait. I can’t wait to move in with her and call it my home too. I already feel at home there, but it’ll be more official. We’ll be there every day, together. Just thinking about it makes me feel strange. The form is easy to fill out. I double-check that I haven’t forgotten anything before copying the information onto the other two forms. I sign them and hand them to my new boss, who smiles mischievously.

- Well, you’ve just signed your death warrant. You’re under my command now, she jokes.

- Oh, there are worse things… I hope, I giggle.

- You’ll have time to form your opinion, Lucy comments. Well, shall we head out now?

- Great idea. I’m heading home as well. My boyfriend is taking me out to dinner tonight.

- Lucky you, I say with a smile. Well then…

I don’t finish my sentence. I’m not really sure what to say. Now that I’ve signed the papers, what’s next? Grace seems to understand my dilemma, as she says:

- I’ll contact you for the next steps. I’ll give you the details of when you start working here and when your classes start too. You’ll probably need to come back to sign a contract.

- No problem. I’m close by, after all.

- Great. Well, have a good evening then.

- Have a good evening too.

I head to the back to grab my things and return to Lucy. We say goodbye to my new boss one last time before heading out. I feel like a ball of energy. Everything is falling into place now that I’ve signed that form.

- What are we doing tonight?

- Well, I may have reserved a table too…

- Really?

I turn to her sharply. She smiles, amused by my reaction.

- Yep. I thought it would be nice to celebrate the good news.

- Oh yeah? And how did you know, huh? I just found out myself.

I smile as she presses me gently against the car when we reach it. Her hands rest softly on my hips. I relax as her lips tease mine.

- You should know I never doubt you…

- Why are you so perfect? I murmur, wrapping my arms around her neck.

- I’m not.

- Yes, you are, at least with me.

- Well, that’s because you make me that way. Because I love you.

I groan and lean in to kiss her, but she pulls back, keeping me just out of reach. I pout. I don’t like it when she denies me a kiss.

- Don’t make that face, she smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I wanted to apologize, because I’m not as perfect as you think. I’m denying you a night with your friends tonight.

I step back at those words. I can see a hint of sadness in her eyes. It’s partly my fault. I guess I made my disappointment a little too clear about it. I smile, caressing her cheek.

- The most important thing is that I’m spending the evening with you, my love.

- Really…? Because—

- You’re the most important person to me. I know you’re anxious about meeting them.

- What—

- Don’t take me for a fool, I interrupt her with an amused tone. I know you hide your fear behind the idea that we have to be discreet at school. But we both know you’re just scared of meeting them as my girlfriend.

Lucy opens her mouth, then closes it. I love when I can leave her speechless. It’s so rare. She sighs, shaking her head, and tries to pull away, but I hold her close. Our chests are pressed together. I can feel her heart beating a little too fast. She doesn’t like being caught off guard, and I get it. I feel the same way when she surprises me.

- You’re right, she whispers. I’m sorry.

- Don’t be. I totally understand. It must not be easy to meet your students as my friends.

- No, not really. I tend to know what everyone thinks of me at school.

She’s not wrong. Even now, everyone asks me how I can spend so much time with Lucy. They can’t see her as the woman standing in front of me right now, and it’s such a shame. I slide my hand under her hair, gently stroking her neck. My touch seems to calm her down.

That’s true, I murmur. But they don’t know my girlfriend. I know it must be scary for you, but it’s important to me. I want people to meet my girlfriend. I want to show you off. To say that you’re mine, like you do.

- Like me, huh?

- Oh yes. Do I need to remind you of the number of hickeys you've given me? You love to claim that I belong to you.

- Yeah, that's true... There's still a bit of me missing on you, though.

I giggle as her lips brush against my neck.

- No, Lucia! I replied, gently pushing her away.

- What, you don't like my marks? she teased.

- Stop it. That'll be the first thing they tease you about.

- Really? I bet they'll mock my commander nickname instead.

- You want to play that game? Alright, let's make a bet then.

- A bet, huh? OK. If I'm right, I get to do whatever I want with you for a whole evening, and vice versa if you're right.

- Hmm... OK, I'm in.

- Good, she said, pecking my lips. Now let's go. We'll be late for my program otherwise.

- Your program, huh? What do you have planned for me this time?

- A romantic evening, she announced as she walked around the car. I had to make up for the event we're not attending tonight.

- You didn't have to, but I like it. I enjoy going out with you.

- Don’t expect anything crazy. We're just going to have dinner, and I thought we could go to the movies afterward, she said once seated behind the wheel.

- I particularly like that plan, I said while fastening my seatbelt.

- Perfect, then.

We exchanged a smile before she drove off. She took me to a restaurant I didn't know, one fancier than the places we usually go to.

- It's a French restaurant, she whispered as a waiter guided us to our table.

- Really? I asked with a small smile. What gave you the idea?

- Nowhere, I just enjoy coming here.

Lucy had everything planned. She really booked a table, and we were lucky enough to get one on the restaurant's veranda. I wondered how long ago she made the reservation.

- Thank you, she said to the waiter.

- You're welcome. Here are the menus. I'll be back to check on you later.

- Thanks, I added as he left.

I looked around. It was particularly beautiful here, and we were lucky that the sky was clear.

- It's beautiful, I whispered while staring at the starry sky.

- I booked last week... when Grace told me she'd be watching you.

I lowered my eyes, mouth slightly agape.

- Y-you knew?

- Well... yeah, she replied mischievously. She just wanted to keep you waiting a bit longer, so you'd keep giving your best today.

She laughed while I sulked. She knew before I did. But how could I hold it against her when I saw where we were now?

- You're lucky I enjoy surprises.

She laughed and intertwined our fingers. I brought them to my lips for a kiss. This moment of relaxation felt particularly good. I felt exhausted from giving so much, but now that I knew where I was headed next year, I was even more motivated to ace my final exam, which was fast approaching. I’d already had a preview with my recent tests, and I hadn’t done too badly. Next week, we have mock exams. I'm looking forward to them because at least I’ll know exactly where I stand before the real ones.

- What are you thinking about?

- A lot of things, I answered with a small smile. How will things go from here?

- Well, as planned. You’ll take your mock exams, then we’ll go on vacation.

- I can't wait, I giggled. I’m so done with all this.

- I bet, but it'll be fine, she reassured me.

- And after that?

- After that? she asked, tilting her head.

- Well, after... after school...

We were interrupted by the waiter who came to take our drink orders. I trusted Lucy and chose the same as her, a non-alcoholic cocktail. We waited for him to leave before I turned back to Lucy. She shrugged.

- After school... well, we’ll go to Barcelona, and then we'll come back here.

- To live at your place, I murmured.

The idea seemed so surreal. Yet, it was what was going to happen in just a few weeks. After all this time.

- Have you changed your mind?

I snapped out of my thoughts at her question. I could see a hint of concern in her eyes.

- What? No, no! I was just thinking... maybe we could make things more official...?

- What do you mean?

- It might be too soon but... I’d like, I don’t know... to co-own the apartment? We’re going to live together, so I want to contribute to the expenses.

Lucy nodded before sinking into her chair, crossing her arms.

- That’s indeed a big step, becoming a co-owner.

- I don’t want us to move. The apartment is great, but... I want to invest in it, you know?

- I wouldn’t do that if I were you.

I opened my mouth, but I closed it when Lucy raised her hand to stop me from arguing.

- I trust us, I know how you feel, but you never know what could happen. There could be complications between us, and I wouldn’t want the apartment to become another relationship issue to deal with.

- I’m not planning on leaving you, I said, pouting.

Lucy laughed and leaned toward me. She grabbed both my hands, pulling them under her chin.

- I know, love, but it’s too soon. Tomorrow, we’ll celebrate two months together. I know we both feel like we’ve been together longer, but it’s only been two months.

- That’s true, I muttered.

- How about we see how living together full-time goes? I don’t think there will be any problems, but it’ll be a big difference from just weekends.

I nodded, feeling a little sulky. I didn’t like how right she was. After all, we were just at the beginning of our relationship, but I craved more. I needed more, I think, but I didn’t dare say it.

- Hey, she murmured.

She lifted my chin, forcing our eyes to meet. I hated facing her gaze. It made me feel so vulnerable. There was a determination in her eyes that sometimes made me wonder how she got to where she was.

- Don’t make that face. We have all the time in the world now, okay? There’s no need to rush. That’s how we’ll crash into a wall.

- Yeah... I mumbled.

I hated that she was right. The last time I rushed, it ended badly. I wanted to do things right, but at the same time, I wanted to speed things up. The waiter returned to bring our drinks and take our order. Since I hadn’t really paid attention to the menu, I agreed to Lucy’s suggestion that we share a dish—cheese platter, actually. She sold me on the idea, saying it was really good, so I accepted. As the waiter left, I still felt uneasy, but Lucy remained unfazed.

- Honey, one day, I’m going to make you my wife. We’ll buy a big house together, and maybe even have kids. I want all of that just as much as you do. Don’t think otherwise.

- I know, Lucia...

I blushed slightly at her words. If she wanted them to affect me, well, it was working. Wife and kids were big words, perfectly expressing our future together.

- So be patient. First and foremost, we need to learn how to live together and build a stable future. It all starts with a good job. Neither of us knows what our work experience will lead to, and it’s good to focus on that before jumping into anything else. Don’t you agree?

I sighed but nodded.

- Yeah, fine, you win.

She chuckled softly.

- Come on, give me a kiss.

I leaned in to give her what she wanted. I could never deny her that.

- Can we enjoy the evening now?

- Yes.

Our cheese platter finally arrived, and I had to admit it was a good choice. Lucy really knew what was good, and I enjoyed it thoroughly.

- I wonder how things are going with Alexia, I mused as we started eating.

- No idea, my girlfriend giggled. But she wasn’t feeling well this afternoon. I had to comfort her.

- You, comforting her? Now I’ve seen everything.

- Well, yeah. I like her, surprisingly.

- That’s good news then, I teased. At least one of my friends you like.

- Oh, stop it, she rolled her eyes. I like Mapi too.

- That wasn’t the case in the beginning.

- We were both jealous, but I think she’s starting to understand where her place is with me.

- Yeah, I think you're right.

I sipped my drink, reflecting on the conversation we had a few weeks ago. Mapi had defended Lucy regarding what she didn’t yet know about Feli. I think she has indeed figured out her place with Lucy, even if she struggled to admit it. After all, she was my only close friend before I came here.

- Thinking about something in particular? Lucy asked, noticing I was lost in thought.

- No, I said, blushing. Just that you're right. She defended you not too long ago.

- Really? About what?

I shrugged. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up.

- Something unimportant...

I know I’m a terrible liar, but I didn’t want to ruin our night with negative thoughts. Lucy stayed silent for a moment but eventually nodded.

- Okay, she whispered. You know you can tell me anything, right?

- Of course, I said with a small smile. But it’s nothing important. I just wanted you to know that she defended you, and I was the first one surprised.

- Alright... well, I guess things are changing.

We shared a smile. I knew she realized I wasn’t telling her everything, but I appreciated that she didn’t push. The evening continued without any more unsettling topics.

[faaun]

Jack Marsh (2005), Friendship Otherwise - Toward a Levinasian Description of Personal Friendship

[its-rach-writes]

Cinnamon and Art Galleries - Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Your friend, Emily brings a cute stranger to your art exhibition.

Warnings: fluff, fluff, more fluff, probably ooc Spencer

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this! This was my first time writing for Spencer so he's probably out of character but please let me know what you think! I love you all! xxx

You smiled as you drew the cat in the hot chocolate foam and handed it to the little girl on the other side of the counter with her mom. It melted your heart when her face lit up and she waved at you as her mom steered her out of the café. It was slow in your café today but you didn’t mind, you used the time to set up for the beginner art class you were going to be teaching on Saturday.

“Hey girl,” you glanced up when the bell rang and your friend Emily walked in.

You smiled when you saw her and gave her a wave. She was the first friend you had made when you moved to DC.

“Hey,” you smiled, “having the usual?”

“Please,” she grinned.

You got to work, making her one black coffee, the other was a milky coffee with a shot of cinnamon syrup. You knew that Emily drank the black coffee so you couldn’t help but wonder who the overly sweet coffee was for. You carefully selected the cinnamon roll with the most frosting and slid it into a bag, being careful to not let it stick to the paper bag.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” Emily started and you scoffed with a laugh.

As soon as you found out your art was going to be featured in an exhibition, Emily was the first person you told, “the team are coming to see it.”

You raised an eyebrow, secretly you were grateful, “FBI Agents don’t have anything better to do?”

She laughed, “not tonight, I even managed to talk the good Dr into coming.”

“The elusive Spencer Reid?” you rested your hip against the counter as you handed her the coffees, “how did you manage that?” from what Emily had told you, it didn’t seem like Spencer Reid liked social situations.

“I’ve got killer interrogation skills,” she smirked, “he’s cute too.”

You internally groaned, yours and Emily’s definition of ‘cute’ were very different, for all you knew Spencer Reid was an aging Professor, “as long as you don’t try and set us up, like you tried with me and Morgan.”

“No promises,” she laughed as she backed out of the café, “I’ll see you tonight.”

Later that night, you were sipping champagne as people perused your exhibition, your paintings were both inspired by Pre-Raphaelite art and the King Arthur legends. You noticed a man was standing at your painting of the Knights of the Round Table, so you walked over and decided to strike up a conversation.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” his lips twitched into a small smile as he looked down at you with gorgeous deep brown eyes, “you’re the artist right?” when you nodded, he looked back at the painting, “you’re really good.”

“Thanks, I love Pre-Raphaelite art.”

“Did you know that the Pre-Raphaelites were a secret society of young artists, founded in London in 1848? They were opposed to the Royal Academy’s promotion of the ideal as exemplified in the work of Raphael,” he blurted this out like he’d memorised it from a textbook and you worked hard to conceal a laugh.

“I did know that,” you giggled.

“Right of course,” he flushed, “of course you knew that.”

Something struck a memory, something that Emily had told you, “wait, are you Spencer Reid?” he looked at you with slightly wary eyes before nodding and you smiled, “I’m Y/N, Emily has told me so much about you.”

“It’s all lies,” he joked and glanced over his shoulder, “she’s making the most of the bar right now.”

You laughed as you looked over too and she waved, lifting up a glass in a motion of cheers. When she had said Spencer was cute, it was an understatement, he was young and gorgeous.

“Are you interested in art?” you asked as you sipped your champagne.

Spencer nodded, “I like looking at it, I’m afraid I’m not very artistic.”

“And here, we thought you were perfect,” you heard a chuckle from over your shoulder and you turned to see Derek Morgan and the rest of the BAU, Morgan pulled you into a hug, “congratulations sweetheart.”

“Thanks,” you smiled as you pulled away and looked at the others, “thank you for coming.”

It was a great night and you were grateful for everyone that came but soon, you were starting to get overwhelmed so you went out onto the balcony for a cigarette. Though it seemed as though someone else had beaten you to it. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced over his shoulder and smiled at you.

“Hey, you want some company?”

“Sure,” he smiled.

There was comfortable silence for a while as both of you looked over at the lights of DC, your cigarette smoke curling in the air. Soon enough, Spencer spoke up.

“So what do you do? Is art your full time thing?”

“I own the café by the library, but I’m integrating art into the café, I’m teaching a beginner class at the weekend from there.”

“No way! Seriously?” he smiled, looking animated, “your coffee is so good and your cinnamon rolls? Amazing.”

You laughed, “Emily gets the cinnamon roll with the most frosting for you?”

“Yeah,” he flushed, he opened his mouth to say something else when he was interrupted by Aaron Hotchner.

“Reid, we just got called in,” he glanced at you, an apologetic look, “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“No, it’s okay,” you smiled when Spencer pushed himself off the railing, “it was really nice to meet you Spencer.”

He flushed and offered you a shy smile, “it was nice to meet you too, I’ll see you soon?”

You nodded and Emily pulled you into a tight hug, whispering in your ear, “I’ll make sure he sees you soon,” you laughed, shaking your head as she pulled away.

On Saturday, you were setting up for the art class when you heard the tinkle of the bell and you glanced up. None other than Spencer Reid was standing in the open doorway, the sun like a halo around his head.

“Thought you might need a hand.”

[illyrianbitch]

One Summer

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: One beach house. One festival. One summer to fall in love.

Warnings: brief mentions of alcohol and recreational drugs (weed!), two friends with a past, a budding crush

Word Count: 4k

authors note: i’m excited to get this out hehe so pls ignore any mistakes/typos that i missed! 🫶🏻 happy end of summer!

Series Masterlist

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

It took you a second to register your surroundings.

You knew the house was bound to be nice. After all, Rhysand’s family was loaded. You’d seen it in pictures from previous vacations, in the ones Mor had sent you over past summers when you’d gone back home. But even then, you still hadn't prepared yourself enough. The house wasn't only large and fancy. It was cozy– lived in. And it was absolutely beautiful.

There were little touches everywhere—- knick-knacks and seashells, photo frames, and soft rugs that felt like clouds under your feet. From somewhere deeper in the house, you heard Feyre and Rhys laughing. They had arrived a few hours earlier, settling in and preparing the house for the rest of you. At least, that’s what they told you all.

You and Mor had your suspicions that their reason for such an early arrival was more about having an empty house to mess around in before the rest of you came. You could still hear Mor’s conspiratorial whisper in your ear, teasing about how Feyre and Rhys probably took advantage of the quiet to enjoy some uninterrupted time together.

"They probably wanted to get all the best spots first," Mor had joked on the drive over, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. You laughed, agreeing silently that Rhysand and Feyre's early arrival was likely more for their own pleasure than out of any noble desire to prepare the house.

From outside, the crunch of gravel under tires announced the arrival of Azriel and Cassian. You heard the low rumble of their car engine idling before it was cut off, followed by the slam of car doors and the muffled sound of laughter.

“C’mon, let me show you your room,” Mor said, placing down a few of her bags and gesturing with her perfectly manicured hand.

You followed her up a set of stairs, taking in the walls lined with art and framed photos. Each frame was unique, from sleek, modern designs to ornate, vintage styles. The artwork ranged from abstract paintings to intricate sketches— and interspersed among the art were photographs capturing various moments. It was easy to spot the ones Mor was in, her blonde hair standing in stark contrast against the raven black of Rhysand and his sister and the dark brown of Azriel and Cassian.

You stopped at one in particular, a photo of Rhys, Cassian, Azriel and Mor standing around a small, circular wooden table. You laughed.

Mor turned around at the sound, a frown on her face as her gaze flickered between you and the gallery before you.

“Oh my god,” she said, quickly backtracking a few stairs down. “Do not look at that.”

But it was too late. You leaned forward to inspect the photo more. Rhysand had braces, Cassian was sporting a terrible haircut, Azriel looked too tall for his frame, and Mor was mid-laugh, a piece of pizza hanging onto the metal outline of her own braces. You let out another laugh, cooing out a sweet Aww at your best friend.

She huffed beside you. ”I’m going to kick you out of this house if you keep staring at it.”

You flashed her a grin. “Aw, c’mon. I love it.”

Mor only gave you a blank look in response. She stayed still, raising an eyebrow impatiently as you grinned, eyes flickering between her and your newfound favorite photo. You reached into your back pocket, fingers grasping the edge of your phone. You itched to have the photo in your camera roll, to be able to send it to Mor as a joke whenever she failed to return your texts.

She registered the movement quickly, letting out a small sound of surprise.

"Absolutely not!”

Mor grabbed your arm before you managed to take a proper picture, pulling you up the stairs behind her as you laughed.

“You realize I can just take a picture later?”

”I’m taking that damn thing down,” she grumbled, “You’re enjoying it too much.”

You let her drag you along, still chuckling as you absorbed the surroundings. The house truly was a perfect blend of comfort and luxury, with wide hallways adorned with art and mementos, and an abundance of windows that flooded the space with natural light. It felt clean– dreamlike, even.

Turning a corner, Mor stopped, opening the door with a large gesture. You stepped inside, eyes widening at the open space. Sunlight poured in from the large windows and a small sliding door framed the ocean view perfectly.

”Oh my god,” you breathed. A sense of peace washed through you.

“I knew you’d love it,” she said with a satisfied grin. “Wait for the best part.”

She walked over and gently slid open the small door, your vision quickly registering the balcony connected to your room. You stepped out, the fresh ocean air hitting you immediately—bringing with it the soothing sound of waves and the tangy scent of salt. The view was breathtaking: an endlessly stretching out horizon with water sparkling under the midday sun.

You closed your eyes, reveling in all of the senses. You could almost feel the stress of the past few weeks melt away, a tangible sense of release rolling through your limbs. You didn’t need to think about grad school applications now, didn’t have to worry about buffing up your resume.

When you opened your eyes, you turned to find Mor watching you with a satisfied, giddy expression. “It’s like a little slice of paradise.”

“More than a little,” you mused as you took in the view before you. “Does everyone have a balcony?”

”Nope,” she replied, “I preferred the nicest shower. But Rhys and I figured you’d want easy access to outside for the same reasons Azriel picked his room.”

She mimicked bringing something to her lips and taking a drag.

You rolled your eyes but a laugh left your lips in spite of yourself. It took you a few seconds before her final words registered and your eyes trailed to the balcony beyond her shoulder, where another little door connected to the space.

Mor followed your movement.

”That’s Az’s room,” she clarified. “You share the balcony.”

”Oh,” you said. Mor gave you another smile. “Cool.”

She let out a small shriek of excitement, grabbing you in a quick hug. “God, I’m so excited for this summer. I get to tan, listen to some music, hang out with my favorite people and get pissed faced drunk.”

”All of your favorite things.”

Her grin grew on her red-painted lips. “Exactly.”

She paused, eyes widening as she dropped her hands from around you, taking a step back as she said, “We need to get drinks!”

Without another word she darted off, calling out for Feyre as she turned the corner and disappeared from your viewpoint.

Your gaze lingered on your open door for a moment before you turned around, walking closer to the edge of the patio. You leaned over the balcony, taking a deep, calm breath. The horizon stretched out before you, waves rolling in a rhythm that seemed to sync with your heartbeat.

You’d always loved the beach, loved the sense of peace that came with being near the ocean. Something about it felt so new— felt so refreshing and lively.

The sound of distant laughter filtered into your ear, and you easily recognized the boisterous cadence of Cassian’s voice. You followed the sound, glancing over towards the glass door of the adjacent room. Through the sliver of his room’s open curtains, you watched as Azriel dropped a bag on his bed, a small smile on his face at something said to him.

You angled your head further.

A nagging voice in the back of your mind reminded you that it might seem odd to be peering into someone else’s space, even if they were your friends. But, they were your friends, weren’t they? It wasn’t weird to be interested in what they were up to, especially when you were all sharing this space for the summer. So you pushed aside the fleeting feeling of unease, convincing yourself that you were simply being sociable and observant.

Azriel lifted his head. You blinked, quickly looking back to the view in front of you in an effort to avoid catching his gaze. You grimaced to yourself, a rush of heat flowing to your cheeks.

Smooth.

You shook your head, gently tapping the balcony railing as you turned around to head back into your room. You made sure to keep your gaze down, to fight the urge for your eyes to flicker towards Azriel’s door.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

All of the windows in the kitchen were open, filling the space with the fresh scent of ocean breeze. You gave Rhys and Feyre a quick greeting, walking towards one of the opened back doors. The urge to explore the beach and feel the sand beneath your feet pulled at you, calling to you like a siren to a sailor, but you stayed still. The drive here had been lengthy and, as a result, your deep-seated exhaustion weighed heavy on your limbs.

“Thinking of going and looking around?” Feyre asked, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Later, definitely. I’m feeling a bit too tired right now to be in the blazing sun.”

Feyre offered you a knowing nod. “Makes sense.”

The sound of footsteps drew your attention and you turned to see Azriel and Cassian entering the kitchen. The latter's eyes immediately found yours, a grin breaking out on his lips as he walked towards you in three long strides. He wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side.

”God, I missed you,” Cassian said. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at the comment, knowing full well that you all had met up before making the drive to ensure that you had everything needed. But Cassian always had a flare for the dramatic. So, instead, you just gave him a small laugh and wrapped your arms around him in return. 

He pointed to Azriel. “He’s such a bore, dude. He wouldn’t play any games on the road.”

Your gaze flickered over to Azriel. He rolled his eyes.

“Because your games involved me removing both hands from the wheel.”

Cassian shrugged, the movement redistributing the weight of his arm around your shoulders. “So?”

”So?” Azriel retorted. He opened his mouth to say more, but with a quick scan of Cassian’s face led him to closing his mouth and offering another eye roll. Azriel then turned his attention to you, holding your gaze as he offered you a smile.

”Hey, Y/n.”

His voice was much softer than a few seconds ago, a different tone than that he had used with Cassian.

You smiled back. “Hi, Az.”

You weren’t sure what to do next, torn between wanting to give him a small hug and the presence of Cassian’s arm around you. Az held your gaze for another moment before he walked past. You took in his figure, briefly noticing the change in his attire from this morning when you’d seen both him and Cassian. His long, black pants were now replaced by black shorts, instead. Before your stare could linger, Mor entered from the opened porch door, kicking off the sand-covered shoes she wore as she stepped into the house’s threshold.

”Oh great, you’re all here,” she said, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. “Cass, are you ready to go?”

”Yup,” Cassian responded excitedly. He separated himself from you, casting a quick glance down at your form. “Wanna come?”

”Where are you guys going?”

Mor and Cassian answered simultaneously, “Liquor store.”

You raised an amused brow. “Have we become too fancy to just go to a grocery store?”

Mor shrugged. “I like my options.”

From across the kitchen, Rhys wrapped an arm around Feyre's torso, a cheeky grin on his face as he leaned forward to place his chin on her shoulder. “And yet, Mor, you always manage to return with a bottle of wine and a pack of white claws.”

Mor offered him a scowl. ”Shut it.”

”Actually,” Feyre hummed, “While you guys are out can you grab some groceries? I have a list. I can text it to you.”

Mor and Cassian exchanged a glance. “Sure, but it might take a while.”

Feyre arched an eyebrow. From beside her, Rhys rolled his eyes. “Why?”

It was Azriel who responded to her question, “Because they’re probably planning to 'taste test' everything they buy. So then they'll be sitting there and waiting it out until they can drive again."

You glanced over at him, watching as a sly smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. The hazel of his eyes were bright now, more visible with the sunlight pouring through the windows. There was a glint of amusement in them as he met your gaze.

Morrigan let out a sound of mock offense. Cassian grinned. You laughed, giving him a playful swat with your hands. It only made his grin grow further.

”I can grab it, Feyre,” you said, “Cass and Mor can go on the alcohol run alone.”

She gave you a grateful smile, but a flicker of concern furrowed her brow. “Are you sure? It’s kinda a lot for one person.”

You frowned. “How many things are we buying?”

“I figured we should make as many meals to counterbalance the amount we’re spending on drinks.”

You clicked your tongue. “Smart.”

She tossed a glance over her shoulder, meeting the studying gaze of her boyfriend. “I can go with you.”

Rhysand instantly frowned and mumbled under his breath, but you failed to catch his words as Azriel’s voice chimed in behind you.

”I can go.”

He stood next to you and you looked up at him, meeting his eyes for a fleeting second. He smiled. 

“And I can drive.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The list Feyre had given you was indeed a lot— and all over the place.

Az trailed after you, pushing the large shopping cart as you slowly scanned the shelves in front of you. The car ride with him had been quiet, but it was the type of quiet you often yearned for— the comfortable kind that made you feel at home. He'd opened your car door for you, a gesture so casual and natural that you hadn't fully registered it until you were sitting in his front seat, pulling your seatbelt on. For some reason, the act had yet to leave your mind. 

"What do you need?"

Azriel' braced his forearms on the cart's handle, leaning forward as he waited for your answer. Your gaze fell to the silver chain that dangled from his neck, now freed from its usual place hidden underneath his shirt.

"Y/n?"

You blinked. "Yeah?"

Azriel's brows furrowed slightly and he straightened his posture, pushing the cart closer to you. "Feyre's list," he clarified, "What's on it?"

You let out a small oh of realization, offering Azriel your phone in order for him to read off Feyre's comprehensive list of groceries. You switched places, Azriel maneuvering around the cart to look around the store. Your phone looked so strange in his hand and you suddenly regretted offering it to him instead of forwarding the text. You grimaced to yourself, mentally praying that your parents didn't message you— that no strange, unpromising alert flashed across your screen as he held it. The feeling that now flushed your body was the same cold, unrealistic panic that you felt when you traveled— when you'd go through airports and suddenly stress yourself into thinking you'd accidentally packed a live firework or a bomb.

Azriel had made it across an aisle by the time you reeled your thoughts back in. You let yourself fall behind his steps, observing him as he walked along the various cereal boxes.

There was a time where you'd believed that you and Azriel could be more than friends— back in freshman year when you'd first met. It was an instant spark, something so electric even Mor had felt it, had spent weeks making jokes about your crush. And months later you'd found yourself in that room with Azriel, inches away from his face on halloween night, lips still tasting of the fruity drink Cassian had made for you.

But nothing happened— not then, not after.

Two years had passed since and so much had changed. Not only within your life, but with Azriel himself.

He looked different now. His hair was longer— still cropped enough at the sides to show that dangling dagger earring you'd always loved— but long enough on top where his curls were on full display. He'd grown those out in the past two years, had stopped cutting his hair too short for them to show. He was tanner now, too, his golden brown skin holding an even darker sun-kissed glow— but you attributed that to the summer sun rather than the years.

It all fit him so well.

Azriel turned to face you, two large boxes of cereal in either hand. You straightened yourself, fixing your posture as hastily as a child caught watching something they shouldn't have been. If Azriel noticed anything, he didn't make any indication, opting to ask you about which cereal the others would prefer.

You both managed to switch again, Az taking his place pushing the cart as you examined the various boxes on the shelves in front of you. There were only a few more things left on Feyre's list and it felt like an internal fight to find all the items before the grocery store's white light lured you to an eternal sleep— or a well needed nap.

"You excited?"

You looked over at Azriel, meeting his hazel eyes instantly. While his face seemed neutral, you could see the hint of enjoyment that danced in his eyes, a golden-hued green that made you smile instinctively. "Yeah," you said, "It'll be a fun summer.”

Azriel made a sound akin to an appreciative, agreeable hum. The aisles felt narrower the more you walked alongside him, feeling the ghost of his touch as you brushed against him with every step.

"And for the festival?" He asked.

Your smile grew larger at this.

The festival was actually one of the things you were most excited for this summer—aside from the general premise of being with everyone, of course. Summit Pulse was three days of live music, featuring over 80 artists across multiple stages. From indie bands to electronic DJs, Summit had been a dream of yours to attend since freshman year—the same time you'd first learned that Mor and Rhys had a beach house in the same city it was hosted.

"Very," you tossed him a glance before you pulled out three boxes of instant Mac n Cheese. "And I can imagine you are too."

You were sure of it. Your shared love of music was one of the things you and Azriel had bonded about originally. You still remembered the first time you'd hung out with him outside of your Intro the Philosophy class, sitting on the couch in the apartment he shared with Cassian and Rhysand. You'd spent most of the night looking at each other's music— analyzing your saved playlists and talking about the various concerts you'd been to.

Az's smile grew, a single dimple appearing on his cheeks as the corners of his eyes crinkled. "You'd be correct," he replied. A small pause followed before he said, "I think I just need to get the energy for it."

You laughed, stopping in place to turn around and look at him. "Me too," you admitted. The exhaustion from early had started to rear its ugly head again and your legs still ached with the long car ride. You let out a small tired sigh, running a hand along your face. Azriel's eyes traced the movement.

"I am really excited,” you said, “But god, I'm so exhausted. I'm glad we have a few days for me to mentally prep."

Az raised a brow. "I can imagine. You've had quite the semester."

You titled your head in response, brows falling into a subtle, confused furrow. 

"Mor told me how hard you guys were working, that your professors weren’t very accommodating.”

You raised a single brow at his wording and the corners of Azriel’s lips twitched upwards. “Alright,” he added with an amused shake of his head. “She said your professors were assholes who needed to get laid.”

You let out a small snort at this, an unintended response that you would’ve felt embarrassed about had it been anyone but Azriel in front of you. His smile seemed to quirk up further. 

"Mor was right. It was a rough semester to say the least.” 

For more reasons than you'd been willing to let on. Yes, your coursework had gotten a lot more demanding, but it wasn't just schoolwork that tired you out. Mor and Feyre had already started their grad school applications, spending nights in the libraries making pros and cons lists for every school each of you were interested in. Their plan was to find places close enough to one another, to settle in one city and get a large apartment together. Your grad school applications had remained untouched— you had no schools in mind. No programs. No connections.

"I can also imagine your breakup didn't help with it all," Az said. His voice was quieter now, as if he was unsure of the words he was speaking. You held his gaze as he looked at you. "I'm sorry about that, by the way."

You shrugged. "I'm not."

It was the truth. Eris had been a great boyfriend, sure, but you weren't overtly heartbroken over the breakup. You’d met Eris in a Political Science class and despite your initial impression of him, he’d grown on you fast. He was a sweetheart at his core but you simply didn’t mesh as well as you once thought. The breakup was inevitable in the same way that it was amicable, mutual, and very much needed. 

Something flickered across Azriel’s face and his gaze darkened. He straightened himself, his posture now emphasizing the height he held over you. "Why?" Azriel said, voice low. "Did he do something?"

His response made your mouth go dry for a fleeting second. Azriel and Eris always had a long-standing hatred for each other that you’d never truly understood. It traced back to some events that had transpired during their high school years, this you knew, but your knowledge stopped at that. Your relationship with Eris had definitely distanced you from your friends— Mor and Azriel to be specific, but now that things were finally beginning to feel normal again, you didn’t want to ruin it. 

"No, no," you quickly clarified, offering him a reassuring smile. His shoulders seemed to relax at your answer and you swallowed as you took in his face again, gaze still entirely focused on you.

You cleared your throat before turning yourself around to examine the shelves once more with new interest. "He was a good boyfriend to me. But it wasn't going anywhere and I felt like he was distracting me from more important things."

Reaching up, you attempted to grab a box on the top shelf, recognizing it as the last of those granola bars that Mor used to hoard in her cupboard. The box remained out of reach with every stretch of your hand.

"So no more distractions for you?"

Before you could respond to his question, Azriel was behind you, leaning over you to effortlessly grab the box from the shelf. He wasn't touching you, his chest still a respectable distance away from your back, but you felt the warm presence of him on your skin all the same. Your stomach did a small flip and you found yourself releasing a breath you hadn't realized you'd sucked in.

Azriel offered the box to you. You looked up at him, gently grabbing it with pinkened cheeks. You chose your next words carefully.

"Only meaningful ones."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

summer is slowly coming to an end so i present to you.... the fluffiest lil summer romance i shall ever write!!!! this series is entirely planned out and its just #vibes. everyone thank @milswrites for pushing me to actually start this.

as usual, thank you for reading <3 and lmk if you'd like to be added to the tag list <3

one summer tag list 🫶🏻:

@velarisnightsky444

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon 

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters 

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii

azriel tag list 🫶🏻:

@thisiskaylin @serrendiipty @acourtofsteelandthunder

[sophrosynesworld]

Summer Softness

Katsuki’s always had that fierce, protective streak—everyone knows it. But what happens when the paparazzi go too far?

The gala is… unexpectedly pleasant. The air inside is filled with low, refined chatter, the clink of glasses, and the soft melodies of classical music drifting through the space. For a while, it’s easy to forget about the pressures outside.

Katsuki seems more relaxed than usual, in his own way. He’s never fully off duty—there’s always an edge to him—but tonight, he’s actually engaged in the conversation, smiling down at me as we move from one painting to the next. His crimson eyes scan the pieces before he offers a comment about the colors or techniques, terms he’s learned from watching me paint in our living room.

"I’ll be right back," Katsuki murmurs, his soft lips brushing against my ear as his hand rests gently on my waist. I hum in acknowledgment, leaning into his chest and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. As he steps away, I wander toward another sculpture, drawn in by the intricate twists of her hair, each curve and detail mesmerizing.

I glance down at the plaque beneath it.

Antonio Mardie, Summer Softness.

I step closer to the sculpture, tracing the air just above her delicate features, careful not to touch. The marble feels alive under the gallery’s soft lighting, shadows dancing over her form as if she might move at any moment.

"Beautiful, isn’t she?" A quiet voice pulls me from my thoughts. An older man, dressed in a dark coat, stands beside me, his eyes fixed on the sculpture. His expression is curious, like someone who’s seen countless works of art and yet still finds wonder in them.

I nod, glancing at him. “Yeah… I think she’s waiting for someone.”

He smiles faintly, a knowing look in his eyes. “Antonio Mardie was known for capturing fleeting moments—the softness of summer love, the quiet before a storm. It’s said this piece was inspired by a lost love, the woman he could never quite forget.”

I would go crazy without him too.

“It’s amazing,” I say softly. “Did he ever show it to her?”

“No.” The man’s voice is soft, eyes fixed on the sculpture as though lost in his own memories. “She died before it was finished… cancer.” He pauses, his voice faltering slightly before he clears his throat.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, unsure if I’m apologizing for his loss or simply for prying too much.

He nods, a faint, melancholic smile gracing his lips. “It’s all right. She’s here, in a way.” He taps the plaque lightly, the metal clinking softly under his touch. “I like to think she’d be proud.”

I smile back. “I’m sure she would be.”

As the man turns and drifts back into the crowd, I feel that familiar sensation of being watched. Scanning the room, my eyes catch on a figure with platinum hair, sitting at the bar and sipping his drink. Katsuki’s gaze is locked onto me, as if he’s been waiting the entire time.

“You’re staring,” I tease. Katsuki's eyes track my every movement, but he doesn’t respond immediately, just extends a glass of wine as I reach him.

“Couldn’t help it,” he replies, his voice low. “You were stealing the spotlight.”

I chuckle softly, accepting the wine, brushing my fingers against his. “I guess I just found something worth looking at.”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking as he leans back against the bar. "Me too.”

I take a sip of the wine, letting its warmth wash over me, and smile at him, feeling a little lighter.

The night flows like that, with a steady rhythm of quiet moments and his sharp, witty remarks keeping things light. Katsuki's hand rests on the small of my back, guiding us toward the entrance. We finally step outside, the colder winter weather enveloping us, and the next thing I know, they’re on us—paparazzi swarming from every direction. The blinding lights, the rapid clicking of cameras, and the overwhelming noise—it’s all too much. I blink, trying to make sense of it when suddenly, someone shoves past me. Hard.

My breath catches in my throat as I stumble forward, feet catching on the concrete. My heart stops in that split second—until a strong arm wraps around me, pulling me upright. It’s Katsuki who catches me mid-fall, his grip firm but careful, instantly shifting me behind him like the first time we met.

The second he pushes me behind his back, I feel his whole body tense. He’s furious—I can see it in the tightness of his jaw, the fire burning in his eyes. Katsuki’s glare cuts through the crowd, searing into the faces of the people around us. The once-shouting paparazzi shrink back, their aggressive pursuit turning hesitant under his gaze. My arms wrap around his waist, attempting to calm him, but it’s pointless.

His voice is low, a growl barely restrained. “Who the hell touched her?”

No one dares respond. The air around us feels heavy, almost crackling with his anger. He takes a step forward, towering over them.

“I said, who did it? Step forward, or I swear to god, I’ll give you something to report about.”

The crowd of photographers seems to freeze, like they’re deciding whether getting the next big story is worth Dynamight’s wrath. There’s a moment of eerie silence, then a few of them start backing away, realizing that whatever shot they were hoping for isn’t worth the risk.

He turns back to me, his crimson eyes searching my face with a sharp, almost frantic focus. His hands lift to rest on the sides of my face, and despite everything, his touch is gentle, almost delicate.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough but quieter now.

I nod, even though my heart’s still racing, the adrenaline pumping through my veins. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Good,” he mutters, his jaw still clenched, though his grip loosens slightly. "If anyone tries something like that again, I’ll handle it.” He glances back at the remaining paparazzi, eyes narrowing into slits. “I'll fucking kill you. Put that on the record.”

With that, he guides me forward, his arm firmly around my waist, shielding me from any more intrusions. As we walk away from the crowd, I glance up at him, noticing the way he stays on high alert, even as the commotion begins to die down.

“Thanks, katsuki,” I whisper, but he just grunts in response, his eyes still scanning for any threats. But in this moment, walking beside him, I don’t mind the danger. Because I know, without a doubt, that he’s got me.

Author's note: I was giggling and kicking my feet this entire chapter. We are so back baby.

[hotluncheddie]

‘No.’ eddie says, standing from the table and puffing his chest out. Clenching one fist and holding the other up like a freaky Halloween version of a traffic warden. He brings the outstretched hand to his chest, closing his eyes for a moment. ‘Allow me.’

Steve stares at him. Stack of plates in hand, half up from the table and confused. ‘Uh’ he manages before Eddie steps over and takes the plates from Steve, their fingers brushing as eddie squishes his thumb into a leftover dollop of sauce and grips them tightly. He then hip checks Steve back into his chair and waltzes over to the sink.

‘Munson’s on dish duty I guess.’ Robin says, smirking at Steve and finishing her soda.

Steve schools his slack jaw expression, closing his mouth and going to stand again. ‘Eddie, it’s fine, really.’ But Eddie’s sudden outstretched palm stops him, has him sinking back down onto the dining room chair.

‘Stevie, please.’ Eddie says from the sink, eyes closed and head bowed. ‘You cooked, therefore, as your humble knight, I will conquer the dishes.’ And he brings his hand back to his heart again, looking up at the ceiling with reverence and verve. Side on from the table and Steve thinks he looks like a painting he saw at a Chicago art gallery Robin dragged him to. Heavenly in his light and shadows, cut from glass, shrouded in sun rays and glowing with a quiet, broken sort of intensity.

Steve clears his throat. Feels a blush run up his neck and he readjusts the legs of his jeans. Scooting his chair so he’s sitting back flush against the dining room table; he avoids Robin’s eye. ‘If you like.’ He rasps, fiddling with his used napkin, tearing off a corner and letting it flutter onto the tabletop.

Eddie does like. He turns the tap on, pouring dish soap into the filling basin before pulling Steve’s Marigolds on slowly, one at a time, as if he really is a knight - gearing up for battle.

‘Love the new look.’ Robin heckles and Eddie flashed her a grin before going back to serious; pulling at the gloves one last time and tuning the tap off with a flourish. Then he stalks back over to the table, Legs long and striding, arms bowed slightly from his body with adrenaline filled tension.

He steps up to the side of Steve’s chair, looming over him, tilting Steve’s head up slowly with one bright yellow, slightly damp finger under his chin. ‘Rest now, my leige.’ He murmurs lowly, reverently, gazing down at him before dipping to place a slow, soft kiss on Steve’s lips.

A embarrassing, needy, wounded sort of sound, whine, extracts its self from Steve’s throat. Chest heaving and throat bobbing as Eddie smiles at him softly, stepping away again to scoop up the remaining glasses and utensils in his capable, rubbery, hands.

‘…Your boyfriend is weird dude.’ Robin says from across him, eyeshrows raised and the corners of her mouth dropped in pinched distaste. Her eyes dancing with glee.

‘Yeah.’ Steve breaths, voice reedy and he blinks a few times, his fingers feeling tingly and numb, all of him syrupy and slow moving. His boyfriend is a freak.

And Steve has never once felt so loved.

(Tag list (open): @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @pearynice @scoops-aboy86 @tangerinesteve @marvel-ous-m

@cheesedoctor @chickensinrainboots )

[applejuicebegood]

The Softest of Jason Todd HCs

Fem!Reader A/N: Some of these were originally conceived for the lovely, talented, wonderful @midnightorchids. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE FALLOW HER RIGHT NOW

Masterlist

Jason fell for you slowly. It was the kinda falling that took on the form of severe distraction and confusion during his patrol time. The only spot in his second life he had crafted into hours of precise control and expectancy. He hated how, as he was clicking a mag into his handgun, his mind would flash to your smiling, blushed face. He hated how you would unintentionally make him trip and stumble over the roof-tops of Gotham. He hated how recalling the chime of your laugh made his hands sweaty under his leather gloves. He hated how he had to take off his helmet in the seclusion of an abandoned wear-house because recalling how his hand slipped in to your on your last date made his face heat up to the point where he felt like he would pass out.

Once he realised that the nervous pounding in his gut whenever your shoulders brushed was in-fact caused from a growing crush on you, he panicked. The eventual confession was awkward and stumbled, him making it clear that he needed time and room to figure it out. He took your smaller hands into his, promising that no matter what, for now he would figure it out with you at his side. Of course you agreed, squeezing his hands in confirmation.

Ya'll are soulmates, period. Very big 'he is half of my soul' energy. Your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. Your words have already been said by the other before you can string them together in your head. You share in each-others grief and rage. Five years into the relationship, Jason knew you so well (and being raised in a family of detectives) that you would never have to explain your frustration or annoyance - and on days like that he would always be ready to wrap you up in a weighted blanket, forcing a cup of raspberry tea into your cold hands and his headphones over your ears with one of his audiobooks already playing. Carrying you to your shared bed for you to fall asleep leaned up against his chest, his thick arms wrapped tightly around you.

Despite his availability of wealth and status, he keeps your date-night very low-key and personal. On his off days from Red-Hooding, both of you would have cooking nights. Where you would sway and giggle with the slow drift of music coming from the kitchen radio. You would make something hearty and filling. You wanting to see Jason sigh in the comfort of good food. You both would curl up with your steaming bowls on your couch, probably watching Tangled (at your request). It's all extremely cozy, Jason smiling into your skin as gratitude blooms in his chest for you. For having created this safe, hidden expanse of reassurance. All while the harsh Gotham wind whipped just outside your window.

This man is smitten- he worships you entirely. His is in awe of you, even as both of you grow old, his love and his care for you never relents or dwindles.

Ya'll would go to museums and art galleries and he would point at statues and paintings of goddess and queens and say 'you', under his breath. It's so horribly corny but it makes you hold his arm just a bit tighter every time.

After you both moved in together, he developed a habit of making your coffee alongside his and bringing it to you in bed in the mornings. This eventually just became your routine on weekends when you both had enough time to bask in the slow creeping of sunlight over each-others skin.

He's a romantic at heart, a part of him you had to slowly unearth under years of torment and blood. You were the one to force him out of his cave of isolation and into the reality of him deserving softness and joy. It's a dept you have assured him he doesn't need to pay back. That doesn't stop him from trying.

Giggles and smiles like a little boy if you kiss his forehead, specifically at the roots of his white streak. You think it's one of the prettiest things about him.

Unintentional scary dog when you guys are out together. He's got his hand laced with yours or floating somewhere on your hip or lower back. It's mostly due to his anxiety, constantly having his head on a swivel. It's all heightened due to the fact that he has the most precious, important individual standing next to him. Whether it's at one of his Dad's galla's or trips to the local library, he likes to have you near him.

Bitch has multiple playlists made about/for you (a lot of Noah Kahn and TV Girl)

Example:

A/N: I may be gay but I have a very special place for sappy Jason in my heart. Please send in any requests regarding our boy (or any of the bat boys or girls)- I really love writing for the people in this fandom.

[peachesofteal]

Dead Disco - Epilogue

Dead Disco masterlist Ghost/Soap/female reader The end.

You’re having trouble breathing.

It doesn’t help that you’re hiding in the back, peeking around the corner every so often, trying to interpret everyone’s faces. 

It’s terrifying. You’re terrified. 

“Hello?” Lea calls from the other side of the hallway, hands turned upwards like she’s confused. “What are you doing?” 

“Shhh!” You hiss, grabbing her by the wrist. “I’m hiding.” 

“Okay… why are we hiding?” 

“I can’t go out there.” The denial is steadfast, and she shakes her head. 

“You have to. You’re the artist.”

“I know. And that’s why I can’t go. They’re all… looking at me. Judging me.” 

“They’re appreciating you, love. They’re appreciating your work.” You shiver. It’s not just your work out there. It’s a collection of your pieces, moments and feelings worked out on canvas, agony and elation painted together into something called art. 

“I can’t go out there.” You double down, and she rubs your shoulder sympathetically. 

“You have to.” 

It’s not so bad. You finally appear from the back, and the gallery host introduces you as the artist. Everyone claps. 

As you make your rounds, you start to notice small stickers on the plaques, signifying the sale of a piece, and it warms you, happiness spreading from fingers to toes, fills you with pride.

People stop to talk to you, shake your hand, ask you about certain pieces. You find answering their questions is not as painful as you imagined, and their compliments make you feel lighter. You circle the room, finally coming to a stop in front of the biggest piece in the entire gallery. 

At first glance, you think it’s hard to discern what’s really going on, but the longer you stare at it, the more the puzzle comes together. Or at least, you think so. You’ve been staring at it for four years. 

It’s an expressionist piece, as all your paintings are, but this one is a touch abstract, stroked together in a way that seems almost unintentional. 

It’s a painting of conflicting colors, some dark and moody, others bright. A push, and a pull.  Three bodies lay on a bed, diaphragms torn open and bleeding. They're all reaching into each other's chests, blood coating their arms, curled up so tightly together it’s hard to discern where one ends and the other begins in some strokes. 

There’s no emotion scrawled into their features, nothing to interpret. You did it intentionally, hoping to direct the focus to the piece as a whole. That’s the only way it works. The only way it makes sense. 

“I like this one. It's intriguing. Feels sad, almost.” Someone says behind you, and you turn to see a tall man staring at it with a thoughtful gaze. Studying. “Will you tell me about it?” 

Emotion clogs your throat. Your fingers trace over the plaque bearing its name. 

Darling.

“It’s a love story.” 

The bar stool is one of the spinning ones. 

You keep turning around in it, in circles, laughing as Lea rolls her eyes. “Babe, you’re going to fall.” You tsk. 

“You’re literally no fun.” 

“We’re here celebrating you. I don’t want to be doing that in a hospital when you break a bone falling off that stool.” She tips her head towards the bartender. “Can we get another round please?” 

“Sure thing.” You like this place. It’s got great natural light in the day, big, tall windows and sage green walls, gold accents littered throughout. It feels homey, and sweet. 

“I think that went really well. How do you feel about it?” 

How do you feel. 

“I think so too. Once I got over the nerves I… I thought it was good.” 

“You sold a lot of paintings.” 

“I know.” You laugh. That’s the surprise of the night, if you’re being honest. The number of pieces you sold, to other galleries, to a museum. 

A wild dream turned reality. 

“You’re going to be a big-time fancy painter now, watch.” 

“I’m sure that’s either a long way off, or not going to happen. Either way, I’m really happy. I’m really proud of myself.” The two of you sip your new drinks, and you twist again on the stool. 

“Someone tried to buy Darling.” Lea says gently, eyes soft. 

“I know.” 

“You’re sure you didn’t want to sell it?” You shake your head. It might be your best, biggest piece, but it will never know a home other than yours. You started painting it four years ago, the first night you left her behind, and she’ll never belong to anyone, except you. She’s safe with you, protected by you, loved by you, like she always should have been. 

Like she was, so reverently, by them. 

You didn’t even want to display it tonight, if you’re being honest.  But Lea convinced you, and you found it in yourself to be brave. 

She lets you sit in your silence for a while, which you appreciate. She’s a true friend, one that doesn’t pressure you to do things or say things for the sake of them. 

Usually.

“Well,” she clinks her glass against yours with a mischievous smile and then says much too loudly, loud enough faces and bodies turn towards yours in the bar, “here’s to my favorite painter and her first gallery showing.” Some people clap. Some people cheer. You glare at her. “What? Opposed to free drinks?” You spin on the stool again, smiling, and then catch a flash of someone walking towards a door, muscled shoulders- 

And a mohawk. 

Your heart trips over itself. 

“I’ll be right back.” You tell Lea, who gives you a confused look, but you’re already moving through the room, unsteady on your heels. 

You burst through the door into the cool air, autumn nipping at your exposed skin, and look up and down the street. Your pulse ricochets in your ears. 

They’re a block away. The night is dark, and the streetlights are yellow, but you’d know them anywhere. 

“Hey!” You yell. “Wait!” They turn, and you teeter towards them as fast as you can manage, startling to a stop a few feet before them. 

Your heart hammers inside your chest. Standing here, staring at them, taking them in, soaking in it. They look good. Happy. Healthy. Johnny’s skin is glowing, Simon somehow seems bulkier than he did four years ago, but the weight suits him. 

“Hi.” You breathe. 

“Hi.” Johnny’s eyes sparkle, Simon’s lips turning up in a barely-there smile. 

Words fail you. For the first time in a while, you don’t know what to say. Hundreds of thousands of things try to get free, but none of them make it, though your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. 

“We saw yer name on the sign outside the gallery down the street earlier. Congratulations.” 

“Thank you. It was… really neat.” Lame.

“It’s a big accomplishment. You must be very proud.” Johnny’s gaze never leave yours, and you nod. 

“I am.” The three of you stand there, staring at one another. 

“Well, we should get going.” Simon breaks first. 

“Right. Of course. Uh, it was… it was good to see you.” 

“Ye too.” You let them get half a block away, not even. 

You know what you want to say. Delayed, held on your tongue too long in a wash of uncertainty, but it arises clear as day.  

“Wait!” They turn, you take a deep breath. “Would you… would you maybe want to have dinner, or something, sometime? Catch up?” 

“We’d love to.” It feels different now, but the good pieces, albeit changed, shifted, are still there. 

“Great, it’s a… plan. To have dinner. Or something.” Johnny smiles, and Simon nods. 

“It’s a plan. You’ll text us?” 

“Yeah, I will.” 

“See ye soon, then.” 

“Okay. See you soon.” 

[astraystayyh]

Starry night.

in which you and hyune fall in love through paintings.

idol!hyunjin x museum guide!reader. love at first sight, kinda. both mc and hyune are romantics.. lots of art analysis and conversations. very fluffy and soft. like so soft i hurt myself with this you guys.

all the info about Vincent Van Gogh’s life and works are from the Van Gogh Museum. the interpretations are my own but im not an art critic, obvi, just a yearner 💔 please enjoy, feedback is highly appreciated 💞

thank you to the lovely reader who commissioned me!!!! the money went to our stayblr fundraiser for palestine. please consider donating if you are able too as well <3333

“You’ll be able to do it, right?” Your manager Martin looks at you expectantly, and you blink slowly in response. It, referring to leading a private tour of the Van Gogh exhibition.

You’ve been a museum guide in New York for four months now. When you’re not painting, you’re here, amidst the array of artworks nestled in a quaint street near East River. You’ve led group tours before, always under the watchful eye of Martin, a middle-aged man who never forgets to bring you a vanilla bourbon macaron every morning.

However, you’ve never handled a private tour before. You see the desperation in Martin’s eyes as he awaits your answer—he’s the one who usually handles these tours, but he has urgent family matters to suddenly attend to.

You blink again, your tongue unknotting in a split second. “I’d be happy to,” you beam. The exhibition feels like a second home to you; you’ve visited it countless times long before you started working here.

Martin heaves a sigh of relief, smiling back at you. “I believe in you,” he reassures, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Remember why I chose you.”

You grin at his words, nodding vigorously. Your love for art brought you here; your very being seems molded to breathe in paintings and live among them. It’s as sweet a life as it can get.

“You’ll find all the details about our guest in our log. He’s famous, so he’ll be a bit discreet. He’ll expect you to be too,” he explains, hurriedly packing his things. You nod, taking the keys to the art gallery from his hand.

“Don’t worry, the gallery is safe in my hands.”

“I know,” he says with a comforting smile, before finally waving goodbye. You take a deep breath and check the booking for tonight’s exhibition—Hwang Hyunjin.

The name is unfamiliar to you, and so is the face that greets you at 8 p.m. sharp—at least, what you can see of it. He’s wearing a navy cap and a face mask, with a varsity jacket sitting perfectly atop his broad shoulders. He looks young, roughly your age.

“Hi, welcome to our Van Gogh exhibition,” you greet him with a grin. He bows slightly in response.

“No one’s here, so you can remove your mask if you wish. I can take your bag as well,” you offer with a smile. He nods and hands you his black duffel bag, which you quickly pass to the security guard, who places it inside a safe cabinet.

Hyunjin removes his Versace cap, running a hand through his silky black hair. There is an aura of assurance around him, as if he’s poised before a camera in a professional photoshoot. But then, a shy smile appears on his face as he finally removes his face mask, his eyes glinting beneath the golden lighting.

You feel your breath catch in your throat; for a split second, the world around you seems to still, the paintings dimming before the beautiful face in front of you.

“Right,” you clear your throat, “shall we?”

Hyunjin nods, falling easily into step with you. You pause before the first painting, ‘Woman with a Child on her Lap’, 1883.

“This is rumored to be about Sien Hoornik, who became both Vincent’s lover and model. She was a former prostitute, pregnant at the time, and had a five-year-old daughter. Vincent was determined to help her through her hardships, and they dated for a year and a half. But then, he broke it off because he said she was too far gone to be saved.”

Hyunjin nods, his eyes fixated on the painting, his head tilted slightly to the side. “The eyes are telling,” he speaks for the first time, and his voice floods your being like dewdrops reviving flowers at dawn. It is smooth and soft, the end of his words getting lost in the air and caught by your heart.

“The way the mother and daughter look at each other, I mean.” He clarifies, stealing a fleeting glance at you. “There is disdain on the mother’s face, but more toward herself, I think. Maybe because she sees her reflection in her daughter.”

Groups usually scurry past this painting, eager to see Vincent’s more renowned works. You feel your heart soften at how much he seems to be thinking about it, lost in his own world. You’re not even sure he remembers you’re there.

“Vincent was really determined to help her, although his brother Theo disapproved. His parents did too.”

“Isn’t that what love is? To hold someone’s hand even if everyone tells you to let go,” he mutters quietly, his eyes still lost in the painting. A hue of vulnerability colors his words before he clears his throat, as if unwittingly revealing his inner thoughts.

“That’s a beautiful way to view it,” you smile, and he nods, shyly biting his lower lip. For some odd reason, his timidity stirs something unfamiliarly tender within your heart.

You walk over to the next set of paintings. “When Vincent moved to Paris, you can see how his style developed. He let go of the darker tones he used in his infamous ‘The Potato Eaters’ and began using lighter colors, like here,” you explain, pointing to ‘The Hill of Montmartre with Stone Quarry’.

“Do you think it’s because he was happier?” he suddenly asks, and you frown slightly. “Pardon?”

“The shift to lighter colors. ‘The Potato Eaters’ is so sorrowful and shrouded in darkness. ‘The Hill’ is much more colorful, lighter, you know?” His eyes glide to yours, a twinkle of curiosity glimmering in them.

“Vincent did flourish in Paris. For once, he was in the same city as his brother Theo, whom he loved dearly. But he was mainly influenced by modern art, which uses much lighter colors than his previous works. Art critics usually attribute this change in the influence of his contemporaries, such as—”

“But what do you think?” he interrupts softly, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are penetrating, and you find yourself lost in the seas of emotion they contain.

You quiet down, licking your lips tentatively. No one has ever asked for your opinion on these tours before.

“Well,” you begin slowly, “I think it’s possible. Being around his brother and other artists who embraced brighter palettes could have uplifted his spirit. But also, maybe the light colors were his way of reaching for happiness, even if he didn’t always feel it. Art often mirrors our hopes as much as our realities.”

Hyunjin listens intently, a thoughtful look on his face. “I agree,” he finally says, smiling sincerely. You don’t know why the sight of his grin renders your brain putty, like melted ice cream under the kind sunrays.

“His use of lighter colors continued when he moved to the south of France. He was delighted with the bright colors in Arles, painting orchards in blossom and workers gathering the harvest,” you explain, pointing to the respective paintings.

“That’s when he told his brother that he wanted to open a studio for fellow painters. He wrote in a letter the following: 'you always lose when you’re isolated.' He sent out many invitations, but only one painter agreed to come.”

“Paul Gauguin,” Hyunjin swiftly replies.

“Exactly. He was the first and last painter to move in with Vincent.”

“It seemed like the more he tried to escape loneliness, the more it found him,” Hyunjin muses, his eyes fixed on ‘Portrait of Gauguin’ by Vincent. The bright colors he asked you about earlier make you wonder if, beneath the spotlight, Hyunjin too feels lonely.

“Sometimes loneliness becomes a friend. You have to make room for it to allow other things to come in,” you say softly.

“It’s sad how nothing good came out of that roommate situation, though” he frowns, and you nod in agreement.

“Paul and Vincent were very different. They had a lot of eclectic views that often led to disagreements. I assume you know their most prominent one.”

“Yes, when Vincent cut off his ear.”

“Correct, he then wrapped it in newspaper and presented it to a prostitute in the nearby red-light district.”

“A prostitute…” Hyunjin muses, his thumb swiping slightly across his lower lip. “It seems like phantoms of his first love found him again. Even in his most disoriented state, he somehow remembered her.”

“You speak of love beautifully,” you suddenly say, before biting your tongue harshly, instantly regretting your words. But Hyunjin’s eyes seem to soften as he gazes at you, the warm light dancing across his pupils.

“It is a beautiful feeling.”

“Only to those who have beautiful souls,” you speak earnestly, and your words seem to morph into brushstrokes, painting the gallery in hues of red. Intimate, soft, too intimate all of the sudden.

“Vincent’s mental health rapidly declined, and he put himself back into the mental asylum,” you quickly clear your throat, though you can still feel Hyunjin’s eyes on you, not the painting. “Still, that’s when he created some of his most famous artworks, like ‘The Starry Night’. He was inspired by the view from the asylum’s window. It’s dominated by vivid yellow and blue, and the colors and paint seem to describe a world outside the artwork itself.”

“It’s breathtaking,” Hyunjin marvels, lost in the painting, leaning in until his nose almost brushes the canvas.

You suppress a giggle, but your laughter fades as you take in the mole right by his jaw, then the one by his neck. The delicateness of his face, the plumpness of his lips, and the curve of his lashes.

He’s beautiful. The painting could seep him in and he’d fit right in with the silver stars. Outshining them too, surely.

“I really liked the tour,” he smiles, nearly two hours of lazy strolls later. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” you grin back, grabbing his outstretched hand. His fingers wrap around yours slowly, deliberately, as if on a mission to ignite your nerve endings. To set your soul ablaze with his palm alone.

His hand holds yours for a few seconds longer than necessary. Your blush mirrors his when he finally lets go.

He quickly bows again, grabbing his bag from his manager, who was waiting by the door. He almost bumps into the handle on his way out, and you let out an endeared chuckle, your eyes lingering on his figure until he disappears into his black van.

You think you'll never see him again, two lines crossing serendipitously at one point, never to cross paths once more. The thought sends a pang of sorrow latching onto your heart, before you quickly brush it away.

But then you do see him again, the very following night, at that.

It is near nine p.m. when Martin exclaims suddenly, “Mr. Hwang!” and you freeze in your place, book guide in hand.

It has been exactly twenty-four hours since you last saw Hyunjin, but when his voice softly echoes through the art gallery, it feels like a lifelong ache finally soothed.

“Please, call me Hyunjin,” he says, shaking Martin’s hand, though his eyes quickly find yours. They stay on you, unmoving yet tender, like a cotton blanket draped over your being.

“How was the tour with Miss Yn?”

“Ah—“ his gaze finally drifts away from yours. “Yes, it was really nice. That's why I came again,” he explains, a touch sheepishly, and your quizzical eyes meet Martin’s.

“Hyunjin booked another private tour. He specifically requested you to be his guide,” Martin explains, and your eyes widen in shock. You don’t have time to reply because your manager quickly scurries away. “I’ll leave you two then. Have fun!”

You wait until Martin disappears into his office before turning to Hyunjin, who avoids your gaze, one hand deep in his pocket, moving side to side. You remain silent for a few moments, simply admiring the side of his face. You’ve always had a deep appreciation for art running through your veins, after all.

“Hi,” he finally says, his eyes quickly meeting yours. You can’t stop the smile that floods your face, coating every nook and cranny of your features.

“You came back,” you say with a breathy giggle.

“Mm,” he instantly grins. “I don’t know when I’ll be back in New York, so I wanted to truly memorize the art here.”

“When are you going home?” you ask as you take his bag again, your eyes taking in his outfit—a green cap this time, a knit vest over a white shirt, and a silver teddy bear necklace nestled perfectly against it. Pretty.

“Tomorrow. We had a tour stop here, and we’ll go back to Seoul now.”

“And you’ll be spending your final night in the city here?” you chuckle slightly, and he shrugs as if it’s the most obvious decision he ever had to make.

“Why not? I think it’s beautiful here.” though his eyes never move to look onto the paintings, gliding across your face instead.

“And I forgot to take pictures yesterday,” he quickly adds, pointing to the camera in his hands.

“I’ll help you then,” you offer, and he smiles so brightly that it renders you speechless, suddenly wondering if the first person who ever drew a portrait had a similar thought—that they saw a smile so beautiful they just needed to immortalize it.

Hyunjin is at ease before the camera. You can tell by the way he almost pretends the device isn’t there, his eyes fixed on the paintings, mere centimeters away from the canvas. He’s whisked away into another world. You see your love for art mirrored in his soul as well.

“Do you paint, by any chance?” you ask between pictures, and he nods.

“Whenever I have free time. And you?”

“I do. I can show you later, if you’d like.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says, pointing his finger at you, before looking directly into the camera this time. “I’ve been painting magnolias lately.”

“Really? Why magnolias specifically?”

“I read a poem about them. It said that when magnolias wither, they aren’t considered beautiful anymore. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t at one point. It really moved me.”

“You have to be very optimistic to view it that way,” you say as you finally hand him the camera, satisfied with your pictures. You are both standing in front of ‘Almond Blossom,’ the pastel colors drawing you in.

“Withering flowers mean that at one point they were in full bloom. Grief means that at one point you did love,” you muse. “It takes a lot of gentleness to find beauty in endings, to celebrate them as proof of what once was. Don’t you think so?”

You turn to look at him when the flash of a camera catches you off guard.

Hyunjin looks at your picture, a soft smile on his face. “You fit right in with the flowers,” he compliments, though it does not feel superfluous or bearing a hidden intent. It’s a simple observation he wished to share.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, a blush sprouting from your very veins. You quickly fix your posture, pointing to the painting. “I told you yesterday that Vincent painted this for his brother Theo, to celebrate his newborn, whom he named after Vincent.”

“Yes, I remember,” he nods, slinging the camera over his neck and taking a picture of the painting up close. “It seemed to bring Vincent a lot of solace in his final days.”

“I’ve been thinking about your question, whether Vincent was happy. I think he was hopeful more than anything. He had hoped his works would be recognized, he had hoped he wouldn’t be as lonely anymore. Sometimes hope keeps you going much more than happiness.”

“Because happiness will eventually wear off?”

“Right, it’s only natural. But hope… it’s like a flame that never goes out. It might flicker and dim, but it will still be there on your darkest nights.” You bite your lip slightly, your thumb digging into your palm.

“I hope you’ll always have hope in your life, Hyunjin. You’ve been my favorite person to talk about Vincent with,” you say sincerely, your eyes unwavering from his.

You imprint the way his gaze softens into your mind, the slight blush that powders his cheeks, the way his teeth peek behind his smile. You memorize his velvety voice in your mind, the way he accentuates certain letters and how it pulls at the strings of your heart when he says—“I’m very happy I met you, Yn.”

May is gone, and with it Hyunjin, and you think you are a fool for thinking of him as often as you do after only five hours in his presence. You don’t know why your mind is permeated with his essence. But why wouldn’t it be? is the better question. When he’s beautiful, truly, body and soul.

You feel slightly less foolish when a postcard is delivered to your exhibition on a sunny Saturday, one month later. It depicts the front entrance of the Museum of Modern Art in Seoul.

June 13.

“yn,

i saw Vincent’s works once again in this month’s exhibition. somehow they seem less beautiful without our conversations.

i hope you’re surrounded by art, too.

hyunjin.”

June 23.

“hyunjin,

i visited claude monet’s immersive exhibition, you have to visit it as well, once you’re back in new york.

i am still surrounded by art, as always. i don’t think i could ever part from it.

did you finish your magnolias? i hope you’re seeing beauty in them even after they wither.

yn.”

July 5.

“yn,

claude’s works are so different from vincent’s... don’t you think it's beautiful that they lived at the same time yet depicted their world so differently?

my magnolias are finished. i’ve been drawing scenes from your exhibition lately, the picture i took of you is particularly inspiring. i hope you don’t mind.

hyunjin.”

september 26.

“hyunjin,

leaves are falling all over new york. new beginnings are upon us. i hope this view of my window inspires you too.

i wish you happiness no matter the season.

yn.”

october 7.

“yn,

i just saw the first snow at dawn, it was such a pretty view! i’m happy i’m alive today.

i hope snow reaches you fast enough, too.

stay warm.

with love,

hyunjin.”

october 23.

“hyunjin,

i’ve always preferred spring, but snow brought me such a happy opportunity. i’m invited to an exhibition in seoul, next month!

i’ll enjoy it well and think of our conversations.

with love,

yn.”

october 5.

“yn,

the weather is beautiful in seoul lately. i’m happy you’ll be here to see it.

it is late at night, and the moon is shining brightly. i hope it’ll shine as brightly for you too, in new york.

with love,

yours.”

The click of your black heels against the marble floors echoes through the museum, a comforting sound as you stroll through the immersive Vincent exhibition; now gracing Seoul. The colors wash over you, reflecting off your skin, swirling around you until you feel as though you’re being drawn into the very heart of the paintings.

“Enjoying the art, Yn?” a voice like honey drips across your being. Your heart skips a beat, plummets to your knees and races back to its place once again. You feel an ache inside you unfold. memories of Hyunjin’s voice rewriting themselves, perfecting your recollection of his accent and the tender way in which he spoke your name.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, though you refuse to turn around and meet his eyes. Not yet. The scent of his rose perfume is enough to have your heart rattling against your ribcage— a bird wishing to escape its cage and deliver your love letter to its rightful owner.

“Isn’t it an amazing coincidence we met here? In Seoul, no less,” he says, his voice airy as he inches closer.

“I know you’re the one who invited me,” you giggle, finally turning to meet his gaze. His eyes widen slightly before morphing into crescents, as if lifted from Vincent’s Starry Night.

“How did you know? I thought I kept it a secret in our postcards,” he grins sheepishly.

“I kept pestering Mr. Martin about why the museum invited me specifically until he finally told me you were behind it.”

“Well,” he licks his lips, his eyes roaming over your face. “I admit, I missed you. I wanted to see you again. And I happen to be a major contributor to the museum.”

“Fancy,” you beam, before your grin morphs to something much softer, as you realize that you are away from your work, and that the Hyunjin of your postcards is finally before you.

“I missed you too. Show me around?”

“Am I your guide now?”

“Mm. I expect you to be an expert.”

“Oh, I am.”

Hyunjin speaks of the paintings as if it’s his first time seeing them, finding new things to admire, new details to point out to you. You find it hard to keep up, only because your eyes seem more interested in observing him. You’ll tell him later that you were right in thinking he’d make every painting more mesmerizing.

But for now, you stroll together, his hand brushing against yours every now and then. Before long, you’re far from the museum, walking into the chilly Seoul night, his jacket draped over your shoulders.

And you talk, you talk about every painting you’ve seen since his departure, the flowers you’ve picked, and the strawberry field you visited at the end of June. He shares stories of his favorite painters and his beloved dog, Kkami, whom he misses dearly. He speaks of the moon and how your postcards lessened his loneliness. You tell him you’ve kept every card by your bedside, the first and last thing you see each day.

Suddenly your pinky is entwined with his, your cheeks ache from how much you’ve spoken and laughed, your heart lighter than it had ever been.

“Thank you for walking me to my hotel,” you smile softly.

He nods, his thumb swiping across your palm tenderly. It’s only after a while that he speaks again. “I know you said that happiness wears off eventually. But right now, the happiness i feel… I think it will last me for the next four months, at least.”

“Just four months?” you tease, and he giggles, tipping his head back. You wish you had your paintbrushes, your camera, a simple pen, anything to commit his laugh into something tangible.

“For a long time,” he finally says, quietly, resigned. Tomorrow’s flight ticket makes your heart ache, all of the sudden.

“I… I’ll get going. Thank you for inviting me,” you smile, dropping his hand. You know it’ll hurt the more you hold it, the easier it’d be for you to remember the softness of his hand.

So you walk back, you’re near the hotel door, a hand suddenly wraps around your wrist, the security guards both discreetly look away.

“Yn,” Hyunjin turns you around, his eyes are as wide as the full moon hanging close to earth, listening in to your conversation.

“You didn’t- you didn’t show me your paintings.” he says a bit too quickly, desperately.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“Back in New York, you promised to show me your paintings. You didn’t.”

“You remember?”

Hyunjin's chest heaves in response, his warm palms cradle your cheeks, his eyes speak of a yearning you haven’t thought existed. When his lips crash upon yours, fervently, passionately, like the collision of all stars in Starry Night, you have your answer.

He remembered. He remembered as much as you.

Epilogue— seven months later.

“Now… next question,” Hyunjin grins as he takes out a folded paper from a glass jar, five sets of camera’s all pointed at him in the shooting set of Elle Korea.

“If you could feel only one emotion for the rest of your life, what would you choose?”

Hyunjin puts the paper down, adjusts the sleeves of his Versace blue silk shirt. He doesn’t need to think too much to answer— he already has his reply.

“Someone told me, a long time ago, that hope keeps you going longer than happiness. Because happiness wears off eventually. But hope doesn’t. hope is like a flickering flame, it surges and it dims, but it doesn’t go out, so I choose hope.” he smiles suddenly, eyes looking into those of the staff behind the camera.

“That got deep all of the sudden, right? Done worry, Stay, I have hope, happiness and love, all at once.”

He chuckles quietly, picking up the last piece of paper.

“Finally… who’s your favorite painter? Ah, easy, it’s Vincent Van Gogh.”

“What's your favorite painting by him?” the shooting director asks behind the camera, his eyes fixate on the lens. He knows his love will be watching.

“A woman with a child on her lap. It’s not very known, but… if you look into it closely, beautiful things might come into your life and change it forever.”

from left to right, Woman with a Child on her Lap, 1883 — Portrait of Gauguin, 1888— The Potato Eaters, 1885—The Hill of Montmartre with Stone Quarry, 1886— Almond Blossom, 1890— The Starry Night, 1889.

[dark-moonlust]

Caught Between the Fae

This is a Patreon commission I finished yesterday. The commissioner chose to remain anonymous. I hope you enjoy this small story! It was so enjoyable to write and it's super steamy, too! I love every part of it 🖤

Pairing: 2 fae males (Nestor, Quin) x f!human (Layla)

Summary: Layla is a photographer in her mid-30s. During her exhibition event, two fae males, Nestor and Quinn, are drawn to one of her paintings and her beauty. They recognize her as their mate and quarrel over who will get Layla and her artwork. Finally, they decide to share her as she belongs to them both. They claim her as their mate and go into a mating rage, driving deep inside her and marking her with their cum.

Warnings: minors don’t interact, 18+!!, fingering, oral(female+male receiving), kinky talk, a little bondage, big 🍆, fae magic to fit, p in v sex, anal, double penetratiοn, lots of 💦.

Tonight was her big night. 

Layla took yet another deep breath and strolled through the art gallery. Her heart thundered with excitement and a little fear. That night, her photography was the star of the show. All her pieces were there for all to see and judge. She truly hoped the people would admire and grasp the feelings and meanings behind each photo. Her work was her pride and joy.

As she walked the sleek gallery, the room was a whirl of positive reviews and the clinking of champagne glasses. The people liked her work! Feeling her anxiety lessen, she smiled, soaking in the energy as she mingled with the guests. She let herself enjoy the vibes, her soft curvy frame moving gracefully through the crowd, her fiery red hair catching the light, making her green eyes gleam with pride. 

Taking a short break, she stood near the center of the room and tried to calm her raging heart. The gallery was a big hit and a dream come true! She still couldn’t believe it. She wanted to jump and laugh out of joy. As she scanned the faces of the audience, her gaze stopped on two striking men in front of her favorite piece: a photo of a moonlit beach at night. They were boldly gazing at her piece and then her way. 

A jolt traveled through her. Their gazes practically saw through her. 

Tall and towering, they were both, with pointy ears and supernatural auras exuding such intense power that caused her whole body to come alive and warm up as if licked by fire.

They were fae... what otherwordly beauty.

The one on the left had close-cropped blonde hair, deep purple eyes, and although he wore a sleek black suit, she could see his neck and hands, which were filled with tattoos that surely filled the rest of his body. The other male beside him was all dark and sensual mischief. He had long, curly, dark hair and ice-blue eyes that sparkled with a devil-may-care attitude.

They were attracting the eyes of everyone in the room; their presence electrifying.

From across the room, Nestor, the King of the Court of Nightmares, stood in front of Layla’s photo, his deep purple eyes drawn to every detail of the mounted piece. The gallery lights cast the perfect light, illuminating the moonlight beach. His fingers tightened around his glass as he swirled the dark liquid inside. Beside him, Quinn admired the same photo, his ice-blue eyes attracted to the art and the artist herself. He was the Emperor of the Court of Chaos. 

“Stunning,” Nestor murmured in a low mumble, scanning the room, his gaze finding Layla and staying on her. “They shall be mine. Both the piece and the artist.”

Quinn chuckled, his eyes equally intent on the female. “You wish. You don’t have what it takes to appreciate them both.”

“And you do?” Nestor’s voice was higher than usual, turning heads. “Thinking too high of yourself, aren’t you?”

“This art piece belongs in my court, and little fireheart in my bed.”

“Fireheart…” Nestor whispered, his eyes tracing the fire-colored hair of his mate, the soft and curvy frame he hungered to have exposed beneath him. “I’ll never let you have them. She’s my fated one and the Queen of the Court of Nightmares.”

Quinn’s laugh was light and mocking. “I’ll bid whatever the hell you want. She’s my mate, the Empress of Chaos Court. She will be mine.”

“You? I don’t think so. I want her and that piece, and I’ll have them,” Nestor stated, his voice hard with authority. “You’d better wet your dick elsewhere.”

Quinn’s lips curled at his words. “I’ll wet my dick inside her, in every warm little place inside her.” The Emperor of Chaos stared at his mate, their gazes meeting and holding. She was gorgeous. In every way. Her red hair cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, and her green eyes sparkled with passion. He wanted her. He’d never back down. 

“She is mine.” Nestor’s eyes flicked to the other fae. “The moment I saw her, I knew she was my fated one.”

“And you think I didn’t feel the same?” Quinn spat back, with a hint of annoyance. Long moments passed before he added, “Perhaps there’s a reason we both recognize her so strongly.”

Nestor narrowed his eyes at him. “What are you implying?”

“Fate doesn’t make mistakes,” Quinn answered. “She belongs to both of us.”

“This makes sense…” Nestor trailed off, clearly considering the proposal. 

Quinn chuckled warmly. “Finally, we agree on something. So, what do we do about it?”

“We claim her. Every part of her.”

It was that moment when Layla decided to approach them. She closed in on them, and they immediately framed her luscious body with their possessive, towering bodies on both sides. Layla felt hot all over, her frame shivering from the intensity of their aura and their mere height. The dynamic between the two fae made her belly clench with arousal and for a few seconds she felt such an intense magnetic pull towards them that she could barely contain it.

“Gentlemen… I am Layla, the artist behind these photographs. I’m honored by your interest, and I couldn’t help but notice your tension… is there a problem?”

“Good evening, Layla,” Nestor greeted with a sultry drawl. “I am Nestor, King of the Court of Nightmares. Your work is extraordinary, I must have it.”

Quinn grinned and stepped closer to her, his ice-blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “I am Quinn, Emperor of the Court of Chaos. Our problem is that we both desire this piece of art, though not as much as we desire you.”

Nestor shifted closer to her right side, his scent enveloping her. “You should visit my court, Layla, and be the crown jewel of my kingdom. Choose me, fireheart.”

“Fireheart?” Layla muttered, a little taken by the nickname and the intensity in his eyes. 

Quinn hummed and let his towering form nearly envelop her left side. “We feel a connection to you, little one. A bond that cannot be ignored.”

Layla didn’t know whether to laugh or blush at their bold statements. The gallery suddenly buzzed with whispers and speculations as all eyes turned toward the three of them. Both fae males had surrounded her, and her cheeks felt hot, as did the rest of her body. Her pussy was also wet, aching with a need she couldn’t barely ignore. They weren’t just interested in her art—they wanted her. 

She took a deep breath, her heart pounding.

How could she refuse the King of Nightmares and Emperor of Chos without offending them?

“Gentlemen,” she finally said, her voice wavering, “I’m afraid the artist—meaning myself—is not available for such… arrangement. However, the art piece is. I am sure we can find a way to resolve this without—”

“Without what?” Nestor’s eyes darkened. “Without accepting the connection you are feeling?"

Layla opened her mouth to reply, but Quinn cut her off. “Don’t deny it, fireheart. You feel it too. The mating bond, the desire.”

Layla bit her lip and unconsciously rubbed her thighs together. Liquid warmth pooled in her core. “I… I don’t think this is appropriate.”

“Yet your pussy is wet and aching for us,” Quinn whispered against her ear, his breath warm. “And it’s not going away unless we take care of you.”

“Accept us, little mate,” Nestor said, sending shivers down her spine. “We can feel your need. You want us. Both.“

“I—I…” Layla stuttered wordlessly, her eyes flicking between the two fae. She felt such longing and undeniable attraction for them. But how could she just give in?

“You are ours, fireheart. Ours to claim in ways neither of us could do alone,” Quinn nodded, his ice-blue eyes intense.

“B-b-both of you…” Layla muttered, her body tightening pleasurably at the mere thought of those two fae belonging to her. 

“Hmm,” both men growled, their eyes caressing her face and red hair. 

Layla nodded slowly, listening to her heart which was screaming for them. Immediately, Fae magic surrounded her, stealing her breath away. The gallery blurred and melted away, replaced by a lavish bedroom filled with rich fabrics and flickering candles. Nestor and Quinn embraced her from both sides, their hands exploring her heated body. 

Nestor scented her neck, his fingers tangling in her loose hair as if he couldn’t have enough of her. Quinn kissed her shoulders over the straps of her dress, each lingering touch leaving trails of delightful warmth and heat. When their gazes locked on hers, she felt hypnotized by the mating bond between them. It was real; they belonged to her, and she ached with need, desperate to be touched by them. 

“Yes, fireheart,” Quinn rasped, sliding down the straps of her dress. “You are our mate, and you will be filled by us both.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nestor said, unzipping the back of her dress, his fingers warm against her skin. “Do you agree, sweetheart? Do you want this?”

“Hmmm… I want you,” Layla breathed, adrenaline pumping in her heart. 

Quinn’s hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lower lip. “Good girl,” he murmured, his icy eyes bearing into her emerald ones. They were enchanting, hypnotizing. “Now, let us show you what it means to be ours.”

Layla didn’t realize how quickly they scooped her up and propped her on the plush bed. They divested her of her clothing skillfully. Quinn peeled away her dress while Nestor unclasped her bra, moaning low as her breasts spilled free. He cupped them in his big palms and pushed them up to his hot mouth, suckling each pouting nipple. Quinn knelt at her half-closed thighs and gently removed her panties and shoes. Seeing how she hesitated once she was fully exposed to them, Quinn’s long fingers trailed down her belly, then lower, teasing the sensitive skin between her thighs.

“Open for us, little one,” Quinn said, his voice a seductive promise. “We’re going to fuck you deep, make you feel so good.”

Layla shyly opened her legs and suddenly both men were between them, each one securing a leg over their muscular thighs, their hands making sure she was fully open to their eyes. Using their magic, they removed their clothes, leaving her to gape at the two fae males, so big and powerful—in every way. 

Nestor had a sculpted body covered in tattoos. His eyes were warm and inviting, his stomach taut, his thighs firm and in between... his cock stood proud, looking utterly inhumane. It was thick and very long, pulsing, its length surrounded by protruding veins. Quinn was no less captivating. He was just as tall, his stance emphasizing the force of his thighs and the raw power of his well-muscled body. His eyes swirled with blue ice as he pumped his rigid cock. It was deliciously curved and textured with ridges, a little thicker than Nestor’s but not as long. 

Having both of them… Layla felt the dark desire, the intensity overflowing. The need. The craving. She wanted them. Wanted them more than anything in her life. 

“Fuuuuck, our mate’s even more beautiful than I imagined,” Nestor growled. She looked so pretty and tiny in contrast to their raging bodies. Flushed face, nipples out, pussy exposed. He wanted to debauch her. 

“Show us your pretty cunt, fireheart,” Quinn demanded softly. “Open those pretty lips nicely for your mates.”

Dazed by desire, Layla reached down and did as told. She opened her outer folds with two fingers, showing off her slit and the bud of her clit. Both men growled ferociously and stared for a few seconds. 

“That’s it,” Nestor growled, bending to lick a thick stripe up her pussy. “So wet already for your mates.”

Layla gasped, all sane thoughts fleeing. 

Quinn also leaned down to taste her pussy, kissing her throbbing clit. She saw stars. 

“She is ready for her mates,” Quinn said with a smirk. “You’re going to take every inch of us, aren’t you, fireheart?”

Layla whimpered, her voice and body trembling. “Yes… Please…”

The two males smiled. 

Nestor toyed with her pussy lips and Quinn rubbed her needy clit. Layla whimpered and struggled to arch off the bed. She squirmed restlessly, but their hold on her thighs was too secure, allowing no movement as their fingers probed and rubbed her pussy to their liking. She melted under their touch, her heart pulsing with the intensity of their bond.

“Such a sweet wet cunt," Quinn marveled, gathering her slick and rolling it between two fingers.

“Love your nipples, sweetheart,” Nestor drawled, moving to suckle one tit then the other, his tongue swirling around the hardened buds. 

“Pl… ease,” she sighed, her body feverish with need. “Need you. Need you so much it hurts!”

"Hurts?“ Quinn said in a mischievous tone as he rubbed her clit round and round while thrusting a thick finger inside her. Layla cried out and Nestor claimed her lips, swallowing her moans. 

“Hurts so good, hm, sweetheart?” Nestor drawled as their lips brushed, their tongues mating. 

“Yesss, please, more please… hmnnn...”

No sooner had she said that than Quinn was tasting her mouth, kissing her possessively and deeply. His tongue licked into her mouth then his tongue danced with hers. 

“What do you need, fireheart?”

Oh, how she adored the way they called her nicknames. She wanted to be theirs forever and get lost in their warmth and affection. 

“Want you so much. I’m so empty…”

“Our mate needs to be filled,” Nestor said to the other fae. “But first she will cum for us.”

Quinn agreed in a low chuckle and finger-fucked her while Nestor pressed his thumb against her clit, rubbing over and over. Driving her higher and higher until she exploded, bliss and pleasure overtaking her until she couldn’t think or talk. Layla quivered and while she rode her orgasm, Nestor suckled her lower lip. Quinn moved to her breasts, his mouth nursing her aching nipples. Captive in their hold, she arched into their touch, drawn-out moans escaping her.

She was still dizzy from her orgasm when they shifted. Nestor sneaked between her thighs, slapping his heavy cock against her glistening pussy. The sound was wet and squelching, her pussy fluttering with the need to be filled. Quinn kneeled next to her head, his cock pulsing in the air, the tip leaking precum. Layla licked her lips, hungry to taste him. 

“Open,” Quinn commanded softly, “wet my dick, mate.”

Layla obeyed, her lips parting to take him in. Smiling mischievously, Quinn thrust his hips gently, his leaking cock stretching her mouth wide and filling it up. At the same time, Nestor entered her pussy, his girth spreading her cunt and filling her up inch by delectable inch. 

“Mhppphhh!” Layla gasped and gurgled around the cock in her mouth, her pussy filled to the limit by Nestor. Quinn gripped her fiery hair, guiding her head to keep sucking him. She was so full… Quinn’s shaft kissed her throat while Nestor’s cock kissed her cervix. 

“That’s it… fuck, you’re perfect,” Nestor groaned, watching her pussy suck him in. 

“Is it good, fireheart? Being fucked from both ends?” Quinn pulled his cock out of her mouth with a wet pop, his cock coated in her saliva. 

“Hmnn! Want more!”

With a proud moan, Quinn shoved his cock back into her hot mouth, going deeper and fucking down her throat. Nestor watched the lewd sight with pride. Their pretty mate struggled a little, but she took Quinn’s cock like the queen she was, hollowing her cheeks and clenching her pretty throat. She stroked his balls, cradling them in her small hands, her eyes rolling back with each thrust from both of them. 

Groaning, Nestor pounded deep into her cunt, making her pretty tits bounce with each sharp thrust. He kneaded her mounds, his thumbs pinching her nipples, causing her to gag and whimper around a mouthful of cock, her breathing heavy. Gods, she was so pretty like this, trapped between them, their cocks spearing her back and forth. 

A few calculated thrusts, and she came explosively, her body shuddering. Once she rode the waves of pleasure, the fae changed positions again, with Nestor fucking her mouth and Quinn taking her pussy. The dual sensations were overwhelming, liquid pleasure coursing through her veins as they filled her relentlessly. The room echoed with the rhythmic slaps of skin against skin and her muffled moans as she took fae cock. 

“Such a good mate for us,” Quinn said with pride. Her lips were swollen, her pussy drenched with her release. “Now it’s time to take our seed, hm?”

“Hmp, yes… want your cum,” Layla said in a seductive purr. 

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” Nestor drawled. “Ready to take us both in your soaked cunt and tight little ass?“

“Hmm, gonna take you both,” Layla nodded, seeing the pride and desire on their handsome faces. “Need to feel you inside me.”

In a flurry of motion, they repositioned themselves so that Layla was straddling Nestor, her raw breasts rubbing against his muscled chest. Quinn kneeled behind her, his strong hands spreading her asscheeks, his thumbs teasing around the tight, puckered hole. Such a cute little hole. Layla whimpered when Nestor gripped her hips and guided her down onto his throbbing dick while Quinn thrust a magically lubed finger into her ass. 

Layla groaned, desperation and desire in her green eyes. 

Quinn kissed her spine. “Relax your pretty asshole and take my fingers, fireheart.”

Layla clutched Nestor’s shoulders and tried to relax while Quinn squeezed a second oiled finger into her ass, the thick intrusions making her gasp and shut her eyes tightly. The combination of Nestor filling her pussy and Quinn’s fingers in her ass was strange. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and utterly at their mercy. 

“So damn tight," Nestor muttered against her moaning lips, his shaft buried in the heat of her cunt. 

Quinn added a third finger in her ass, pumped, and curled them inside her before replacing them with the head of his cock. The broad head spread her tight hole, forcing its way inside. Layla trembled at the dual invasion— they were so deep, stretching her wide around their inhuman girths. She glanced down at where they were joined, and with shock, she realized just how much more they had to go. Only a third of their shafts were inside her, and that both thrilled and scared her. 

Nestor’s voice broke through her haze. “You can do this, sweetheart.”

“You’re so big…” Layla whined. She was human, could she really take them both? 

“Deep breaths, mate,” Quinn advised gently. “Take a little more of us, hmm?” 

“Feels strange…” Layla looked at them for guidance, her cheeks flushed, her eyes worried. She could feel their dicks rubbing inside her, and she took deep breaths that were mixed with cries of pain and pleasure. 

“Let’s stroke your little clit,” Nestor murmured, his thumb stroking her bud, sending pulses of warmth all over her body. “Yesss, that feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm! Moree!”

“Such a good little mate,” Nestor cooed and proved his point by pulling out of her wet cunt then slamming more inches inside.

“Our mate needed a cock up her cunt and ass so badly,” Quinn growled as he worked deeper into her ass. 

“You will take us, mate. Again and again until you reek of our cum. Our magic protects you. Relax your holes,” Quinn ordered in her ear. 

Blindsided by the fullness of their penetration, Layla said yes in a series of raspy moans. Their fae magic infused her fully, empowering her and building her arousal. Before long, she’d taken the full lengths of their cocks. The fullness, the heat, the stretch— she was overwhelmed but in no pain. She curled between their powerful bodies, and when they started fucking her in earnest, she cried out, her nails digging into their flesh. 

“Look at you,” Nestor growled, his purple eyes dark with lust. “So beautiful riding our dicks.”

“You’re perfect like this, fireheart,” Quinn whispered, his hands fondling her asscheeks. “So tight, so hot.”

Hands grabbed and fondled her as they pounded her, their cocks owning her depths. When Nestor’s cock left her pussy, Quinn plunged into her ass. Layla tried to get more friction only to have their strong hands restrain her. Nestor grasped her tits while Quinn secured her wrists with magical silken ropes, carefully tying her arms behind her back. The silk felt like a caress, soft and slightly loose.

She didn’t complain; she only trembled between them, her watery eyes begging them to claim her. 

“If this is too much for you, fireheart, say “red” and we will stop. I promise you. Understood?”

“Yesss,” Layla nodded fervently. “Now… just fuck me.”

“Easy, sweetheart,” Nestor said, his hands gripping her thighs. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Layla was too far gone to think straight. “C-can’t! Want more!” 

“It’s the mating bond. She is human, and it’s affecting her. Our magic is also making everything stronger,” Nestor explained to the other fae. 

“Such a needy little mate,” Quinn rasped and pressed a harsh kiss to her mouth. “Bound and begging for us.”

Nestor grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You think you can handle us, huh? Think you can keep up with us?”

“Hmn… I can handle it,” Layla panted as they impaled her on their stiff cocks. 

Nestor chuckled from under her, his fingers pinching her nipples. “Is that so? Well, let’s see how long you can keep that attitude.” 

The two males exchanged glances before they resumed pounding into her. Nestor lifted her a few inches, then lowered her back down onto his cock. Quinn thrust his hips, fucking her ass in full thrusts that reached deep into her guts. They were both too thick, too hard, and too long, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

It went on and on; their stamina seemed endless, their cocks so impossibly hard and swollen with the need to cum. The scent of desire hung heavily in the air and she came again with uncontrollable, shuddering contractions, her holes clenching hard around their massive girths. The males followed right after her, their muscled bodies shuddering, roars ringing out as she felt something burst inside her. Massive wings sprouted from their backs as their seed filled her up, loads and loads of it, forcing little aftershocks of ecstasy. 

But they were far from done. 

They switched places, Nestor claiming her now stretched asshole while Quinn filled up her pussy. Their wings curled around her as they slammed inside her, and Layla lost herself in the mating bond, quaking between them, her arms securely bound, her holes fluttering around their shafts. She could only whimper and utter their names, begging them to stop, then begging them to never stop and make her cum.

“Remember your safe word, mate,” Quinn reminded her roughly. “If it’s too much say "red" and we will stop.”

“Would you like us to stop fucking your naughty holes?” Nestor’s fingers curled around her nape, his hips snapping repeatedly into hers. 

“Nnn—nooo!” Layla whined, her body tense as she balanced on the edge of pleasure. 

Quinn growled his approval. “That’s good, fireheart, because we’re not going to.”

The bed creaked, obscene moans echoing with every move they made. Her fae mates fucked her powerfully, thrusting to the hilt again and again, deep and tirelessly. Quinn devoured her lips with his kisses, his hands cupping her tits and pinching her sore nipples. Nestor growled from behind her, his broad chest pressing against her back as he claimed her ass and flicked her clit with his thumb. 

They were primal and fully affected by the need to claim her, and she loved it—she loved them and how they fucked her, it was unlike anything she had imagined.

Layla’s moans rang out when she came again, sobs of pleasure escaping her kiss-swollen mouth. She trembled as a pleasure bomb went off in her center. It was too much, but it was divine, every nerve was alight. They joined her soon after, pulsing up inside her and releasing spurt after spurt of their cum. She was already filled with them, but the second load overflowed from her, dribbling down her thighs. 

Layla didn’t know for how long it went on. 

They untied the silk ropes and took her again and again, lifting her off the bed, sandwiching her between their aroused bodies and feeding her their cocks in every position imaginable. Their wings flapped powerfully, and when Layla touched them, her mates went into a mating rage, driving deep inside her, claiming her, owning her. 

As the sun began to rise, their frenzied mating finally came to an end. 

They collapsed on the bed, the covers tattered and smeared with signs of their primitive coupling. Layla’s mates enveloped her, spooning her from front to back, their bodies entwined with hers, their cocks still hard inside her due to the suction of her cunt and ass. She was sated and exhausted, feeling a sense of belonging she had never known before. 

They took turns kissing her, softly, lovingly, whispering sweet nothings while gazing at her with an impossibly soft, oh-so-soft expression on their faces. Their seed had marked her as theirs; the mate of the Nightmare and Chaos Courts.

“Who do you belong to, little mate?” Nestor asked, kissing the side of her neck.

“You,” Layla breathed. “Both of you.”

Nestor growled and gazed at her possessively. She belonged wholly to them. And they to her. She was filled to the brim with their seed, her holes stretched taut around their shafts. It was the ultimate claiming. "So beautiful. You did so well, fireheart.”

“Stunning.” Quinn brushed a few sweaty hair strands from her face and kissed her fluttering eyelashes. “You were so good for us, mate. Our beautiful Queen and Empress.”

“Yes,” Nestor agreed proudly. “We shall unite our courts and give our mate everything.”

“Hmmm,” Quinn hummed against her chest, his voice a sultry whisper against her lips. “Do you like being filled by your King and Emperor, fireheart?” 

“Yes,” Layla answered, her heart brimming with affection for them. “I love it. I love you both.”

Nestor hummed from behind her, kissing her softly. “We love you more. You’re ours, sweetheart. Forever.”

That night, they’d claimed more than a masterpiece. 

They’d claimed their soulmate. 

[stardust-swan]

The Kind of Girl I Want To Be

Buys herself pink peonies and roses

Wears scents like Parfums De Marly Delina and Oriana, Miss Dior, YSL Paris, Prada Candy, Mon Guerlain and Chanel Chance Eau Tendre (she sprays it in the morning, after showers, and before going to bed)

Bakes heart shaped sugar cookies and macarons

Spends rainy days sipping rose tea from floral china while reading beautifully bound classic novels

Has a bookshelf filled with first edition poetry books, gilded editions of fairytale books, volumes of the Little Books of Fashion series, leatherbound classics, and Harlequin romance novels

Drinks peppermint tea in the morning and camomile tea at night

Sleeps on pink silk sheets and has a satin kimono robe

Plays Brigitte Bardot, classical music, and soft jazz in the background

Takes ballates or yogalates classes

Plays the violin or cello

Watches Audrey Hepburn and Anna Karina films

Adds sweet almond oil and rose bath tea to her vanilla bubble bath

Has a seasonal pass to the ballet and regularly visits the theatre, old bookshops, botanical gardens, and art galleries

Keeps things like French Girl lip tints/Glossier lip balms/Too Faced lip glosses, a hand mirror, a comb, some bonbons, a book, a rollerball of perfume, hand cream, a piece of rose quartz, a scrunchie, a nail file, spray on SPF and bubblegum in her bag at all times

Is always up to date with Fashion Week

Writes in her diary daily in swirly writing using coloured gel pens, pressing flowers between the pages and spraying perfume samples on it

Lights Yankee Candle Fresh Cut Roses or Rainbow Cookie, keeps soap and lavender in her wardrobe, and has vanilla diffusers around the house

Lives in a cosy home filled with beautiful things, like paintings by local artists, lots of cushions and throws, soft lighting from salt lamps and fairy lights, potted herbs and succulents, vintage vases filled with floral arrangements, DIY macramé and embroidery projects, a bowl of different crystals, signature Barbies on a shelf, rattan furniture, fluffy towels in white, pink, baby blue, and lavender, pink Dove or rose Roger et Gallet soap and Jurlique rose hand cream on the bathroom sink, pictures of her loved ones in antique frames, floral patterns everywhere, antique mirrors, and beautiful porcelain teasets

Goes to French cafés to enjoy a vanilla oat latte with a millefeuille or almond croissant

Always wears diamond or pearl earrings (often paired with a charm bracelet or gold heart locket)

Enjoys rosé wine, champagne, and strawberry daiquiris at lunchtime occasionally

Snacks on strawberries, sugared almonds, dried fruit and nuts, and Turkish Delight

Applies powder, rosy blush, lipgloss, and puts ribbons in her hair at her vanity table, which is decorated with a ballerina music box, vintage perfume bottles, and trinkets shaped like swans, angels and shepherdesses

Has her morning and evening routines down pat: waking up to melodic music, opening the windows, making the bed, doing gentle yoga, simple skincare, getting dressed, applying makeup, and eating a simple but delicious breakfast in the morning, and having a warm shower, doing more decadent skincare, putting on comfy cotton or satin pyjamas, journalling, enjoying a calming cup of herbal tea, reading, looking out the window at the moon, and falling asleep to relaxing sounds like ocean waves, gentle rainfall, and white noise at night. Her life runs like clockwork.

Is gentle, sweet, romantic, and full of love to give

[gremlingottoosilly]

Mafia!Konig and Loser!reader who is just a humble artist trying to find a buyer for his paintings.

You know the theory about most of contemporary art being just a curtain for black market and a way to legitimize drug money? Yea. No one was interested in your paintings. You didn't have a large name, you couldn't draw as much as you wanted because of your day job in retail, and you absolutely hated every minute of your life, being stuck in the apartment with artists of the same misery. All of you had trouble coming up with the money, so when there is an order on all of your paintings, you don't look like a gifted horse in the mouth. Someone wanted to buy your art. It was enough to make you want to marry this person. The guy who arranged the payment is sketchy. He wears a mask, blacl glasses, and a very noticeable anger in his voice as you don't quite understand what he wants to do from the first time. He says he will buy all of your paintings and put them in a gallery. He asks about your permission and if you want to do this for charity. He struggles to come up with a charity name, but you already sign up for whatever he is trying to give you, too happy to finally have money for the first time in your life. Then you wake up in a dirty basement, tied up to a chair. Funny. You thought about selling your organs in the past, but you never knew you will do it so soon - weirdly, you feel like all of your insides are intact. Weirdly, there is a huge man with a gun and scary mask, staring at you. Petting your head and touching your face like he is handling a pet, not a living and breathing starving artist, once in a generation talent. Man - Konig - said he wanted to buy all of your paintings to clean the money he got from the recent drug shipment. You were prooven to be a really reliable source, since you were clueless about the whole operation and would be easy to dispose after, but then his henchmen texted about how cute your dumb face looked. And Konig likes dumb loser girls who already wasted their lives. God, how much he adores them. He isn't opposed to charity and helping a starving artist thrive and do her silly painting about capitalism and gender issues while she eats from his hand. He isn't opposed to having you depend on him and cling to him like a tiny puppy - and he likes dangling riches in front of your face. Makes you do countless portraits of him and his men, always laughing if you say you don't really draw people. You'll have to, he says - if you want money. And you do, of course.

[seancekitsch]

Hazbin Hotel—Lucifer x Reader where he’s a love struck fool for reader? May or may not be inspired by that little imagine you posted not too long ago \(//∇//)\

uhhh this kinda got away from me. enjoy!!

You’d have to be a fool not to notice how the King of Hell acts around you, even Angel and Husk told you that. But you’re not blinded to situation, you know exactly what’s going on. You rest your elbow on the bar next to Angel as Charlie gathers the hotel residents and staff, a job not unlike herding cats. Everyone trickles in slowly, waiting for the next odd trust bond activity Charlie has come up with now. Last week was heartfelt letter writing, and the three of you at the bar had not taken it seriously. You handed Husk a comedic inner monologue about how much you needed to pee, Husk handed Angel a surprisingly detailed made up story about a talking whisky bottle, and Angel handed you a list of what roles he’d cast the entire hotel in a porno.

“What do you think they’ll have us do this time?” Husk mumbles to you, topping off your drink.

“Honestly, not a fan of the way Princess is smiling right now,” you answer.

Charlie waves everyone over, and Vaggie smiles uncomfortably, ready for everyone to start.

“Okay Good Afternoon,” Charlie starts, practically bouncing, “Today we’re going to try to form new bonds!”

Immediately, she’s met with groaning and mumbling, but thats never stopped her and it won’t today either.

“So what better way to do that then having a buddy for the next twenty four hours!” She shouts, and Vaggie’s face immediately makes sense.

“I’ve separated everyone from their regular group so they can build these bonds and be open!”

“…got something you could open…” you hear Angel mumble under his breath.

Charlie gives her dad a thumbs up.

“The first pairing is… my dad and Y/n!”

The Morningstar family sucks at being subtle or lying.

“So what did you have planned for the day?” Lucifer asks while sitting beside you, his voice short and clipped, his entire demeanor like he’s on high alert. It’s cute, really.

“Ah don’t worry about it,” you shrug, “What does the areat King of Hell do with his day?”

Lucifer rubs his neck, fidgeting under your question.

“It’s not… Its not actually all that interesting,” he admits, “You’ve probably got something cooler going on.”

There’s something he’s avoiding besides your gaze, but you don’t press the issue.

You look across the lobby to Angel, who pauses his conversation with Vaggie to mouth something that looked like the word “fart” to you, and then wink.

Your art gallery. Right.

“Have you ever been to Pentagram City’s biggest art gallery?” you ask him.

Lucifer is a gentleman. You understand how he stole the first man’s first two wives from him. Sure, he’s stumbling and stuttering and a nervous wreck, but he’s holding doors open for you and asking about your thoughts and feelings about the pieces on display, he’s accidentally on purpose almost held your hand three times now. Next time he does it, you’re just going to grab his damn hand.

You stare at the sculpture in front of you, noting that you should have someone move this to a different room. In fact, there’s a few things you’ve noticed while showing Lucifer the art that you should have moved around. Maybe you’ve been neglecting the gallery a bit more than you thought now that you live at the hotel.

“Hey, Can I ask you about these?” Lucifer’s voice booms from the next room over. Sighing, you type a quick note into your V-Phone and turn.

Oh shit.

Lucifer found THAT room.

You cross the threshold into the room you never go into, the room with your own work. Honestly, it’s not even curated the way the other rooms and floors are. This is where you put anything that you think can leave your studio. He’s in front of one of your biggest paintings, and one of your newest. It’s an abstract piece about your feelings about redemption, about your past sins, about adjusting to the hotel. Which it sounds stupid when you put it like that, but it made sense in the moment and you’re proud of it.

He turns and smiles before looking back at the painting.

“Is the uh, is the artist willing to sell this piece?” he asks, his cheeks and the tips of his ears turning red.

Now it’s your turn to get nervous. You’ve never actually sold any of your own pieces before.

“I uh- I’m not gonna sell it to you,” you tell him, “You can have it.”

It would be weird to take money from Lucifer, even if he is offering. You like him a decent amount and a transaction between the two of you would make it weird. It would feel like you owe him, even though your art would technically satisfy that. If he was one of the Vees or someone you dislike, you would have immediately taken money.

“But the artist-“

“Me,” you clarify, and you finally remember you don’t tag your own art. Lucifer’s jaw drops at your admission.

“I’d really like to support your work, it’s magnificent,” Lucifer insists, and you feel your cheeks burning. He turns to gesture to another piece, and his knuckles brush your own.

Fuck it. You told yourself you’d do it. You grab Lucifer’s hand in your own, a bold move.

“Just think about it as a gift,” you tell him, “A thank you for the lovely day we’ve had.”

You inwardly cringe, knowing that when you recount today at the lobby bar your drinking buddies are going to tear you a new one for that corny line. But it fits for Lucifer; he’s bringing out a side of you that you really haven’t seen in a while.

“Thank you uh, gorgeous,” he tacks on the pet name like even he isn’t sure about it, and with his hand still in yours, attempts to lean against a sculpture, stumbling as he misses it and bringing you along with him. He tugs you by the arm, jerking you closer to him. He’s majorly out of practice.

“I have a studio upstairs if you want to see more?” you offer, not really sure if you thought that through.

“More art? Absolutely!” He recovers quickly, enthusiasm dripping from his voice.

You smile as you pull him towards the hallway, butterflies in your stomach as it dawns on you that he’s going to be the only person besides you to see the studio.

You and Lucifer end up staying there until Charlie calls him the next morning.

You notice paint on his chin after you get back to the hotel.

[sea-lanterns]

BE MY MUSE

synopsis: "paint me like one of your fontaine girls..."

featuring: navia, clorinde, furina, lynette

rating: 18+ smut (men and minors dni)

warnings: artist! reader, sub! afab fem reader (navia, clorinde, furina), dom! afab fem reader (lynette), voyeurism, mast.urbation, not full on smut but it is heavily implied, cunnilingus (reader giving), fing.ering, degradation (furina), praise, teasing, sensual touching, might be ooc.

art credits: blue period

NAVIA

Navia chuckles to herself as the last piece of clothing is discarded on the floor. Her slim, feminine, body perched elegantly against the satin sheets of the cushion, basking effortlessly in the dayglow of Fontaine’s sun like the Goddess she seemed to be. You swallowed your mouth dry. Taken aback with how ethereal she looked in the moment as her golden locks framed her face like a portrait hung in your gallery.

Navia purses her lips together, a curious, yet amused smirk causing a heart to form at her mouth. She chuckled, a prick of heat burning at your insides. 

“Never seen a woman naked before?” She smiles, nude body all on display with no shame whatsoever. She was the one who had asked you to paint her, after all, of course she wouldn’t be embarrassed. It was her request…

“I have.” You quickly retorted back, gripping the stem of your brush with a tighter hand. “…Just not as exquisite as you.” 

Her cheeks pinkened at your honesty, before she quickly covered it up with a smile. 

“You flatter me, Artist,” she giggles, leaning back in her seat to leave all her assets on display. “Tell me then, does my request to paint me nude, make you nervous?”

She hugs herself to squish her breasts together, a sight that has you clearing your throat and looking away nervously. “Of course not, I’ve done commissions of all bodies. Clothed, and nude.”

Navia smirks at this. 

“Then…is it normal for the Artist to get so flustered over her muse?” 

There’s an essence of mischief in her tone. It has you clutching your paintbrush with strength similar to that of a stress ball. “I am not…flustered.” You say in a gritty tone, avoiding her bright blue eyes as you start to mark out the lines of her figure. “Let’s just move on with the painting. Please, get in a position that pleases you, my lady.”

Another smirk. That didn’t seem good. 

“Like this?” Navia taunts with pleasure, lying back against her seat and leaving everything out for you to witness. You swallowed again, eyes wandering over her smooth, supple, chest. Areolas a pretty, puffy, pink color that stiffened the more she exposed them to the drafty air. 

“Ah…that’s good.” You say with a stiff mumble. “Are you alright with staying like that for an hour or so?”

“Hm, perhaps not.” Navia tuts with fake afterthought. “I think I’ll choose a different position.” 

She suddenly spreads her legs a bit wider, a gasp catching in the back of your throat as your eyes landed on the flower that sat between Navia’s legs. It was cleanly shaven —not waxed, but you could tell she had shaved before your appointment— and soft from the way she pressed against one of the folds. She flashed you a suggestive grin, before giggling at the sight of you all enamored by her pussy.

“Are you going to start painting soon?” Navia asks in a delighted tone. “Before you begin, let me just…” She suddenly dips one of her fingers into her cunt and sighs, a breathy moan leaving her lips. “There, all done…”

If you were blushing before, you were a lava cake by now. Navia could practically see the steam coming out from your face, and she chuckles before circling her clit with her thumb. “I guess a woman has never toyed with herself in front of you, hm?” She groans, slowly rubbing circles around her clit until she’s wet enough to appear glistening. “Are you embarrassed?”

You shook your head no. Clearly enamored by the sight of the Spina di arousal president masturbating in front of you. “Was this your goal the whole time? To…taunt me with your body?” 

Navia laughs at this and shakes her head no, “Of course not, mon amour.” She uses two fingers to spread her two walls apart. “I want you to touch me.”

Almost like a song, you were drawn to where she was seated, dropping your brush to the ground and forgetting about the painting entirely. Navia smiles tenderly at the way you follow her command, pushing you down until you are kneeled by her feet like a priestess worshiping her divinity. “I was thinking the portrait could be from a different point of view,” She mutters under her breath. “It’s important for the Artist to commit it to memory…”

Combing her fingers through your hair, she slowly pushes your face into her folds and gasps, head tilted back in ecstasy, while your tongue begins to taste what heaven feels like.

“Ah…”

CLORINDE

The intimidating, Champion Duelist of Fontaine was currently lying sprawled out against your couch with her muscular body out on display. Amongst the obvious parts of her body that caught your attention, her muscles were what drew you in, as the Champion Duelist had rough, toned scars lining her chest from years of dangerous battle. 

As an Artist, you were infatuated. Using the tip of your brush to stroke each line on her abs and highlight every curve of her legs. Which, mind you, we’re chiseled to perfection under the lamp side lighting of your room. 

“…Thank you for taking the time to…paint me.” Clorinde whispers under a husky breath. “Especially considering the…circumstances…”

She blushes slightly at her position. Rough, calloused body proving a beautiful muse for you to work on as you’ve had the honor of painting Clorinde’s body nude. (Courtesy of her request)

“It’s no problem, Captain Clorinde.” You say in a professional tone, trying to ignore the ache between your legs when you see her thigh flex its toned structure. “I have done this countless times. You are in the hands of an expert.” 

The Duelist smiles softly at your reassurance, deciding to sit up from the sofa.

“Miss Clorinde, I’m not done yet—”

“Could you come over for a moment?” She speaks in a low tone, catching you off guard with how smooth she was being. “Just for a moment. I want to see your hands.” 

“…My hands?” You chewed your lip for a moment before getting up from your seat and walking over to the couch. Clorinde leaning back and letting all her muscles move with precision. “Yes, your hands,” she murmurs ever so huskily, reaching over to cup your wrist. “I want to look at them…”

You felt the rough, battle-worn calluses of her fingertips wrap around your hand and pull you closer. An intimate, quiet moment falling between you two, as Clorinde bites her lip and examines the calluses of your own battles.

“Such soft hands, yet they hold their own roughness from your artwork,” the Captain murmurs, almost as if she were enamored by just the sight of you. (She was) 

“Captain Clorinde, please…” you laugh shyly. “You speak of me like I’m the art. I’m merely just the artist.” 

She growls a little at that statement and shakes her head no. “I may be your muse at the moment, but I can’t help but wish to see you nude in my place.”

In that moment, you find yourself seated on the lap of the very naked Champion Duelist, who has helped herself with teasing you under the leggings of your clothes. You can’t help but agree to every little thing she does, as she begins nibbling against your neck to leave her own works of art.

“I’d like to try a hand at painting myself,” she murmurs hotly into your ear, “Care to be my canvas, Artist?”

You can’t find it in yourself to say no. Shakily nodding your head as she begins to rub circles against your clit with her strong, calloused, fingers.

“That’s a good girl.”

FURINA

Furina chuckles amusingly at the sight of Fontaine’s world renown artist currently hiding behind her easel. The archon herself was used to people kneeling before her, but she found entertainment in the way the cute, bashful artist she hired to commission was too nervous to look her in the eye. “What’s wrong, young artist…” Furina chuckles wickedly, “Are you really that shocked at your archon’s pure beauty?”

She crosses one leg over the other, her nude figure perched confidently by a table as she takes a sip of tea like usual. The way she was acting around you made you think she was doing this on purpose.

“I…you are beautiful indeed, my archon,” you respond to her nervously. “I just didn’t expect for you to disrobe so quickly.”

Furina sneers at the way you fidget so anxiously, tipping her teacup down to the point you worried it might spill. “Aren’t you an artist?” She chuckles behind her hand, “An artist who specializes in nude paintings as well. Tell me, does the sight of your beloved archon all skimmed down to her nudity really bother you that much?” 

“No, of course not!” You quickly retort defensively. “It’s just quite a shocker to have your archon disrobe in front of you so…quickly.” 

You bite your lip and look away. “You got out of your clothes quicker than I could get out my paints…”

Furina laughs hysterically at your quiet little stammer before running a hand over the smoothness of her thighs. “Oh…you’re just too cute…” she sputters under her laughs. “I definitely made the right choice in choosing you…”

She leans back against the chair and bites one of her manicured nails. That stuck up, haughty smile prickling you with annoyance as your archon seemed to treat this as a game. “You should be grateful I even asked you to paint me at all,” she snickers before uncrossing her legs. “You have the blessing of seeing Focalors’ body in the flesh.”

Your throat tightened at the sight of her legs now spread wide for you to see just how wet she was beneath her clothes. According to what you saw, she had been dripping for a while, but hid it well due to how she crossed her legs while seated right in front of you.

“M-Miss Furina…I…” your cheeks burned and you couldn’t look away. 

“I…I…what?” She smirked mockingly at your stutter and teases you even more by pinching one of her nipples. The sight alone causes a burning ache between your legs, and you couldn’t help but stare entranced at the way she squeezed her own breast. “Go on, spit it out. If you say the right thing, I might just let you touch me yourself.”

“Pardon!?” 

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” she snaps her finger and beckons you over. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me so hungrily? What a pervert you are, dear Artist…”

The way she wags her finger at you almost has you on your hands and knees, crawling towards her like you were being pulled on a leash. Furina is delighted at the sight, looking joyous as she gives you a proper show of spreading her pussy lips even wider. Her slick, dripping essence cascading down the milky white thighs of your archon, and looking like the perfect muse for you to commit to memory.

“I want to see just how lithe an Artist’s fingers are,” Furina tuts, degradingly tapping your nose before propping you up to become face to face with her cunt. “Impress me, then perhaps I can give you an extra tip for a job well done.”

“But Miss Furina, your painting…”

“Silence.” She pulls you up by the hair and sneers. “This is a much better use for your hands, hm?” 

LYNETTE

Lynette was definitely on the shyer side when she asked to become your muse. She had always admired your artwork, silently wishing that one day, she could take the place of one of your nude paintings, basking in an ethereal afterglow of your brushstrokes, as she wanted to be the center of your attention. (And only your attention)

You were surprised, needless to say, when the quiet magician’s assistant asked you after her show to become your muse. Even more surprised when she silently requested for it to be a nude drawing. Though you masked your surprise quite well, a small part of you was curious to see the beautiful body of the mysterious magician’s assistant, as she was very secretive with her personal life to the point not a lot of people knew about her.

You took up the commission, currently setting up your easel and waiting for Lynette to disrobe from her clothing. A comfortable silence falling between you two, before the sound of fabric hitting the floor caught your attention.

“…I’m ready.” Lynette spoke quietly, causing you to peek out from behind your canvas. 

The cat woman was currently perched atop your couch in her full, nude, glory. Chest perky from the way the cold air hit her nipples, along with the smooth, supple skin of her back arched beautiful against the satin cushions. Her ears flattened in slight embarrassment from being in such a provocative situation, yet you couldn’t take her eyes off her as she was just so breathtakingly beautiful.  

“Oh, how sweet…” you murmur with a smile, caught in awe with how stunning Lynette is. “Get in a comfortable position for me, will you? You’ll have to stay like that for an hour or two.”

Her ears flattened even more and she nodded, stiffly moving so that her body was sitting upright in a rather erect position. She looked quite firm and…not relaxed at all, placing her hands on her knees and sitting as if she were waiting for her appointment at the doctor’s office.

“…Oh dear,” you chuckled a bit at the way she was sitting. “That position is a bit too stiff for my liking. Here, let me help you.”

Setting your paint sets down, you walked over closer to where Lynette sat and saw her visibly tense up. You frowned a little at her discomfort and raised your hands in the air. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t want me to. I’m just going to lightly guide your body to a more comfortable position.”

You smiled warmly at her and saw her ears twitch with acceptance. Slowly, she lets you guide her body down to lie on the couch, your eyes locked on hers and causing a small blush to adorn the cat woman’s pale cheeks. 

“…Thank you,” Lynette whispers, her voice soft as she gazes up at you with longing. “I am a bit…embarrassed, however.”

“There is no need to be embarrassed,” you chuckle comfortingly, patting her head like you would with a cat. “The human body is beautiful, and yours is just as exquisite as any of the other muses I’ve had the pleasure of painting.”

She blushes softly at the way you call her body beautiful, and Lynette lets out a soft little purr of pleasure under your pets. “Can you…help me relax a little?” She asks in a quieter voice, almost embarrassed with her request. “My body is too tense. I need my muscles to…relax…”

You smile softly at the way she paws at your hand and slowly drags it downwards. Your fingers lightly stroking down her neck, her chest, her stomach, before finally reaching the twitching ache of her walls beneath you.

“Here?” You ask with a certain tenderness, lightly pushing against her clit like a button.

“Yes…!” Lynette whimpers, grasping onto your back with her nails. “Right there…”

[dragon-kazansky]

Bridgerton shade of blue

Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader

Benedict bumps into you, quite literally, at a ball while trying to escape his mother's attempts to find him a partner. You decide to humour him with a dance, not realising just how entwined you would become with him. It seems the universe will find every excuse to push you and Benedict together, no matter how much you fight it.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Season one

Chapter Two - Empty drawing rooms

♡♡♡

Your mother does not keep her thoughts to herself about what dancing with Benedict Bridgerton may have done for you. All evening, even after you are home, she continues on and on about the thought of having callers come morning.

You sleep easy that night. You do not think one dance with a man, you will be unlikely ever to cross paths again with, will affect your prospects all that much.

You're woken by the violent pulling of your curtains. Light floods into your room and cascades across your bed. You sigh softly as you force your eyes open and push yourself up into a sitting position.

"Get up! We must get you dressed and ready!" Your mother eagerly exclaims.

You're forced from your bed and urged into the tub. You're scrubbed raw from head to toe. Your hair is brushed surely a hundred times. You dress, and your mother chooses a necklace to compliment your gown.

Before you know it, you're sitting in the drawing room with her. Your mother has tea and biscuits made.

The drawing room is quiet.

Occasionally, a carriage is heard passing the house. Sometimes you hear the footsteps of staff coming and going outside the door. Not a single sound of knocking is heard.

Your mother becomes restless as the hours pass. "I was certain Mr Bridgerton dancing with you would garner some attention."

"Mother, it was one dance. Anyway, people had their eyes on his sister. No one was looking at us. He barely spoke to me." You tell her, picking up a book you had placed on the table earlier that morning.

"Still, that family is well known and wealthy too. People should always be watching those lf well breeding." She sighs.

You dare not comment further and focus on your book. You've read two chapters before your mother calls it quits and leaves. You close the book and sigh again.

♡♡♡

Daphne Bridgerton had received no callers. The fault did not lie with her for she was perfect in every way. The fault lay with her eldest brother.

Anthony had a habit of scaring everyone off. He had every excuse under the sun as to why no one was suitable for his sister. While his mother wished love for her children I their marriages, Anthony saw more as finding someone merely suitable.

Daphne was disappointed at her lack of visitors. Each day that passed without a caller, her spirit began to dwindle.

She received only one caller. Lord Berbrooke. He was the last person she had hoped to see.

While Violet had been quite busy keeping her daughter company during the passing days, she still found time to corner Benedict.

Colin was paying a visit to the Featherington family to call upon Miss Thompson. Benedict was not calling upon anyone, and Violet hoped the young lady he had danced with could have been an option.

"Benedict."

The second eldest son jumped out of his skin at the sudden appearance of his mother in the doorway.

"Mother."

Benedict had spent most of the day sketching in his book. He loved drawing, painting, and doodling. Art was his passion. He hoped one day to be good enough to have his work up in galleries.

"Have you paid any visits yet?" Violet asks, pretending to be interested in the decor of the room as she comes closer to where her son lounges.

Benedict stills his hand and glances up at her. "I have not."

Violet looks disappointed. "What about that lovely young lady you danced with?"

"Hm? Oh. I don't even remember her name."

That was a lie. He did remember your name. He just didn't want give his mother false hope. Benedict had no intention of seeking out a wife right now.

"Benedict," she sighs. "I do wish you would try."

"How is Daphne doing?" He asks, immediately shooting down any chance of his mother's interrogation.

"Not so well. Anthony is riding with her in the park. Your brother is... making things quite difficult." Violet feels for her daughter. She juat wants Daphne to be happy. She wants all her children to be happy.

"Yes. Anthony can be overbearing." Benedict resumes his sketch.

Violet knew she would get nothing else out of her son and left quietly. Benedict stopped sketching when she left the room and glanced at the door. He sighs softly to himself.

One day, yes, he'll find a wife. Just not yet.

♡♡♡

Lady Whistledown had made several comments about Daphne Bridgerton's lack of callers. You could only wonder how she was feeling at this time.

Every morning, your mother brought you into the drawing room, and you would wait several hours, but no one came to see you.

While your mother moaned about how the gentlemen lf the ton didn't have an eye at all, she particularly felt disappointed about the fact Benedict Bridgerton himself didn't even come to call. You had told her many times over the last week that the dance wasn't really anything.

He simply used you as an opportunity to avoid his mother, and you knew it.

Deciding to push every Bridgerton from your mind, you decided to focus on yourself. Another ball would mean another chance. There would be plenty of people to dance with there. You shall make sure to introduce yourself, unlike last time.

The opera. That came first. You were attending with your mother. As you were making your way toward your seats, you caught sight of Violet Bridgerton with her daughter Daphne. You didn't have to look far to spot Anthony and Benedict.

Your mind shifts slightly to the moment when you had bumped into the eldest son. The weight of his body colliding with yours, almost sending to the ground. However, his warm hands were quick to steady you.

You shake him from your mind as you find your seat.

Benedict had been speaking his brother when he caught sight of something in the corner of his eye. He looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of you sitting down. He turns his attention back to his brother.

If his mother caught him, he would never hear the end of it. Even if there was nothing to discuss. You were a perfect stranger to him.

You spend the whole show with your eyes on the stage. When it's over, you rise with your mother and exit into the lobby. Your mother gets caught up in conversation with some of the other mama's, and you find yourself waiting by the door alone. Your eyes scan the crowds of people heading home for the evening.

Benedict is walking with his brother when he spots you by the door. He can't help thinking you look a little cold standing there. The door was open to allow people to leave with ease.

"Hello again." He finds himself stopping I front of you. Anthony either doesn't notice or doesn't care that he is no longer being followed by his brother.

You turn your head and find yourself staring at the second Bridgerton.

"Hello."

Silence settles between you as he stands there and looks at you. You're once again faced with a slightly awkward pause as you have no idea what to say to him. Last time, he was distracted by keeping his mother at bay. This time, it seems he simply has no idea what to say to you either.

"Are you well?" He asks.

You are almost startled by the sound of his voice, half expecting him to just leave after a while.

"Yes. Quite well, thank you."

Benedict takes note of how you pull your shawl around you tighter. The breeze from the door is clearly bothering you.

"Are you waiting for someone?" He asks.

"My Mama. She is busy gossiping, I assume." You move your gaze over to where she stands, talking to a little group of other mothers.

Benedict glances that way and chuckles slightly. "Ah. Why don't you wait over on that bench? You'll be warmer there." He gestures to the velvet cushioned seat behind you. You find yourself drifting that way with him.

"I believe your brother has departed." You say, sitting down. Benedict takes a seat too.

"Yes. Though Mother and Daphne are still here, I shall return with them." He looks over to where his mother speaks with Lady Danbury.

Soon enough, his attention is back on you, though. "Did you enjoy the ball the other night?" He asks.

You look at him. "It was alright. The first one is always strange."

"Yes. I suppose it can be. Lots of new faces."

You understood that he was possibly referring to the fact that neither of you had seen each other before, despite your knowing of his family.

"Yes."

"How many names did you get on your card?"

"Just one," you confess. It was true that his name was the only one. You danced with no other that night, for no one spared you a glance. Not that you planned on telling him that.

"I was the only one?"

You turn toward the lobby to avoid his gaze. Benedict understands enough. He is surprised by this information.

"I do not recall you being there the day the debutantes were presented to the Queen." He tries changing the topic. He wants to know you a bit better.

"I wasn't in London. I arrived the day after."

He looks at you quietly for a moment. There is something so calming about your presence.

"How is your sister doing?" You ask, spotting Daphne trying to avoid a certain lord.

"She has only had one caller so far." Benedict points out.

"Oh. Surprising. I was sure she would be swarmed with suitors." You glance back toward her. She looks a little down.

"She'll be fine, I'm sure." Benedict turns back to you. "I'm sorry about the ball. I wasn't a very good partner. Too distracted."

You return your attention back to him. "Yes. I was aware."

"Perhaps I can make it up to you at the next one?" He asks.

"It's alright. You don't need to." You offer him a smile.

"Nonsense. I'm a gentleman." He smiles back.

Before either of you can say any more, Violet comes over with Daphne in tow. You both look up to see the Dowager Viscountess smiling at you both.

"Benedict, we are leaving." She speaks softly.

Benedict glances at you and then stands slowly. He offers you his hand. You take it and stand with him.

"Mother. Daphne." He nods.

"Who is this?" Violet asks, looking at you. She gives off a warm and calming aura. Yet, she looks quite excitable right about now.

Benedict speaks your name. "I was keeping the young lady company while she waited for her mother."

Violet hadn't once taken her eyes off of you. Daphne looked up at her brother, who just shook his head at her. He knew what they were thinking. He was going to hear about this all night now.

"You must come to dinner," Violet insists.

You all look at her.

"Mofher." Benedict sighs.

Daphne smiles and steps forward. "Really, you must."

You look at Daphne and feel comfort. Perhaps she is looking for a friend too.

"Name the day," you say, turning to Violet.

Benedict looks at his mother with faux disdain. He knows what game she is playing. His mother was not subtle in her matchmaking attempts.

"Splended. I shall send an invite very soon."

Much to the ignorance of her children, she had already made plans with Lady Danbury to invite the Duke for dinner so he may get to know Daphne. They would make a handsome couple, she thinks. Why not offer the same opportunity to her son and his new friend?

Violet was so looking forward to this.

Benedict bids you goodnight and offers Daphne his arm. She takes it and bids you farewell too. Violet smiles at you and takes her leave, following her children outside.

Only then does your mother come over. "What was that just now?" She asks. The same light in her eyes had been in Violet's.

"Nothing, Mama."

She doesn't believe you. She traps your arm with hers and guides you out to the carriages.

"That Bridgerton boy, he was the one who danced with you at the ball, yes?" She smiles.

"Benedict Bridgerton. Yes."

"Perhaps you have an admirer!" She says with glee.

"Not st all, mother. He was merely being polite."

She brushes off your words and continues to go down a spiral of why he is taken with you and will wish to court you soon. You sense no such feelings from the man. There is no reason one cannot become acquainted with others without feelings being involved.

You would accept the dinner invitation purely out of curious interest of his family. The Bridgerton's certainly seem like interesting people to know.

♡♡♡

Benedict is sketching in his room when his mother comes in. They had been home merely an hour after the opera. She clutches a letter in her hand as she comes over to him.

"How does this sound?" She holds out the letter to him. Benedict sighs and takes it, skimming the words.

Its addressed to you.

'You are invited to our home this Friday evening for dinner. Be here for 6 and stay as long as you like.

Lady V.Bridgerton.'

"Sounds fine." He hands the letter back. Benedict returns to his sketch.

Violet looks at him. "She's a find lady."

"Hm." Benedict pays her little mind.

Violet looks defeated. It would seem Benedict really has no interest in you. Still, she would welcome you into her home for the evening.

When she leaves, Benedict looks up again. He stares at the door.

He simply has no interest in courting. Not yet.

♡♡♡

@callmemana - @lilscast - @imgondeletedis - @benedictbridgertons - @clownsdiehard - @wxnterwidow333

@sillynilly27 - @autumn-slaves - @ben-has-arrived -

[goldenroutledge]

champagne problems

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

word count: 3.2k

summary: you catch lando’s eye at an art auction in monaco, so he challenges you to a friendly competition for one of the paintings. little does he know, you’d stop at nothing to get it. inspired by this request.

warnings: swearing, alcohol, illegal things vaguely mentioned, gossip girl au

a/n: thank you to @monzaaasharl for letting me use the request! based on events from gossip girl s6 ep6 but can be read without seeing the show! it is mentioned the reader is chuck’s stepsister, à la serena van der woodsen 🥂

lando norris masterlist

The reception was glamorous. Everything you would expect at an event like this, in a place of this caliber. Monaco was one of a kind that way; tuxedos were tailored to perfection and designer gowns flooded the room. The people adorning them certainly had the bank accounts to match.

For you, these scenes and crowds weren’t out of the ordinary. You’d been a part of them for many years at home in New York City. Sometimes alongside your mother at parties where her husband, and one of the city’s richest businessmen, commanded everyone’s attention.

The name Bart Bass spoke for itself, for better and for worse. You could only be so lucky that you were a teenager when your mother married him years ago.

Your step brother Chuck was not as lucky, being the one and only son of Bart’s. Under the weight of the Bass name, he could only hope to change the legacy that had been left for him. One that wasn’t tainted by duplicity and deceit.

If you could help him change that even a little bit, you would. It wasn’t a lonely effort either. Your entire friend group seemed to stick together in defining moments like these. When Chuck discovered a trail that would lead to the exposure of his father’s illegal business practices, there was no hesitation in your offer to help.

Bart often got away with any and everything, always facing little to no consequences for his wrongdoings. Paying off associates or officials using tens of millions in hush money was hardly a dent in the bank to someone like him.

Tonight, all of that could change. The justice you were looking for was right here in Monaco; a thin piece of microfilm enclosed in the back of a 1998 Richard Phillips painting being auctioned off tonight. Titled— The Spectrum.

On the film were numbers, nearly too small to see with the naked eye, that directly incriminate Bart in an illegal business deal. With a favorable social status and a hefty trust fund in your name, your logic tells you that it’s crazy to get wrapped up in all this knowing that if Bart finds out, he would likely turn your mother against you.

But your conscience reminds you just how many lies and just how much loss your family has endured at the hands of Bart Bass.

The soft touch of Nate’s hand on your shoulder interrupts your daydreamy stare into a flute of champagne. He’s out of breath and looks slightly panicked.

“Bart knows we’re here for the painting.”

“What?!”

“But Chuck’s following Bart’s guys, he won’t let them get near it.”

“The bidding starts in 10 minutes!”

“He won’t get here in time, it’s up to us. Think you can handle it?”

You give your best friend a knowing smirk, one that he returns.

“I know I can. These people may be rich as hell but Chuck would give his right arm for that microfilm. I won’t back down to anyone who bids on it.”

Your eyes flicker over to the painting, before they lock with a pair of blue ones across the gallery. He offers a subtle smile before turning his attention back to the painting. Whoever he was, he seemed to be a little too interested in the piece for your liking.

In a room full of deep pockets you knew you wouldn’t win a bidding war without a fight, but the challenge made it all the more entertaining. You turned to Nate, whose phone started ringing with a call from Chuck.

His eyes searched yours for reassurance and promise that you’d execute the plan.

You smiled at him, embracing your inner confidence mixed with a little liquid courage. “Answer him, I’ll take care of this.”

He nods, chuckling slightly as he follows your line of sight to the man admiring the painting. “Good luck.”

-

Lando fixated on the beautiful hues of The Spectrum. Though he can admit that the art doesn’t hold a candle to the woman that caught his eye across the room. He couldn’t tell if he was blinded by her smile or the sparkle of her dress, catching subtle glimpses of her throughout the evening.

His trance was broken by the soft clicks of stilettos inching closer and closer towards him, though the sounds were muffled over chattering guests and classical music.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? No wonder you’ve had your eyes on it all night.”

Lando’s head turned towards the woman’s voice, cheeks warming as he recognized you instantly. He wondered if you had been noticing him too, or at least knew who he was. Lando smirks and takes a subtle step closer to you.

If you weren’t about to psych him out of bidding on the painting, you’d be enamored by the scent of his cologne.

“Can’t help it, I’m naturally drawn to beautiful things.”

“Well, I guess you’re in the right place because this room is full of them.”

“That it is.” He teases, holding your eye contact while taking a sip of his drink.

“It’s almost impossible to find something I like best, but I think this one will blend in perfectly with the rest of my collection. Do you collect?”

“Art? No, I don’t collect art.”

“Then what is it you collect…?” Your sentence fizzles, realizing you hadn’t exchanged names.

“Lando.”

“Okay Lando, what is it you collect?”

He raises his eyebrows, almost surprised at the question, but chooses to be coy.

“Cars.”

“So then what brings you to an art auction?”

He shrugs in response. “Is it my turn to ask questions…?”

“Y/n.”

“Y/n, what brings you to this auction?”

“I already said, my collection.” You smile, matching his coyness. If he wanted to be short and sweet, two could play at that game.

“Which is…?”

“In my apartment. In New York.”

“Wow, long way from home. You wouldn’t happen to be in need of someone to show you around, would you?”

“Not really, I’m just here for the painting.”

“Maybe you came for the painting, but I could give you a reason to stay.”

You roll your eyes at his flirty attempts, ultimately brushing him off. “And what reason would that be? A private tour of your car collection?”

“You’d be surprised. What happens if I decide to take home the Richard Phillips myself?”

“You mean if you’re able to outbid me for it?”

“Trust me, I’ll be fine.” Lando assures. “I promise I’ll let you come over and see it.”

“No need. The painting is what brought me here, remember? There’s no way I’m leaving without it.”

Maybe it was the competitor in him, (it probably was), but seeing you get more and more eager about the work of art fueled something inside of him. Sure, the gentlemanly thing to do would be to step aside and let you have it. But where was the fun in that?

“You mean the painting that you only noticed about 5 minutes ago? If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were using it as a cover to come over and talk to me.”

“Forgive me for sounding rude but… who are you?”

“I don’t just collect cars, Y/n. I‘m a Formula One driver.”

Your unimpressed stare makes him feel like an idiot, once he quickly realizes that maybe you really don’t have an ulterior motive.

“In any case, The Spectrum will look much better decorating the halls of my apartment than it will look collecting dust in your bachelor pad. It’s not like you’ll even be at home to enjoy it.”

“We’ll see about that-” Lando continues, before the bid caller starts introducing the pieces of art, the Richard Phillips being the crown jewel of them all.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if we’re ready to begin, I’d like to start the bidding for the Richard Phillips at $500,000.”

Lando raises his bidding paddle immediately, quick reflexes and all. “500.”

“I hear $500,000, going once..”

“520!” You respond, before lowering your voice so only Lando can hear your next statement. “You may be an athlete but I promise this is a race you won’t be winning.”

“Lucky for you, I’m up for the challenge.” He teases, raising his bidding paddle once more. “540!”

“560!” You announce with confidence, eyes shooting daggers at the man beside you.

Another guest made a bid for 570, prompting Lando to bid 580.

“580!” The announcer calls. “Do I have 600?”

“$750,000!” You shout, turning heads.

Oddly enough, your bid inspires others to chime in also. There had to be something about what they wanted to prove to everyone else in the room— there was always someone richer in Monaco.

Lando certainly looks at you in disbelief, wondering how far you’ll take this. “Oh, now you’re just showing off. You only want the damn thing because I do anyway!”

“Oh please, don’t flatter yourself. This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“Then why do you want it so bad?”

“It would be a nice treat for my family and I, that’s all.” Your eyes flicker around the room to the other bidding paddles, the number climbing quickly. “What’s it to you? Why do you want it so bad?”

Lando shrugs, raising his paddle to bid $920,000. “It’s for a good cause.”

“920… Going once, going twice…”

“1 million dollars!” You shout, looking around the room, daring anyone to exceed your bid.

Lando’s mouth hangs open and for a second he almost wants to challenge it.

But then he imagines the heart attack it would likely give his business manager to see a surprise million-dollar charge to his account.

“What?” You question him insincerely. “It’s for a good cause.”

“1 million dollars! Going once, going twice…. Sold to the lady in silver!”

You smile graciously at the applause from the crowd. After all, this was a victory for the charity of the evening. Little did they know you just secured a victory of your own.

Lando sighs. “Well, congratulations. I’m sure your husband will be thrilled.”

“Husband? What are you talking about?”

“That man you’ve been whispering with all night. You said the painting was for your family?”

“Who, Nate?” Your face scrunches up in perplexity, following Lando’s line of sight towards the back of the room where Nate is standing with Chuck, clapping and beaming with pride that everything went according to plan, the painting is yours now.

“Yeah, whatever his name is.”

“We’ve been friends since we were kids. And if you must know, I’m not married.”

Lando chuckles, part amused and part embarrassed that he jumped to conclusions. He reminds himself that he needs to stop doing that.

“And he didn’t send you over here to flirt with me in hopes that I wouldn’t outbid you?”

“He didn’t put me up to anything, I am way above those childish antics! And I’d hardly call any of that flirting.”

“Whatever it was, I guess it worked, didn’t it?”

You smile at him, contemplating your answer. “I suppose. If it makes you feel any better, I promise I have only good intentions.”

“Well either way, I still have to find my mum a new birthday present.” He grumbles, taking a swig of his drink.

Your smile falters and you give his arm a nudge, taken aback by his confession. “The painting was for your mother? Why didn’t you say that?!”

“I’m not sure if anyone’s ever told you this, Y/n, but you’re not that easy to negotiate with.”

“I’ve been told. But for the record, neither are you.”

“If it were me, I wouldn’t have given up the painting. So I don’t hold it against you.” Lando concedes, but starts eyeing you suspiciously. “Although… I still don’t know your motive. I mean all of that drama simply for your art collection which is 4,000 miles across the Atlantic? I don’t believe it. So tell me, Y/n, what’s your motive?”

Lando chuckles at the stone cold stare you give him in return. “It’s only fair, Y/n, I told you mine.”

“Are we in first grade or something?”

By the look he’s giving you, it’s obvious that he’s actually dead serious.

At which you sigh, surrendering to the man’s relentless attempts to get a real answer out of you. Moments prior you did the same to him, except it’s not as fun when the tables are turned.

“The Richard Phillips painting, it belongs to my mother.”

Lando’s eyes widen in disbelief, like a deer in headlights. “You bid a million dollars on a painting you might as well already own?! Fucking hell, why on Earth woul-”

Abruptly, you take him by the arm and escort him away from the main crowd, an action that shocks you both.

But the last thing you needed was for him to blabber out all of your secrets, draw attention to you both and blow your cover in this crowded room.

“Long story short, my stepfather has been involved in some…not exactly legal business practices. And I’m not talking about some common white collar crimes, he makes Madoff look like a fucking Saint. He’s been hiding his proof in the back of that Richard Phillips painting, sort of in plain sight to throw the scent off. My mom’s had that painting in the apartment as long as I’ve been alive. By the time I found out the evidence was in there she had already sold it. My stepbrother tracked it down, and here I am.”

Lando looks like he doesn’t know what to say, equal parts confused and concerned for what kind of danger you might be in or just how deep this all goes.

“There’s not enough time in the world to explain everything but just know that he’s hurt a lot of people, not only my family and I. He deserves what’s coming to him and it starts with what’s hidden behind that painting.”

His heart softens at the look of purpose and conviction in your eyes, understanding that whatever this is, it’s bigger than you and him.

“Well if he’s facing your wrath, I should probably be wishing him the best of luck. Whatever the consequences to his actions, the U.S. government is no match for you.”

At that you let out a laugh, one that’s genuine and full of heart. You can’t even remember the last time someone made you laugh like that, and it was refreshing.

“That’s very sweet, Lando, even if you didn’t intend it that way. I just hope I’m not going to all of this trouble for nothing. I don’t want it to be in vain.”

“It won’t be, you’ll see.”

“How could you be so sure?”

“Just a hunch.” He muses sarcastically, feigning uncertainty.

For the first time tonight you feel appreciative towards him, to the kindness and listening ear he’s giving you, a total stranger until about 20 minutes ago.

The irony wasn’t lost on you that while he was bidding on the art for a gift to his mother, you were bidding on it to repossess evidence that would send your stepfather to prison for the rest of his life, likely devastating your own mother in the process.

“Let me help with your mother’s birthday gift. Please?”

He raises his eyebrows at your sudden offer, wondering how or why you would be interested.

“You don’t need to do that. Aren’t you a little busy with your own family?”

“Somewhat. That doesn’t mean I can’t make it up to you.”

“You won the painting fair and square, Y/n.”

“Please?” You nearly begged, widening your eyes.

Lando sighs jokingly as a way of admitting defeat. “We really are in first grade.”

“See, I knew you’d come around! Art Basel will be in Miami soon, I’ll stay for the whole week if I have to. Surely I can find some amazing pieces for your mother there, I might even find another Richard Phillips painting!”

“I don’t dare underestimate you again.” He quips, raising his glass to you. “I have no doubt that we will find something.”

“We?”

“I’m a Formula One driver, remember? We’ve been racing in Miami for a couple years now, I hope you’re prepared to stay there for the weekend.”

You roll your eyes at his bargain, of course he already has plans laid out for you. “You’re as persuasive as you are slick, Lando.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s not a no.”

“You’re as sharp as you are stubborn, Y/n.”

“You haven’t seen the worst of me yet.”

He laughs, impressed at how you manage to stay one step ahead of his banter. “Just promise me one thing?”

You humor him with an unsure look, knowing you would accept his terms anyway. “What’s that?”

“Don’t get into anymore bidding wars with handsome strangers.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because it’s our thing.”

“Okay, Lando. I think I can agree to that.” You muse, holding out your pinky for him, the two of you subconsciously moving closer into each other’s space. “From here on out, bidding wars will be our thing.”

Lando accepts, but decides to challenge you further. “I’m no lawyer, but I don’t think pinky promises are binding, Y/n.”

You nod slowly in acknowledgement, realizing just how close the two of you are standing now, and how intensely he seems to be focusing on the beautiful features of yours he’s had yet to see up close.

Now that you think of it, you haven’t had a chance to take a good look at him either. His eyes are as captivating as his smart aleck wit that’s been keeping you on your toes from the moment you two spoke.

And in a split second, you forget all that was stopping you from noticing what drew you in to Lando to begin with. Your lips collide with his, the stress and tension you’ve been carrying melting away into the kiss, and he’s certainly eager enough to take it on for you.

Mesmerized by each other, you then forget how the hell you both ended up here, tucked away in a dark room from the art you were just competing for.

Until you do remember that you are still proving a point after all, breaking away from the kiss just a moment too soon and smirking in his face.

“How’s that for binding, Lando?”

He appears amazed, out of breath and slightly shocked that you went there. You, however, were carrying on with ease, your thumb brushing over his lips at the faint stain of your lipstick on him.

“Close enough.” Lando coaxes, this time bringing his thumb to brush against your cheek delicately.

His fingertips may as well have been on fire by the way his touch made you feel red hot, and yours to him. Instead of backing away from the burn, Lando leaned in, giving into temptation and meeting your lips once again.

💌: this is my first time writing for lando! likes, reblogs, comments & feedback is greatly appreciated! thanks for reading <3