#era: hide and seek

[jieqionq]

mireum.

[somer-writes]

my hand slipped

modern au farmer boys

baby twi and his bestest uncle (actually several greats grandpa) ever

faces are hard dont @ me

twi is talking about a really cool bug he caught and anyway can they go fishing soon and can malon make pumpkin soup for dinner

[sick-sad-little-world]

Chris Cornell in the Arizona Desert -- July 26, 1996

(via @bearcub81212)

[rolycat13]

Tell me your favorite Folklore variant!

This is mine(for obvious reasons)

[faetreides]

Art seems like such a sub, like he’d be so down pathetic when he sits between your legs, back to your chest while you give him an hj. He whimpers while you whisper dirty things in his ear and shakes more with each pump OOH I NEED HOLY WATER 😭

he gives switch vibes with a sub lean for suuuuuuure 😮‍💨

cw: 18+ mdni, handjob, sub!art, set more in the college era, reader’s a switch too btw but art makes them feral, very loving tho, taking care of him after a tough practice, afab reader

“That’s it, just lie back on me. You must be feeling so sore.” You coo, caressing his biceps and getting into position on his bed.

You recline against the wall and open your legs. Art can’t hide the way his eyes light up as he eases onto the bed and swiftly turns around, resting his back against your chest with a soft sigh. You pick up on the groan he attempts to stifle in his palm, knowing how his muscles be absolutely aching right now.

It’s a big deal for you to show that you support him by showing up to his games and practices, so that’s what you doing earlier. You’ve always admired his determination when it comes to tennis, so you don’t mention that losing a college game isn’t the end of the world. Still, you won’t deprive yourself of the eye candy that comes in the form of your boyfriend sweating and grunting as he practices his drills.

Once it was over, he bounded over to you with a tired grin and jokingly pushed your face away when you tried to kiss him. “Angel, i’m all gross now.” He’d laugh, and you’d shut him up by licking some of the sweat of his cheek.

“Did I do good today?” He asks and looks up at you with his big eyes.

You’ll never not be grateful that he seeks out your approval like a dog with a bone, because you’ve never been so proud of someone in your entire life.

“You always do the best, babe.”

Art blushes and tilts his head back onto your shoulder. And for a cliché moment time stand still, the sunset outside casts an orange glow over the room and the two of you. Your boyfriend looks beautiful like this, eyes shut in exhaustion and nestled in your arms.

But you have other plans for the evening than just admiring your boyfriend, there will be plenty of that later during pillow talk.

Art cracks his eyes to see your hands trail down his arms to end up at his crotch. He’s so relaxed that he doesn’t squirm as much as he usually does, but he turns his head to nuzzle your shoulder.

You soothingly murmur to him, “My boy worked so hard today, i think he deserves a reward, don’t you?”

“I want whatever you have to give me.” He genuinely smiles into your skin, shifting his hips to push up against you palming his bulge.

And it’s true, he’d throw his head back like a whore and moan unabashedly no matter if you were edging him with a vibrator of if you were gently grinding your fat ass against his dripping cock.

You teasingly squeeze his clothed bulge and then dip your fingers under the waistband of his white boxer briefs. Thank god for the fact that Art likes to strip down as he soon as he gets back to his room after practice.

“Lift your hips for me, baby boy.” You tell him with a nip to his earlobe.

He sighs again as he gives you the suitable free space to push his underwear down enough to free his cock. It’s so long and pretty, such a good size too. Flushed blush pink at the tip and veiny, your mouth waters but giving your boyfriend head is a reward for a different day.

Art whines when you get your hands on his bare cock, “You know ‘m sensitive, feels so good already.”

“But your tears are so pretty when you’re overstimulated.” You peck his temple and lean your head on top of his, curling your hand around the base of his dick and steadily beginning to pump him. “You should be happy to cum as much as you want, sweets.”

He whimpers and spreads his legs over yours. You hook your feet around his and keep them there.

Pearls of precum bead to the tip of his cock, making the slide easier. You grip him tighter and move your wrist in quick circles as you speed up your thrusting.

“Oh- F-fuck!” He keens, latching onto your hips and arching his back against you.

“Shh, if you can’t handle this how are you supposed to handle my pussy? It’s so much tighter than my hand, baby, you’ve felt how warm and wet it is.”

He cums embarraingly quick when he gets like this, all doped up on how you make him melt. It’s adorable and a huge ego boost, but he can only cum inside you so much before he’s out like a light.

Art gasps at the mention of his treat, and awkwardly twists his torso around to face you, “I can handle it, can i have it now? Please please please please.”

“I don’t know…” You hum, pretending to consider his begging.

You clasp your fingers around his leaking dick and thumb the tip, spreading the precum. You fuck his length with your fist and you’re going so fast, you’re making a ‘thwop! thwop! thwop!’ sound.

“I think I want you to cum just like this, love.”

Art keens as you furiously jack him off. You rile him up by whispering in his ear.

“Got me so hot watching you today. Seeing the sweat on your body when you pulled up your shirt to wipe your face, i wanted to ride you into the ground.”

Art gapes, trying to kick his legs out on reflex but your ankles over his keep him right where you want him. He screws his eyes shut tightly and moans in between his babbling.

“Unh- unh- ‘s so good, gonna cum, can i cum? Please say i can cum, ‘m gonna burst- FUCK!”

You don’t know who’s crying more, Art or his cock. He’s leaking so much that you had to concentrate or you’ll lose your grip.

You don’t let up until he’s heaving a strangled cry and shooting his hips up, spilling on and over your hand like a fountain. He gets so sloppy with it, fucking himself with your fist through the aftershocks.

“That’s it, such a big load for me. I bet you were aching holding all that in, baby.”

And he’s so gorgeous, mouth open wide and tugging on his hair in random intervals. You grab his face with your free head and rub your thumb over his cheek. You let him come down at his own pace, and when he focuses his pretty eyes back on you, you bring your sticky hand to his mouth.

Art cleans his own mess, maintaining eye contact with you. The fierce tomato red blush he’s sporting deepens. You wink at him and slurp up an equal amount of his cum, like a couple sharing a milkshake in an old fashion diner.

[yandere-romanticaa]

The deep corners of the sea harbor many secrets. Be it countless lives which were claimed by the tides, ancient tales of a bygone era, or perhaps something even darker, something so great that the feeble human mind could not even think of comprehending.

The murky waters hid many things indeed. But for the Duke, his little secret was not so ancient, something not so important in the ultimate grand scheme of things.

It only mattered to him and only him.

He gazes fondly at his secret as he sips tea in the cafeteria, taking a break in a highly conspicuous area simply because he was the Duke and he could do as he wished.

He could have you at any moment he desired. The sentence was prolonged for absolutely no reason and searching for one was pointless. The Duke has his reasons, the staff would say. Run along now and go back to your duties. If you keep slacking off you'll starve.

Wriothesley liked to play favorites when it came to you.

That became evident to some of the staff very fast.

He had it arranged that your meals be of, at the very least, decent quality. No mystery meat for you or any rotten vegetables. If you consumed any of that your health would be in jeopardy. He could always just give you a proper meal or maybe even a downright good one but that would arise too much suspicion from the inmates and he was not in the mood to hear them complain. One day, the chef decided to be bold and serve you a wretched meal on purpose, just to test his hypothesis.

As expected, Wriothesley gave him an earful even if he never actually said anything about you. His bias was still evident and nothing could hide that.

Wriothesley liked to consider himself as an honest and a frank man. Like all people he had his secrets and his own cross to carry but if he could he wanted things to be done right in the open. No mysteries, no hesitance. If you were not a prisoner in the Fortress, Wriothesley would already have you on his arm. He was also aware of his imposing presence, the last thing he wanted to do was to scare you off. The power imbalance was simply too large between the two of you.

Therefore, like the predator that he was, he bid his time. He locked away his rawest feelings deep in his heart and hid the key, never wanting to throw it away.

He wanted you to come to him. He wanted you to seek him out.

Oh, to be loved, to be wanted by another human being. What a foreign yet pleasant thought. Wriothesley knew you did not see him in that light but damn it all if he does not try. All of the cards are in his hands and he has dealt you yours. The only option left is for you to play straight into his hand.

The thought of sharing a cup of tea with you made his heart soar. Patience was indeed a virtue. And fortunately for him, the Fortress of Meropide had taught him that skill a long time ago.

🖤 TAGS: @genshinarchives, @mod-kisa-blog, @juuuuuj101010, @kalopses-sonderes, @b10h4z4rd, @xiaopleasecomehome, @mayulli, @saturnalya, @alatusprinz, @lakxcpsta, @mewmeowmika, @ranposgirlboss, @ficsreblogs, @goldenglow149

[thenightwolf51]

"Danny was born a Wayne" AU except he's Bruce's grand uncle. The result of a one time drunken affair, shortly before Kenneth Wayne's death, to a young unmarried woman who gave the baby up for adoption.

(Whether the Fenton's, and therefore Amity, were just ahead of their times or the DC timeline is shifted a bit so that DP happens in its cannon era is up to you. Dealers choice, though now that i know about her i just love badass widowed prohibition leader Laura Elizabeth Wayne)

Danny grows up knowing hes adopted and loved by the Fentons but something (dealer's choice) happens and he loses his family and friends (maybe the whole town goes too?). In an attempt to avoid a Dan situation he flees into the Infinite Realm and doesn't stop.

He just wanders, time passes in its weird Realms way, not that Danny truly notices. A protector spirit thats lossed everything it protected. Its a wonder he doesn't fade and he actually might've if it wasn't for his human side.

But its a tug at his core that brings him from his near catatonic wandering. Gone before he can even understand it but enough to shake him back to himself. Enough to know that hes nowhere near ready to go anywhere familiar so he continues on, his wandering no less pointless but at least he's aware again.

What feels like a relatively short time later he gets another tug, and this time he manages to follow it.

He follows it invisibly through a natural portal that drops him somewhere in New Jersey and all the way to a fancy hospital room in the gloomiest city he's ever seen.

In there he sees his half brother Patrick Wayne, though he wont figure out their connection for a few more years, holding little Agatha. She's adorable in her little dress and pigtails and her sweet face causes that familiar tug he recognizes from what must have been six years ago given the girls age.

Then a nurse comes in and hands a little bundle to what must be the mother (whos name i cant find) and Danny takes one look at the little core tugger who brought him here and just melts. Even without knowing yet that this is his last remaining family, his instincts latch on and he vows to protect and care for the Waynes.

And he does.

He finds his forgetful brother's documents and keeps Aggy company when everyone else is busy and soothes baby Thomas so his poor sister-in-law can get some more sleep. He ices fevers and bruised knees and helps on later games of hide and seek.

He very rarely becomes visible and only to the children. His grief over the Fenton's convinces him its better to protect his new family from the shadows.

Danny explores every inch of the manor, including secret passages and an underground cave system. He claims a forgotten room in the back of the attic as his own, which over the years fill up with knickknacks, heirlooms, and pictures of the family. Even a gift or two from Agatha, who hadn't stopped believing in their shadowy guardian like her brother did when Danny felt they were too old to see him without drawing suspicion.

The manor becomes his haunt and he always knows where each family member is within it. And when any guests have some no good intentions.

And when baby Bruce is born tugging at his core and with the bluest little eyes, he welcomes the fussy little thing. And makes sure dear Martha never knows just how fussy baby Bruce really is, otherwise she might've never had a full nights sleep.

Danny blames himself for not being there when Thomas and Martha die, and promises to never leave Bruces side, practically becoming the boy's living shadow. Watching over him as he gets older, secretly aiding him in his training. Danny feels a bit of pride when Bruce takes some inspiration from the old stories Thomas told him of the shadowy Wayne family protector when creating his Batman identity, glad his nephew still remembers him even if he hasn't shown himself since the now young man was six.

Danny continues to protect and care for the family in a variety of ways over the years even as the family grows.

Lightening Alfred's workload, softening Dick's falls, calming Jason's temper both pre and post pit, hiding Tim's coffee when the boy hasn't slept in far too long, providing plenty of shadows and hiding nooks for Cass, helping Damian hide the litter of kittens he found.

And no one seems to know he's there, except maybe Cass and he's pretty sure Alfred has been know since he first started working for the family. No one knows, that is, until Duke Thomas moves in and lookes right at him watching invisibly from the sidelines.

(@omnicrafts @dcxdpdabbles @hdgnj @ailithnight @nelkcats @im-totally-not-an-alien-2 i dont know, the main point of all this is that Danny's been protecting the Wayne family for decades and no one, except maybe Alfred, knew until Duke moved in)

[mahgyu]

JJK MEN reacting to you asking for love advice about someone else to them

๑ featuring: Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Kento Nanami, Choso Kamo, Toji Fushiguro and Ryomen Sukuna.

๑ content: Unrequited feelings (they like you in case it wasn't clear from the title), manipulation of feelings in certain parts, light angst. No fluff, I'm back to my era of pain (*evil laugh, the return* )

๑ a/n: Actually, there's nothing to say, I hope you enjoy it

GOJO SATORU

"Well, if he doesn't notice how amazing you are, he's an idiot. But, you know, sometimes idiots need a little push. Maybe you should... show him."

As Satoru sat next to you, the woman he secretly loved, he struggled to maintain a relaxed facade, smiling as he took in your every word. Inside, however, your heart was beating wildly, yearning to be the man you sought advice from. Your every gesture and laugh only intensified his desire to be by your side, as he battled to hide his emotions and waited for you to realize the truth behind his rehearsed words and gestures.

GETO SUGURU

"Ah, you deserve someone who treats you like the queen you are. And if he can't see that, then rest assured he's not worthy of all your effort. But you know, there's someone out there who has always known your worth..."

Suguru, with his captivating smile and persuasive skills, listened attentively to your romantic dilemma, calculating each word in his mind as he weaved his suggestions with subtle persuasion. He highlighted the flaws of the man in question but discreetly praised your qualities, seeking to show his own interest deliberately. Behind his serene expression, Geto calculated every move in the hope that you would see in him not just an advisor but a potential lover, eager for the moment when you would recognize his true worth and choose to share your world with him.

KENTO NANAMI

"My suggestion would be to approach the situation calmly and rationally. Communicate your feelings in a clear and direct manner. After all, communication is the key to any relationship. If he is worthy of you, that will be enough."

While Nanami Kento listened attentively to your venting, he offered practical and direct advice, demonstrating his usual calm and clarity. However, internally, he grappled with his own unexpressed feelings, hiding his deep emotions behind a serious and professional facade. Every word of comfort he offered you was a painful reminder of his own unrequited desires.

Despite the intense internal struggle, Nanami continued to counsel you, keeping silent about his own pain. He wondered if he would ever overcome the fear of ruining your friendship by expressing his own feelings, remaining trapped in a cycle of anguish and doubt.

CHOSO KAMO

"I... know what it's like to feel that way. I think... maybe he just needs a little push to realize how special you are. If I were him, I wouldn't hesitate for a second..."

Choso couldn't hide his emotions, his gaze reflecting internal anguish as he listened to your love story. While offering advice, he was emotionally honest, sharing his thoughts and revealing the weight of his unrequited feelings. Choso saw in the situation an opportunity to perhaps get closer to you and show what he truly felt, longing for a deeper connection and hoping that his honesty would touch your heart, as he prepared to face any challenge to be by your side.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

"You're wasting your time with that idiot. Men like him will only make you suffer. If this guy is too blind to see how amazing you are, then you're better off moving on. But, of course, if you prefer to keep deluding yourself, I'm not the one to stop you. Just don't come crying later when things don't work out."

Toji, with his impatient posture and piercing gaze, doesn't hesitate to launch biting criticisms about the man in question while you vent to him. However, internally, he grapples with his own inability to express his feelings, using his rudeness as a shield to hide his vulnerability. While his sharp tongue continues to push away those around him, Toji yearns for an opportunity to truly connect with you, but fear of failure and rejection keeps him trapped in his role as a solitary tough guy.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

"Ah, so you've come to me seeking advice about that fool? Hmph, he's just another insignificant worm, don't waste your time with someone like him. You know, I'm not one to flatter, but you, you're too good for that piece of shit."

Sukuna, with his ironic smile and malicious eyes, absorbs every word that comes out of your mouth, carefully choosing each piece of advice to weave his manipulation web. His enigmatic words, full of double meanings, cast doubt on the man in question while subtly suggesting that he himself would be a better option for you. He delights in the control he exerts over the situation, using both you and the man as pawns in his power game, relishing the feeling of power it gives him, determined to achieve his own ends at any cost.

[eluxcastar]

Hello Riri! :]

I'm in my platonic harbingers with a child reader era, and you're one of the few people I follow who writes platonic stuff on an occasion. So here's my request!

Here's the small storyline I have. Reader is the child of a god (you're free to decide what they are the god of, if you want) who is extremely well known around Tevyat, and puts on a very intimidating and serious presence. Yet one unfortunate day, the readers parent dies, so now they have to take on their legacy at a too young of age. Making them grow up out of their childhood much faster and pressuring them into becoming exactly like their parent. Cold, intimidating, and serious.

And out of all the mortals the reader has met, the harbingers are who they find comfort in. They could be lecturing some other mortal one minute, and the next minute, they see one of the harbingers. They're grabbing them by the hands, bouncing on their tip toes with a bright smile.

(Hope you're having a good day! And please don't overwork yourself<3)

Fatui harbingers with a child god

── ୨୧：fatui harbingers & reader

୨୧﹑synopsis :: child reader taking over as archon and basically immediately proving why child rulers are a bad idea but it's ok because it's cute and endearing

୨୧﹑genre :: fluff

୨୧﹑content :: gn reader, god reader, signora might be ooc tbh I struggled to think for her, not proofread

୨୧﹑words :: 3k

this has been in my inbox for some time, even though I've really wanted to do it for ages. I'm sorry honey it took me a while to get to it. the description of their parent at least to me was giving mr zhongli when he was morax and I immediately thought of the ramifications of him faking his death in the rite of descension which makes me wanna write something else BUT THAT'S FOR LATER

I meant to post this four and a half hours ago but suddenly it was like twice the length I thought it would be and uh yeah that was not the plan but enjoy the food served hot and fresh

There has hardly been a moment of grief since you were orphaned, and the people are turning to you for their next overseer. You, small, fragile, and ill-prepared, are the one they wish to see take up the pillar left in your father's wake. You weren't ready, and maybe you never would've been, embraced by the caring side of your well and truly mellowed-out father and cherished by the people as the child of the nation.

Your transition from people's treasure to people's guide was jarring, and you're still not used to it. You move with what pleases and hide what brings deep frowns and disappointed eyes. The people no longer want a child but a god. They want their pride, once a god who had walked by their side for millennia, now the passing generation of a god as the mantle shifts to his blood.

It's hard not to notice what they make you, now the spitting image of your father, though you can only parrot his earned wisdom and show a brave face to keep the nation from despair.

You have but a single ally—the Tsaritsa—someone whose messengers approached you to ask for your father's gnosis and who gladly agreed to offer you an invitation to Snezhnaya at your request to speak to her personally, quite honestly not knowing how to say that you frankly didn't know what to do with the gnosis. Though you could keep it, you're unsure how to harness its power, wield it, or even control it. Your father was strong, you're not.

She is an intimidating presence but gentle. She knew of your father for as long as she had been an archon—though they weren't on good terms toward the end—perhaps you could understand her more than he would. He was the original archon in his seat, but you are an inheritor like her. In her lands, you are the careful balance of both a god and a child, spoken to with the grace of a higher power but the softness that is befitting to a young child.

It is as you are.

Tartaglia is the first to seek a test of your strength, though you wish not to hurt him and convince him to wait. So long as the answer is someday, he allows you to let him down easily and settles at indulging your requests to join the snowball fight you noticed him having. You want to join in, fidgeting and with your gaze flickering between the smiling children and your feet. You push away your every want to join them and play as well, but remind yourself of the people who would scorn you. It's unfitting for a god to behave like an immature child, you remind yourself, but every hope of remaining steadfast to that is gone as Tartaglia notices you watching.

His offer is merely that—an offer. He speaks with a snowball forming in his hands as he approaches, his thick coat engulfing his form and the red scarf bundled around his neck to keep him warm. You have to look up to meet his eyes, playful and perhaps a little mischievous. Tartaglia holds the snowball out to you as if it were his peace offering.

"You look like you want to join the fun. Care to throw a snowball or two with us?"

"May I?"

And with that, you take his offering.

Pantalone's musings and the intentions of his gifts are not beyond you. He means to win you over and perhaps spoil you a little. It is coddling, and you notice it. He wants what he wants, and he will get it out of you, but it is also not beyond him to recognise that you are...naïve, endearingly. Pantalone can lavish you in fine silks all he wants, but you have received many offerings, so they don't particularly sway you as he had hoped, and he moves on. Your true weakness lies in children's toys, the many things you have been denied since you have been forced to steel yourself. The smile that twitches at the corners of your lips as he presents you with the first is enough to confirm it.

Toys are made for children; though you try to deny it, you are still a child at heart. Gifting a child a toy they will try to pretend they don't cherish but will protect with their life is perhaps the quickest way to earn their favour. He watches as you fiddle with the arms of the plush cat when you think nobody is looking, asking it questions and then responding to yourself in an all-too-dedicated voice you put on for this cat. 

"Oh, Mr Cat, would you like some borscht too? It's very good."

"Yes, please, I would love to try some!"

Pantalone admittedly can't deny that you come with your own charms.

Signora spoils you what many of your aids have tried to before you, the chance to fix your hair, marvel at a pretty lady and wish you were half as sophisticated as her. She is your role model, second only to the Tsaritsa. She is beautiful and elegant and willing to teach you her ways as long as you continue to show up as cute as you are. Fix your posture a bit, head up, and walk everywhere with purpose, even if there isn't one. She has mastered the art, and you want it. Pantalone has his own appeal, a sophisticated man who learned through blood, sweat and tears, but there is something so distinct about Signora that makes you run to her at your first problem of presentation.

Like your mother, she will take you by the hand, lead you to a mirror, straighten your back, tilt your head up by the chin, and tell you to look at yourself now. Each time, you stare dumbly in awe of her reflection standing behind you, observing you like something precious, and it fills you with the confidence you need to heed her advice. It doesn't occur to you that Signora looks at you that way only because she thinks you're cute in your efforts, but too much like a child who got into their mother's perfume to be taken seriously.

"How others see you is important. Do you think they want to see their god with their back slouched and head hung? Hold your gaze above the people."

"It's-- well, different. I think I just look tense."

Sandrone has also come to realise that your weakness lies in toys, though she will not admit to aiding and abetting Pantalone's endeavours to find you a plushie. Instead, she shows you Katheryne. You have seen Katheryne before; you are sure of that, and that is only confirmed as Sandrone informs you that she exists in every branch of the Adventurers' Guild, including the one in your homeland. Katheryne is your access to knowledge, and the Northland Bank is your connection to Snezhnaya. Sandrone offers you comfort, the path that will lead you back to where help is and where you can go when you become overwhelmed by responsibility.

She likes your company, a reluctant admission that does not come cheap as she bargains your silence with the knowledge that she's aware of your liking for your cat toy. The embarrassment that overwhelms you is palpable until she offers you her workshop to play when your quarters are so overcrowded by your aids. You couldn't come to Snezhnaya alone for your safety, and it leaves you stranded without a moment of peace at times.

"Really?...and I can just, stay here? For as long as I want?"

"Isn't that what was offered to you?"

"Well...yes, thank you."

Scaramouche, whom you meet adjacent to Sandrone, is ill-tempered in the presence of others but a tad nicer when it comes to you. He does not drop his rough-around-the-edges personality to melt his heart out of his chest for you, but you manage to strike the perfect cord in his to gain liberties others cannot, having him share sweets with you. You learned at one point he really doesn't like them, leading you to wonder why they suddenly appeared ready and available for you to stuff your pockets full and snack on them when nobody's looking. You earn his favour through endearment and talk to him like he's normal because he is.

He is the child of a god, though in a different capacity to you. He was not loved quite so dearly by his mother and cannot share with you the pain of losing someone who treasured you. He was merely abandoned. There is the vague part of you that shuns the idea his softness is pity, sympathy even, as you're stuck stumbling through the world alone. It is all too familiar to him, and if candy will make you smile at him so cheerfully and hug him so tightly, then candy is a simple trade-off.

"Are you sure you don't want any? These are yours."

"Sickly sweet things make me feel like my teeth are fusing together. You can have them."

Pulcinella reminds you of home, the trinkets gathered on a whim that he keeps, the years showing through the rooms dedicated to him as you notice things your father told you of in stories. These are stories that Pulcinella will start off on without prompting, indulging your curiosity before you even lowered your guard enough to show it and casually enough that you slowly ask more. Every item holds a story: what it is, how he obtained it, why he kept it, who it was for. You see many such things around what used to be your house, but you don't know all of the stories, treasuring the ones you remember.

Pulcinella doesn't recall every story either, as some of your pointing and questioning is met with remarks of how long it has been. It is the only thing you feel you share with him, a living space filled to the brim with memories. Many of your trinkets don't belong to you, but his do, and it's nice to hear someone tell you stories again as he lets you pick from the collection of sweets in your pockets to eat when it suits your fancy.

"What about this? It reminds me of a lumenstone, the ones from the chasm."

"It is, and it came from Liyue when I asked that one of my subordinates bring it back for me. You must have a fine eye for these things."

"Not really, only lumenstone and noctilucous jade glow like this."

Arlecchino's offering to you is company, and plenty of it. Children who are so far removed from the stretch of news beyond the issues of the Steambird they manage to get their hands on that they wouldn't know your face from a haggler on the street. Father brought a guest to play with, and that's what matters as they induct you into their games, teach you the rules, and regard you exactly as they regard every other child their age. You are given the choice to simply become nobody, and you love it. Though you were once only a child, you were still the child of a god, and everyone knew it. Now, you elicit excitement only because someone new enters their lives, someone to learn about and befriend, merely a guest their father brought them.

Despite her sharp exterior, she is sweeter to you than you expected. You thought Arlecchino might be scarier, meaner, harsher, but she softens when she speaks to you. It is not with the cutthroat demeanour she holds speaking to the Harbingers and lacks a degree of the stern attitude she fronts to the children. You are not the average child, and it's necessary to treat you with some degree of respect, but you notice she's gentler with you than others, and it almost makes you feel special.

Columbina has sung you to sleep many times during your stay; her voice is sweet and more than enough to calm you. You let her hold your cat plush and dance with you in the hallways with the excuse you need knowledge of these things should you aspire toward being an archon, even if spinning around until you fall on the floor from dizziness and burst out laughing is a tad non-traditional. Columbina can see things others can't notice more than the human eye is capable of, and you'd rather not know what that's like. Something in the way she speaks tells you that it's hardly adjacent to anything human, closer to you, but still quite far off. It's interesting to hear the strange things humans have no business knowing.

Your hand is grasped in Columbina's, her fingers holding you tenderly. Her eyes are partly obscured beneath the lattice of a mask she wears. You're not sure if you could really call it a mask. She steps back, tugging you with her, and spins you in time with the steps she takes, each accompanied by a shift that forces you to keep up with where she moves, her other hand on your shoulder. It is the closest you will get to proper dancing, though merely a fool's waltz. You can't dance; being spun down a hallway while you struggle to match her movements feels much like you imagine a waltz would.

"It's not really proper dancing if we have no pattern to it."

"There is no such thing as proper dancing. If you'd prefer it, I could sing."

Dottore is someone you did not expect to be so open to the idea of you, and your assumptions were proven correct by his apprehension to engage with you. He is curt with you at best and avoidant at worst. You are a child filled with the yearning to touch everything that doesn't belong to you, desperate to hear too much about the things that don't concern you. You are young, needy, and with no concept of what is beyond you. Dottore's unique abundance of knowledge is appealing to you, however. He knows things your father did, many of which he didn't tell you, but Dottore will, so long as it gets you to sit still and stop interrupting him. You may be convinced you have pocketed your unnecessary emotions away, but he has seen you, and that is an insulting lie.

Your wants are written on your face plain as day, so long as people pay enough attention to you to care what you feel. He does not especially care, not for the child of a god, but it helps to know what you want to stick your nose in most. It helps to know how you benefit from him, and on luckier days, you might even catch him in a better mood when he is willing to indulge your interest in his knowledge. Your capacity to understand, let alone remember, hardly worries him.

"So you have clones of yourself? And they just...work for you?"

"Not exact clones—segments. They have wills of their own and use them as they see fit."

Capitano is strong, a man of few words, and he does not abhor your presence quite so strongly, nor does he indulge your more childish desires. What you get from Capitano is respect, the highest honour you can get from his book in your eyes, and it comes from your perseverance. You're running around working so hard when you're so young, and you deserve a break sometimes. You deserve a quiet place to curl up in the corner with that cat he's caught you hiding under where no one can bother you, and maybe with a few sweets you always seem to have these days. That corner still does not exist, though he will find you one if you want it. 

You show no signs of slowing down, are energetic and eager and are far too committed to the act of being something you're not to listen to him when he tells you to rest. Gods must all be fickle. The most he can do for you is make sure you're safe and happy as you will be in your position, maybe wipe your hands of powdered sugar when you find pastries at the market you want and recklessly eat them without thinking of how you'll clean up short of wiping the remnants on your clothes, but you'll never do that as you are.

Pierro once made you nervous. He is a stern, serious man who never smiles. Pierro is steadfast in loyalty and never wavers, which is precisely what you have begun to aspire to be now that that is what has been asked of you. You could never hope to replicate the kind of dedication he has, and perhaps that is part of what sways you. Though you have become so comfortable behaving childishly around some people, you fear you may never be around him, whether because you fear his disapproval or yearn for his approval. Despite that, he is arguably who you trail around behind most, quiet, observing, trying to figure out how to copy and apply what he has to yourself.

It settles the quick realisation he reminds you most of what the people saw in your father. Someone like him is someone people envision fostering a nation to prosperity, and you fight your own subconscious to keep all of your slipping habits, making sure he never sees you sneaking candy, hiding your cat plush from him, refusing Tartaglia's every offer to play games around him. You're not sure why you think that will make him like you more, having long ago gained his favour, unable to notice the faint smiles and the conscious effort to make you believe he doesn't notice you out the window barreling snowballs at Tartaglia.

You are still a child at heart; he is just about the last person you can hope to hide that from.

[12triceratops]

Where the rubber meets the road.

These two didn't just have a relationship, they had a (soul)utionship. "The Prophecy" Hand on the throttle Thought I caught lightning in a bottle...

What these two had was magical. There is no debate that Karlie Kloss and Taylor Swift were electric: (I am using past tense for the moment, I will refer to them in present tense a bit later in the post)

Fast forward a decade later to Fortnight. This record did not hit me immediately the way "Folklore" and "Evermore" did, It has almost been a week since its release and I hadn't been fully onboard with TTPD. I was expecting something different, something not familiar and I had quite literally thought maybe Jack Antinoff and Taylor Swift had reached their limit together as collaborators. The music produced by Aaron Dressner had flavors and connections to "Folklore" and "Evermore," while parts of the album was reminiscent of "1989." My next thought that maybe the three of them had done all they could do.

And then the Matty Healy conversation exploded across the net (le sigh), and I just about gave up on the record.

I damn near had a sanguinary struggle within myself over The Tortured Poets Department (I know, that is very dramatic lol), and then I finally got it. The brilliance of this woman is unmatched.

The last song "The Manuscript." Now and then she rereads the manuscript Of the entire torrid affair

"The entire torrid affair" meaning the last decade (probably longer, but I am sticking with 2014-2024). The title isn't lost on me and many others - The Man-U-Script.

The last segment of the song

The only thing that's left is the manuscript One last souvenir from my trip to your shores Now and then I reread the manuscript But the story isn't mine anymore

She is closing the chapter on all of it. It's over, the countless theories, the stories we all have created about her. They're our stories now, we built them into a formidable, monstrous entity that took on a life of its own. "The last souvenir" are her words to us on this album. From the Swifities, to the Gaylors/Kaylors, to the haters, critics, industry, fans, media. She won't play this game anymore. Taylor gave enough clues on this album to make EVERYONE'S theory plausible (Karlie, Joe, Matty, Travis, Harry, Kim etc). She connected threads to come full circle, which brings us back to "1989," that 1980s syth-pop (hello! "I Can Do It With A Broken Heart"). This is why she and Jack Antonoff brought us back to where it all began, Karlie Kloss and #Kissgate (Dianna Agron, too, who can forget "Wonderland). Aaron Dressner summons moments within this records of the two albums that fractured my soul, F & E. That folky-pop melody that gets into your skin to change the DNA. No joke, I sobbed listening to "Folklore" and "Evermore."

With TTPD, Taylor comes in like a thrashing, tumultuous storm; at times seething and others admonishing. She is singing to herself, for herself and without need of approval from the mainstream radio (or anyone else). TTPD is messy, too much, not enough, vulnerable, real, relatable and she is tired of our collective shit.

Back to "The Manuscript" This Era has come to an end and she is leaving us with the ruins, the aftermath of what she went through: being forced to hide who she really is, having to placate the rabid fans who believe the stories of every boy she has ever dated. She has had zero privacy and the only safe place Taylor has ever had was her music, she is the ONLY one who knows to whom she sings. Does she love her fans, of course, but Mother is tired and done. She is ready to come clean and live the life she has crafted to keep in secret in order to protect the innocent.

The beards, NDAs, slight of hand, she is smashing all that we know. It's not her reflection she seeks to shatter, it's the illusions. In "Fortnight" the nurse, a woman (cannot convince me that it's not Karlie. A doorframe is 6'8" and that nurse is about 5" shorter that frame, which would make that person 6'3" :), comes to save her, gives her the key to set her free. The men in the video are the ones who are torturing her. Like the last 10 years, The poet has been tortured by the department of men: Joe, John, Conner, Jake, Harry, Calvin, Tom, Joe, Matty, Travis, Scooter, Scott, and the list goes on.

It's "Robin" that has got a choke-hold on me.

Buried down deep And out of your reach The secret we all vowed To keep it from you in sweetness

She is singing to a child, a kid, and I am going to say a little boy. Is this song about Levi? I am going to say yes. Hands down the gem of the album, and our cue to realize she is telling us what is next, her family, the loves of her life: Karlie and the kids. That is what she wants and that will be her next chapter. We struggle to interpret the Taylor that is always ten steps ahead of us. Her Eras Tour, this will be the last one for a while. Once it has wrapped, I wouldn't be surprised if she disappeared for a spell. Will she produce more work, sure. Perform, probably, but this last decade has taken a toll, and this tour has been a herculean effort. Hence, its wild success. Could she retire (FLORIDA)? It's possible, but she would never tell us, we would have to figure that out for ourselves.

I have more to say, but it's late and I am sleepy. As I get lost in the piano of "The Manuscript" I am reminded of the book "The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo"

Not sure if anyone is going to see or read this, but I needed a place to write my thoughts about this extraordinary album that I almost let slip through my fingers. Good night and sleep well everyone <3

[zombiekillerbiceps]

Hide and Seek

Note: I saw Scream 6 last night and remembered I'm attracted to men who want to kill me, beware ye who enter here etc.

Contents: NSFW, 18+, 3k words, LeonxReader, knife kink, home invasion roleplay, cnc with enthusiastic consent, Dom!Leon, ambiguous era, masochist reader, very slight blood, bdsm, hair pulling, choking, rough sex, degradation, threats, crying, insults (bitch, slut, whore), glove kink, boot kink, primal kink (adjacent?), spoilers for Scream 2, no y/n.

-----

"Yeah okay, so basically she's the mom of one of the killers from the first film," you told him, grabbing another hand full of popcorn, "and what's really fun is their last name Loomis is a reference to the doctor in Halloween, anyways, their whole purpose as killers is to make a point about how people are violent by nature and not because of movies, and how people are more likely to kill because the media glorifies murderers."

"You really like these movies, huh?" Leon asked.

He was, admittedly, a little bit bored. Slasher flicks never did it for him. But what he had was an opportunity to cuddle up on the couch with you and watch you get passionate about something.

Passionate was definitely one way to describe it. The way your breath quickened during the chase scenes and the way your mouth hitched up into a smile whenever Ghostface caught a victim didn't go unnoticed by him. When Ghostface was taunting the victims over the phone, your eyelids got a little heavy, your face a little red.

"What's your favourite part about them?" He asked, watching for your reaction.

You take a long moment to ponder it. The way they act as a mirror to the cultural zeitgeist of the time, reflecting fears, values, and cinema of the era was up there. The kills were always legendary too, just really brutal. But if you were being honest with him?

"The chase," you admitted, your cheeks reddening just a bit.

You two finished out the movie, and because it was your turn for Movie Marathon Night, you put on Scream 3. Leon waited until the moment when Ghostface was stalking a victim through their home before leaning close to you.

"I could do that to you," he said, his voice a low roll.

Your breath hitched in your throat, surprised and immediately turned on at the rumble of his voice. You looked up at him.

"Yeah?"

"If you wanted me to."

You thought about it. Leon's heavy boots on the hardwood floor, his strength contested against yours, the glint of a blade against your throat...

"I definitely like the sound of that." You agreed, and then, sheepishly, "I like the knife too."

"I know," he said, and you burned in embarrassment.

It was a few weeks later that you were putting groceries away, the whole conversation (disappointingly) forgotten, when your phone rang.

Unknown Caller

Your eyebrows cinched together in confusion. Who could be calling you? You propped the fridge door open with your hip and answered the phone.

"Hello?" You ask, reaching over to the counter to grab the carton of eggs.

"Hello, sweetheart." The voice on the other end was deep, a little raspy.

"Leon?"

"Wouldn't you like to find out," Leon the Caller responded. "Do you want to play a game?"

"That's Jigsaw," you teased, excitement bubbling up in your stomach.

He didn't answer for a while. Long enough to make you double check the call wasn't dropped.

You pulled the phone back from your ear.

Still on. Full bars.

"Did I ruin the-"

"You didn't answer my question," he said, slowly, sharply.

You grin. "Okay, I'll play."

"Excellent. How about hide and seek?"

"What?"

"I'll give you ten seconds to find a place to hide, and then I'll come find you."

"Are you home right now?" You ask, straining your ears to hear anything in the house.

"Ten."

"What if I find you first?"

"Nine."

A prickle of fear slid up your back. His voice was sharp, serious. You'd never heard it like that before, and it made it so easy to believe that he wanted to hurt you.

You leave the kitchen, pace getting quicker as you scan for places to hide.

"Eight."

The coat closet was too small. The linen closet where you kept the board games too obvious.

"Seven."

Was he in the house? Do you lock the door to keep him out or does that just trap you?

"Six."

You start up the stairs at a creeping pace to keep quiet, thinking you could probably slip into the bathroom unnoticed if you were quiet enough. The stair creaked under your weight.

"Five. You'll have to be quicker than that, sweetheart." The taunting in his voice was unbearable. Smug, confident, and a fully loaded threat all at once.

A spurt of adrenaline. Your body is bolting up the stairs before you can think better of it.

"Come on," he groaned. "Too loud. You're making this too easy for me."

Your hands turn the bathroom knob and he chuckled over the phone.

"The bathroom? Really? A second-story dead end. You're smarter than this. Three."

"Shut up," you sputter out, pulling the door open defiantly.

He's standing there behind the opaque shower curtain. He tears it open, prying it off the bar entirely. He's wearing a tight black t-shirt and tactical cargo pants, tucked into military boots. You don't miss the knife holster on his shoulder, or the black gloves on his hands. His icy blue eyes meet yours and he feigns disappointment.

"Two," he says, over the phone and to your face. His voice is ice cold. He steps out of the shower slowly. Purposefully.

You expect the heavy boots to make some kind of noise, but he moves like a fucking ghost.

"One."

He drops the phone and charges.

You slam the door just before he meets it. His body slams into it and you feel the force shudder through the door and into you. You hear the doorframe crack. He didn't even have a lot of time to gain momentum, that was just his raw strength. Real adrenaline is floods your brain.

You turn tail and run faster than you've ever run before. The bathroom door swings open behind you. He's catching up with easy, effortless strides.

You make it to the bedroom and slam the door behind you. Your hands shaking as you go to turn the lock.

The doorknob moves under your hands. It won't lock if it's half turned. You struggle with it, fighting with both hands, your sweaty palms making it hard to get a grip.

You manage to wrestle it back just long enough to lock it.

Silence.

You back away from the door, your hands shaking. Your breath comes in quick, harsh breaths. Just when you start to relax, hard pounding at the door kicks you off again. Again. Again. Again again again again - he's going to break the fucking door down!

Silence.

You hear something metallic touch the doorknob. Something pops. It starts to turn.

You do the only think you can think of and dive underneath the bed.

The door swings open. You watch his boots, massive and impossibly fucking quiet cross the threshold.

"Sweetheaaart," he coos. "You don't think you can really hide from me, do you?"

You gently put your hand over your mouth and nose to muffle the sounds of your shaky, terrified breath.

You watch as he crosses over to your shared closet. He opens it. Then, with the unhurried confidence of someone who knows they'll get what they want eventually, he turns. One step, then another, he walks towards your hiding place.

His boots stop just shy of the bed. Just inches from your face. Impeccably polished, but undeniably beat up.

You hear the rustle of fabric. He tosses the blankets on to the ground, blocking your view.

This was bad.

You could just barely hear him cross over to the other side but, from the angle you were at under the bed, couldn't see it. For a painfully long moment, nothing happens. You debate bolting for the door.

A hand wraps around your ankle!

He begins to pull you out from under the bed, the leather of his gloves giving him grip against your bare skin.

"No!" You cry out, instinct taking over. You kick at him and he releases you.

You scurry out from under the bed, fighting against the blankets in your way. You hear him step up onto the bed as you come out from under it. You half- crawl, half- run towards your escape, looking back to see him jumping down, completely unbothered. Your legs are unsteady, everything in your body just trying to get away without really thinking about how.

You brace yourself against the door frame and use it to propel you forward.

His hands are on your shoulders, yanking you against him.

You struggle in vain, a massive arm wrapping around your waist. Your hands try to pry his grip off your hips but his gloved hands don't move. You try to find purchase on the ground but he lifts you until your toes can just barely touch.

He isn't even breathing hard, you realize.

This is easy for him.

"Let me go!" You are try to sound defiant but the high pitch of your voice betrays your fear.

"Let me go isn't our safe word," he says in your ear. You feel him relax against you a little, only just enough to hold you in place.

"Fuck you," you take advantage of his kindness and work your way out of his grasp. You dash for the stairs again but don't even make it a couple of steps before there's a sharp pain in your skull.

A gloved hand is gripping the hair at the base of your head. Electricity echoes through you. You whimper, body freezing up at the pain.

He's almost dragging you backwards. Your body hits another wall, hard enough to make your head spin.

Leon's hand is on your throat. His eyes are wild and dark, and you can tell by the way his gaze rakes over your body that he likes the chase just as much as you do.

His free hand reaches up to pull his knife from it's holster on his shoulder.

You forgot about that.

Your pulse roars in your ears, your body squirming against his grip on your neck. He tightens his grip. For a few seconds, everything becomes light and airy. Then he relaxes, and the oxygen floods back into your brain with a rush of endorphins.

"If you keep squirming like that, I'm going to really hurt you." Fuck, his voice so low and threatening... It genuinely scared you, and the fear just made him hotter.

Sharp, unforgiving features tower over you as he brings the knife point to your abdomen. He traces the hemline of your pants before tucking the curved blade under the hem of your shirt. He pressed in enough that the skin bends beneath the blade, threatening to slice open if you move.

"No," you whimper. "Please don't."

He pulls the knife away, eyes softening and meeting yours.

"No isn't our safe word," he says, but this time there is no mocking tone. His gaze is gentle, genuine, asking a question without asking it.

The fear settles in your brain as you meet his eyes. He would never hurt you if you didn't want him to, you trusted him with your life. The vulnerability is given willingly, as much as you act like it's being taken.

This makes you bold. You spit in his face, trying to turn your thrilled grin into a snarl and failing.

"Fuck. You."

Your spit runs down his cheek. His features harden. He looks like he could fucking kill you.

"You little bitch," he mutters through gritted teeth.

The knife is there against your skin again, a cold pinpoint threat. And then it's gliding up your body, tearing your shirt with it. He pushes the knife back into its holster and stares at you, exposed and cold.

Then he's wrestling you to the ground. You try to resist until your muscles ache with the effort. He does it easily anyways. If his combat training didn't tell him exactly how to manhandle you like a doll, he would still easily overpower you.

One hand pins you down by your back, while his other tears painfully at your denim shorts. You struggle against him, lifting your hips and "accidentally" making it easier for him to drag them off you.

"You're making it too easy for me," Leon taunts you. You try to get to your knees but he pushes you back down with a mocking tsk.

"Oh, look at this," he says. You feel the leather of his gloves pressed against your hole. He drags a finger down your slit, smearing the slick with ease. "Act like you don't want it, but this tells a different story."

Two fingers push into you. Hard. You're wet enough that it's easy for Leon to pump in and out of you, whimpers spilling from your lips. Usually, he would curl his fingers inside you, hitting the spot that made you white hot. But this time? Nothing. He pumps his fingers in and out of you almost intentionally avoiding making you feel good. He was just making a show of you. Playing with you like a toy. Taunting you with every wet push inside you.

Then his fingers are gone. He releases his hold on you to adjust his weight. You hear his zipper.

You wonder how far you can take this.

You drag yourself forward, actually managing to almost get to your knees this time. He lets out a noise of surprise before you feel two hands on your thigh, dragging your bare skin against the hardwood floor. You whimper in pain, and then he's on you again.

"Stop it. A bitch should know when she's been beat," his voice was heavy in your ear. He wrapped an arm around your neck, choking you and using your shoulders as leverage all at once.

You could feel his cock against your ass, so hard it must hurt. His free hand lines it up with your cunt, the tip just dipping into you. He groans with self restraint.

"Ready, sweetheart?"

"Please," you beg quietly, as if asking for it too loudly would break the scene.

He thrusts in one, smooth motion. His cock pushes into you, painfully stretching your cunt around him. His bicep flexes next to your face, using your body to pull himself deeper.

"Fuck, you're so wet for me." He buried his face into your shoulder, whimpering into the torn fabric of your t-shirt. "Such a little slut."

He sets the pace hard and fast at first. Your high builds quickly, legs shaking beneath him, biting into his arm hard enough to leave marks. The pain only makes him rougher with you, fucking into you hard and sharp.

"Such a fucking slut, you like when I take you like this?" You whimper a response, nodding against him. "Yeah you do. Fucking whore."

He adjust his position, fucking you faster. His breath is hard and heavy, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Fuck, you take me so well. Fucking." His babbling became almost incoherent, a sting of curse words and praise and humiliation, but you didn't care. It was enough just hearing him talk to you, grunting words between thrusts and moans, pushing into you. Closer, closer.

"Fuck, you about to come for me baby?" He can feel you tighten around his cock. "Stop fighting it. Come on, come on me like the little bitch you are."

It's enough to send you over the edge, whimpering as you come so hard it almost fucking hurts. He rides it out with you, slowing but never stopping. You try to catch your breath.

"Fuck, Leon," you manage. "That was so good."

"Don't think I'm done with you yet," he mutters, driving his hips into you a little harder.

You cry out, body over stimulated, the adrenaline crash rendering you weak and shaky. He keeps a slow pace, but he pushes into you as deep as he can go, almost threatening to push through you.

"It's too much," you whine.

He laughs at you. Then you hear the knife unbuckle again. You're too exhausted to even pretend to fight back, the cold tip tracing your back.

It bites into your skin, sharp and painful. And then it drags up, the sensation like fire on you. It traces your ribs, up to your shoulders. You can feel a thin line of blood drawn from its tip in the round of your shoulder while Leon keeps fucking into you at that slow, tortuous pace. You're too sensitive, the pain too much. Tears start to collect in your eyes. Tension starts to build in your abdomen again.

Leon switches to the dull side but digs it in enough to make you whimper. He keeps fucking you slow, deep, coaxing you deeper and deeper with his sultry voice.

Your cunt starts to tighten around him again and even that hurts. You sniffle, fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

Leon works the dull side of the knife against your throat and that alone is enough to almost drive you over the edge. His body hot and heavy on top of you, both of you sweating and moaning.

"You still with me, sweetheart?" He asks, his voice shaking slightly.

"Mhm. Are you?"

"Ohh yeah," he confirms. He ducks his head closer to the other side of your neck, and you work a hand up into his hair, holding him close. You surprise him by pulling his hair, some part of you hoping it will get a rise out of him, but it doesn't. The same slow, deep pace. Pain danced with pleasure, arousal and discomfort tightening in your stomach, threatening to overcome you.

"Cry all you want baby," he groans in your ear, "it's just going to make me fuck you harder."

It's a promise. His hips snap into you harder, dragging out another climax so hard you're left breathless.

He doesn't stop. He doesn't even let you catch your breath this time. He's stopped talking now, his breath hard and fast in your ear. You try to tell him it hurts but you can only stutter pathetically beneath him.

He pulled himself into you, threat of the knife ever present against your throat. Your body felt like it was on fire.

"I can't, I can't, Leon-" you manage to plead, your body working up to another orgasm.

"I didn't fucking ask if you could," he groans in your ear.

That sends you over the edge again, crying out as your cunt clamped down around his cock. Your body shakes uncontrollably, tears fall down your cheeks as your breath comes in moaning sobs.

You can feel his cock spasm inside you, spreading you more with each pulse. His cum is so hot it feels like it could burn you, his hips fucking it deeper into you as he rides through his high. Eventually, he slows to a stop.

You lay there like that on your hallway floor for a moment, before Leon released the knife with a clatter and rolls off of you.

Still shaking, you curl up to him He wraps his arms around you and you feel undeniably safe. Of course you do, you couldn't do all that with just anyone.

"Got a little carried away there," he admitted with a soft laugh.

"Yeah, I think you liked it more than I did," you joked back with a shaking voice.

He peppers the top of your head with gentle kisses.

"Are you still doing okay?" He asks. You nod against him.

"Sore. Overwhelmed."

"Let's get you into a bath, then how about we watch some TV together?"

"Yeah," you agree, kissing him. "That sounds good."

[jieqionq]

mireum.

[c0eu4]

Could you write a fic for sebastian vettel? With driver reader? The plot is yours to decide but I want it to be fluff seb but rb era

Thanks in advance

SV5 | Don't be ashamed, sweetie

rb!sebastianvettel x fem!driver!reader

Summary: your period has always been painful and Seb helps you to relax.

Warning: Hurt/comfort

A/n: Think that the story takes place in 2012 and people are still very taboo about the subject of periods :/

MASTERLIST requests are close

You hate days like that. End even more when it's race week. You wake up with dirty hair, stomach ache and this horrible urge to vomit. You groan and roll over in your bed into the fetal position, wrapping your arms around yourself. You've always had painful periods. And having them when you have to drive is always hell.

You wipe the little tears that are falling from your eyes and sit on the bed, close in on yourself. You get up slowly, holding onto the nightstand, still keeping a hand on your stomach. You gasp at the horrible feeling between your legs and force yourself to walk to the bathroom. You hurry to change, wash your hands and fall back into bed.

You grab your phone and sigh when you see all the notifications. Some emails, Instagram, X and messages. You see the message from your teammates, Sebastian Vettel. He asks you if you're fine because you weren't looking good at the media day yesterday. You answer him simply that you're fine and turn off your phone.

Maybe the worst part of all this is that you're ashamed to talk about it. No one knows how bad you are during your period and you've only had it once during a race. Your parents have always been very close on this subject and it has always been taboo throughout your life.

You hide under the duvet, seeking warmth. Your whole body is frozen. It's like you were naked in the snow. It's true that your pajamas don't help you warm up, given the prevailing heat in Qatar. But still, you're cold.

You turn over in your bed again, cursing nature for giving you such a painful uterus. After a few minutes, when you thought you were going back to sleep, you sat up and decided to get ready. After all, you don't really have a choice.

You put on your most comfortable clothes, grab your bag and leave your hotel room. You hurry to the paddock to hide in your driver room and be quiet.

Arriving at it, you drop onto the massage table and resume your usual position, folding in on yourself. You close your eyes and try to focus on your breathing to try to ease the pain. You're so annoyed that you didn't take your medicine. You didn't expect them at all! They are a week early. At least you're sure you're not pregnant.

You begin to cry silently, an accumulation of pain, fatigue and annoyance. You rub your eyes, to the point of ruining all your makeup - which makes you cry more.

You don't stop crying when your coach walks into the room. He's probably the only one who knows about your period - he doesn't really have a choice but to know.

''Have you taken your medication?'' He asks you a little coldly. He doesn't really know how to handle this and it makes you even more uncomfortable.

''No.'' You tell him looking at the ground, too embarrassed to look at him. He huff heavily, probably from irritation. ''Can you drive? Horner is not going to be happy.''

''I can drive!'' You stand up abruptly, quickly regretting your action because of the pain. You take a deep breath and try to calm down.

''Get ready. FP1 is in less than thirty minutes.'' He tells you quickly then walks out, lightly slamming the door behind him. Does he have his period too or something?, You think, noticing his bad mood.

You get off the massage table and hurry to put on your racesuit, taking advantage of the few minutes where you feel better than the morning. You take your bottle and go to your car in the garage.

The session was horrible. You thought you were going to die in the car the whole time. You barely managed to have a 'good time'. Everyone in the garage is disappointed and you know it. But you did the best you could. They want the best, given that your teammate, Sebastian Vettel, is taking the team very high. And there is you. At least, for today. They're expecting the worst, even though it's only the start of the weekend.

You return to your driver room quickly, angry with yourself and with the others who don't understand. You lie down on the small couch and start crying again, the only thing you do when you're so sensitive.

You close your eyes and try to sleep a bit when you hear a light knock on the door. You refrain from yelling at the person to get out and don't answer, hoping that they will leave.

''I know you're here Y/n.'' Sebastian's voice echoes from the other side of the door and you feel even worse. He's probably the last person you want to see. You don't want him to see you like this. What will he think? He will probably see me as a dirty person and hate me. You think to yourself and more tears fall from your eyes.

''Can I come in?'' He asks you, while pulling the handle but not opening the door. You mumble a 'yes' and he walks into the room, finding you dying on the couch.

''You're ok?'' He asks, approaching you, arms crossed. ''Your results weren't good.'' He adds a layer while moving forward to sit on the massage table.

''I look like I'm okay!?'' You answer him aggressively, being fed up with everything and everyone.

''Wow, little Y/n show her claws?'' He teases you with a smirk.

''Shut up!'' You shout at him and you turn around then sit up to look him straight in the eyes.

''Calm down.. You're on your period or what?'' He jokes slightly but puts on a serious face when he sees your red and slightly swollen eyes. ''You know, it's not that bad what you did.'' He gets off the massage table and comes and sits next to you.

''Damn, you men!'' You look at him annoyed and he understands that that's the problem.

''I have sisters you know.'' He gets up and walks towards the door. ''I'll be back.'' He mumble then leaves without saying anything.

''You're serious!?'' You shout at him, not understanding his behavior. Is he that disgusted? That's understandable.

You immerse yourself in your pain by lying down again and curling up on yourself while sobbing. Sometimes you wish you were a man. You wouldn't have all these problems. You wouldn't be bothered by your period. You would surely be much more respected and loved in this sport..

Sebastian returns more than half an hour later. He comes in without knocking and finds you crying silently on the couch.

Without saying a word, he throws something at your back. You groan and sit up, picking up the chocolate that fell on your stomach. He takes the opportunity to sit next to you and places a hot water bottle on your knees.

''You can lie against me.'' He looks away, cheeks red as he makes himself comfortable on the couch and takes the blanket that was at the end of the couch.

A slight smile appears on your face and you fall against him, resting your head on his thighs. He puts the hot water bottle on your lower stomach and tucks the blanket around you.

''You're good?'' He runs his hand through your hair and gently massages your scalp. You answer him with a little 'mh', feeling the pain lessen, thanks to all of Seb's attention.

''I'm sorry.'' You sob softly. ''It's embarrassing.''

Seb chuckle and it sends butterflies in your stomach. ''I told you, I have sisters. I'm used to it. Don't be ashamed, sweetie'' The nickname makes you blush and you feel him press his lips against your forehead and you close your eyes, feeling much better than this morning.

[wtftarot]

PAC: The Sun

The Sun stands as the counterpart to the Moon. Representing clarity, the Sun leaves nothing in shadow. It speaks of blessings and growth. What do you need to learn from the Sun today? Let's fuck around and find out.

As always this reading is meant for entertainment purposes only and is not a substitute for professional advice in any way. Remember, use common sense, and don't be a dumbass.

Masterlist

Pick the Sunflowers, the Kid or the Horse and head on to your reading.

The Sunflowers page cups Rx, Justice, 7 swords, the Fool, three cups, the hierophant Rx, temperance rx

A lot of things are lookin hazy for y'all, huh group one? The energy here is super interesting. First, y'all are entering an era that will redefine what you think it means to have a balanced life. You'll figure out what it means for you specifically. Which is awesome but that's not the focal point of your reading. There's something here that feels very sneaky, not in a harmful sorta way, more like a heist. It's like you're heisting yourself back. I fuckin love that. I think y'all may have lost yourself or a part of yourself somewhere along the way. The cards aren't saying how or why, which I feel is significant. While whatever happened had its impact, it's so much less important than this, than you, finding yourself again. Now you're scheming and plotting ways to get yourself back and it's beautiful. There's so much excitement and joy here. You may still have to hide them because of circumstances outside of your control but you're not burying them. You should feel absofuckinlutly no shame about it, fyi. You had to adapt, that's all. Now though, you are plotting and planning yourself towards a life that you don't have to adapt yourself to. The clarity you're getting is clarity of self. Things in your life feel a little hazy and off because they kinda are. You only "fit" your life as it is now because you lost those parts of yourself. Things were always 'off'. You edited yourself to what the situation called for. So, as you find yourself, you won't 'fit' the roles in life you used to. You're stepping into a life that gets you. A life where those parts of you are celebrated. Moving forward you may not get many satisfactory answers from sources outside of yourself on what to do. That's cause this is a time where you are creating the answers. You may find yourself doing a lot of inner-child work in the next few months. Deconstructing outdated teachings, or just seeing through bullshit you once thought to be true. Your awareness of when you are or are not acting in favor of your true self is being heightened. Now, this all feels like the inner-shift that has to happen before the external changes. So, you may wanna seek out some alone time or journal your thoughts cause I'm willing to bet you'll be having some epiphanies or ah-ha moments. This is awesome, babe. It's gonna be beautiful to see.

random ass vibes: Cats, 8,888, the wizard of oz, My Chemical Romance, shout out to all y'all with adhd/autism. religious upbringing? Red, "you can't buy happiness- steal it", goldenrod, something about acrylic nails? first time getting them? owls.

The Kid

The Sun rx, Nine of Swords Rx, Four of Cups Rx, Page of Wands, Knight of Cups, Eight of Wands Rx, Nine of Wands Rx, King of Swords Rx

This reading was interesting as hell to do. The short version is: Y'all are intuitive, you're just not letting yourselves simply BE intuitive. You try to force things or second-guess others and it's fucking you over. 

There is a message that you may be spending too much on different divination tools when you don't need them. This reading is cool and frustrating. I had to walk away from your cards because every time I tried to read them, the message was muddled and contradicting itself? I'm writing this a day later because now that I'm not trying to force it, it's flowing like the goddamn Mississippi. I didn't even plan to get back to your reading yet. It's like 6,7 am? I was just drinking my coffee and the reading became clear. Which is the whole ass point of your reading. Everyone has different intuitive psychic skills and different skill levels but if y'all chose this group? Y'all are pretty fuckin psychic. Or you could be if you got over some self-doubt and shit. When I said you're not letting yourselves be intuitive, I mean you may be relying too much on divination tools and signs instead of your intuition. You can strengthen your intuitive gifts, and learn to interpret them more accurately but you can't force it. It seems like you've become so focused on trying to pick up on things psychically, that you're not even living in the moment anymore. Which leads us to the other side of this coin. When you're determined to know and see more when there's nothing there, you can start to take your anxieties for hits cause they're the only thing you got. It's sorta like how when you're looking into a dark space, and you start seeing things that ain't there. Which understandably makes you freaked out, then when the anxieties don't come true you doubt yourself cause your "intuition" was wrong. Truth is not everything is a sign or a hit. Sometimes a number's just a number and a bird's just a bird. A bad feeling in your gut is just your gut feeling bad. Truth also is sometimes true psychic hits are kinda dumb, most of the hits I get regularly are just my cat needing something. It's okay if your intuition is just when produce is on sale. You ARE psychic. You're also human. All of this is confusing and that's okay. We're always confused until we figure things out. This all came out with the Sun in reverse because y'all expect your intuition to be clear the way your other senses are clear. You're looking outside of yourself for something that dwells inside of you. The advice here is to learn to trust your inner instincts. I keep hearing "Play psychic games". Scry out what animals you're going to see the next day. Try to intuit what suit a card is before you turn it over. Being psychic isn't (always) foreshadowing doom, it can be super fun. Try to get readings on non-serious topics. Let your intuition flow and play.

y'all have no random ass vibes because you need to stop relying on external confirmation of your intuition.

The Horse

This reading may be triggering, I'm not sure if feelings of not deserving love are a trigger but just to be safe. If you struggle with depression, anxiety, or the like please seek professional help. I'm just a chick with a computer and a deck of cards. Remember, don't do anything to compromise your safety.

I took some time between readings, and leading up to your reading horses kept popping up everywhere. I knew this reading would be different. I did pull some cards, but they feel unnecessary because y'all's guides are just talking to me. Why are y'all so convinced you won't get a happy ending? Mind out of the gutter, please. Thank you. You seem to be utterly convinced that you will never have a solid, safe, joyful life? "None of that is for me" is what I keep hearing. It's like there is one way to be happy, one sort of life that leads to happiness, and if you do not conform to that you're just doomed to die alone in squalor? There's this energy of I cannot do things my way and be happy. I can't be myself and loved. I just heard " I don't get to.." As in I don't get to be myself. I don't get to be loved. I don't know who made you feel that way but they better fucking hope I never see them. Or better yet, hope that future you never meets them. Cause sweetie, this reading? It's about your comeback. And HOLY FUCK YALL THIS WILL BE A HELL OF A COMEBACK. There's this overwhelming feeling of happy, unbridled defiance rearing its head in you. If you haven't felt it yet, you will soon babe don't worry. This may just be a heads-up. Defiance in the face of every fucking thing that makes you feel like you'll never get what you want. SPITE. That's what yall are embracing. I FUCKING LOVE THIS ENERGY YALL. SPITE IS MY ENTIRE LIFE PHILOSOPHY. This may be sort of a "villain era" for you. You're gonna be spitting in the face of everything that made you feel like you'd never be enough. YOU ARE ENOUGH. I want to be clear, you're not going to wake up and suddenly be immune to all the bullshit you've been told. You are however going to wake up and decide to live in defiance of what people have told you. That's why it'll feel sort of villainous, you may not feel like you deserve happiness (yet, give it time). BUT is 'deserving" it going to stop you? HELL NO! This is giving happiness is the best revenge. Those fuckers saying you can't be you and loved? They're gonna have to sit and WATCH YOU. And you get the pleasure of shoving your success, your happiness DOWN THIER FUCKING THROATS. Sometimes, you have to move towards things before you feel deserving or ready, so you can learn to feel deserving and ready. It's gonna take some work and strategizing, (y'all may wanna chat with some of the people in group one) I am so fucking pumped for y'all. If y'all don't feel this energy yet, you will soon I promise. In the meantime, maybe make a happy-upbeat revenge/spite playlist. Cause above all, this is about being HAPPY.

Random ass vibes: Danger Days, snakes, cats, 666, y'all may wanna look up Hopepunk, zombies,

[fluffy-dixon]

Title: Rose🌹

Summary: Reader Suffers from anxiety and struggles with a bad attack. Daryl comforts them.

Pairings: Daryl x Reader

Era: Prison

Word count: Approx 940 I wrote this on my iPad.

Warnings: extreme anxiety attack? It’s supposed to be fluff but apparently it’s also angst.

This was my first ever one shot which I have re-written – I wrote this for Valentines Day.

--

You awoke to a crushing weight on your chest, panic surging as you struggled for breath. Another episode was upon you.

The cell’s darkness was absolute, save for a sliver of light that outlined the door’s draped sheet. It was just enough to search for your blankets—the ones Daryl had gathered for you, knowing they eased your distress. Though not essential, he’d always find a way to bring one back, hiding it for you to discover later.

Desperately, you searched the cot’s emptiness for any sign of the comforting fabric.

But there was nothing, and time was slipping away.

Tears streamed down your face, each one scalding like molten rock. Your throat constricted, a vice tightening and choking off your breath. You screamed silently within.

Air. You needed air.

Swinging your legs out, you hauled yourself into a sitting position, hands bracing on your knees. You adopted the tripod stance Daryl had shown you—tripoding. Gasping, you tried to steady your breathing, passing out was not an option.

Inhale through your nose, count to four, exhale. Again, inhale, count to three but relief eluded you; none of the learned techniques were working.

You needed air.

The tingling in your hands spread, a fiery sensation engulfing your arms, neck, and face.

Reaching for the oil lamp you kept for emergencies, you overextended, expelling the last of your breath as the lamp crashed to the floor, shattering.

The noise was sure to draw attention, giving the council yet another reason to cast you out. You were already a burden; this was the last thing you needed.

Defeated, you collapsed back onto the bed, the cell spinning around you. Your body convulsed, each tremor a jolt of electricity coursing through you.

Then, his voice.

“Y/N? Y’kay in there?!”

The Archer. Your archer. Best friend. Soul mate.

Sweat drenched you, blurring your vision, but his silhouette was unmistakable against the door’s curtain.

A groan of panic escaped you, but it was enough. In an instant, Daryl was there, his arms enveloping you in a protective embrace.

“C’mere, it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice a deep, gravelly comfort. You clung to the resonance of his words, a cry of relief breaking free as you felt the tension begin to dissipate.

“The blankets n’working?” You shook your head vigorously, pressing it into the crook of his neck, seeking refuge in his sturdy embrace. The scent of smoke and musk from his skin enveloped you, a comforting aroma you’ve always cherished.

“I can’t—find—” Your words faltered, but he hushed you gently. The dizzying whirl of the room gave way to a soothing rocking motion, cradling you towards calmness.

“Breathe w’me. You can do this, just as I taught ya.”

Inhale through your nose, count to four, then exhale.

A sob escaped your lips, your throat raw and aching with each laboured breath. Daryl’s rough yet tender hands glided over your arms, across your shoulders, and into your damp, dishevelled hair. His touch was a mirror to your disarray. As you looked up, Daryl brushed away the stray hairs from your face, tucking them behind your ears with a gentle precision, his gaze never leaving yours. His deep blue eyes held you captive, mesmerizing you, while the dim light cast shadows that accentuated the contours of his face.

More sobs wracked your body, and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to stem the flow of tears. The imaginary shackles around your chest seemed to dissolve, allowing you to breathe freely once more. His method was effective.

“You’re doin’it, girl, I’m proud of ya,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your clammy forehead, undeterred by the dampness. The kiss lingered, grounding you back to the present. When he pulled away, the absence of his warmth left your skin exposed to the chilly air, sealing the moisture from his lips onto your skin. This was a first—a tender, romantic gesture from him. The blush that crept over his cheeks and ears was mirrored by your own shaky, yet genuine smile. You yearned to voice your gratitude to the archer, but all you could manage was to nestle your head against his chest once more, closing your eyes and syncing your breaths with his. Your hand rested on his side, anchoring you as the room’s spin subsided.

Daryl’s free hand began to trace letters on your back. Instead of pain, the path of his fingertip left a trail of goosebumps, pulling you back to reality.

H-A-P-P-Y V-A-L-E-N-T-I-N-E-S.

He released one arm from around your waist and reached into his shirt pocket, pausing as he spoke.

“I carved something for you.” Daryl’s words were always sparse but laden with meaning. You were the only one privy to this side of him, a treasure you held dear. Each rare glimpse of his vulnerability was cherished, knowing the bravery it took for him to reveal himself.

Sitting up a bit more, you watched as Daryl retrieved a small object from his pocket, placing it in his palm and shifting it into the light for you to see. A gasp slipped through your lips, and you covered your mouth, a silent tear tracing your cheek at the sight of his gift.

An oak rose head, intricately carved.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said softly.

[bakerstreethound]

Etched in Stone

Relationship: Benedict Bridgerton x afab!reader

Warnings: 18+ spicy times (MINORS DNI), flirting, fingering, mutual pining, childhood friends to best friends to lovers, exposed ankles, fluff, softness, gentle/possessive Benedict, brief mention of alcohol and slightly tipsy momma Violet Bridgerton makes an appearance

Summary: Bored at yet another party hosted at Bridgerton House, Benedict seeks solace (and a strong drink) in the quiet of Anthony's office only to find you there, one of his oldest friends and buried feeling resurface.

All writings belong to me @bakerstreethound​ (Do NOT copy, repost, claim, or translate my works to other sites. I only publish here and on A03 under the same username) 

Word Count: 4.1k+

A/N: I wrote this fic for my lovely friend @frostandflamesfanfic a while back but wanted to take my time posting it because this was such a joy to work on and wanted to savor every moment. El was there for the beginning of this story so it's only fair I dedicate it to them as well. Thank you for trusting me to write one of your beloved fictionals. I drew a lot of inspiration from both book and show Benedict. Any era inaccuracies are fault of my own as well as where Benedict's room is located in the house. Graphic by @firefly-graphics . Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!!!

His piercing gaze hadn’t left you all evening, making your shoulders rise on the verge of danger, but the way his gaze bore into yours, and you couldn’t deny the shallow thrill or the pulsing in your heart. 

You hadn't wanted to come to the ball and despite your family’s protests and prodding you found yourself at the Bridgetron ball, dressed in the prior season’s attire, not caring about the gossip. It wasn’t like you had anything to prove to the ton or Lady Whistledown. A soft smile graced your lips at the thought and you round a corner, sipping on your lemonade, weary and the night was still young. You longed to be reading one of the adventures in your novels, whisking you away to another place and time, holding hands with your beloved. 

******

Benedict sighed for the third consecutive time in a row, making Eloise roll her eyes. “Brother, surely you can find some enjoyment from this party.” 

“When I tell you, I’ll let you know,” he grumbled, watching the couples swirl along the dance floor, his eldest brother Anthony pulling Kate close in his arms, a bright smile lighting her face. Benedict tried to hide the disdain, the ache resounding in his chest. He’d rather be locked away in his room, working on his art, perfecting the curve of a hand, the slope of a shoulder, silk between thighs. He shook his head, groaning before tossing back a glass of lemonade he’d picked up during yet another turn around the room. 

It did little to cool his blood. 

When he made his way to the study, he half expected to see Colin there sneaking a glass of Anthony’s secret stash, however, he didn’t expect you draped across a chair, nose buried in a book, legs curled over the arms of the chair, exposing your ankles. The smirk crawled along his lips for a fraction, enraptured by your stone-cold expression and you flipped another page, not uttering a sound.  He poured himself a drink, trying not to chuckle, and watched you intently. 

“Do you intend to stare at me all evening, Mister Bridgerton? Or are you going to ask me to pull myself together to dance in front of the entirety of the ton?” 

The drink almost lodges itself in his throat as he choked it down, the bewildered expression on his face the cause of your pursed lips. For the love, you were laughing at him! 

“Cat got your tongue, Benedict?” 

Oh, it was more than the cat that got his tongue, he wanted to swallow yours, combat your wit, fill himself with your words and beauty tenfold. 

Good gracious, what had become him? 

Here you were and he’d been watching you like a hawk all evening barely making a move and your ankles were there, tempting him, tricking him, enticing him. How ready he was to fall, the hold you had on him was indescribable. He’d been this way since he first laid eyes on you all those months ago. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on you. But how he wanted to fall with you, drag you along the dance floor show you off for the world to see. No, he would do no such thing. 

He would enshrine you in a painting, etch you into stone, a carving upon his heart. 

Warmth flooded your body as you continued watching Benedict pace around the room and you doubted he realized he had done so. A bedraggled state was becoming of him, accentuated by his ruffled hair as he muttered under his breath, stopping to refill his glass with something stronger than lemonade. 

You smirk, perusing the pages of your novel, which sparked an idea. 

“Benedict?” 

Your voice, oh your voice was a guiding light, his anchor, steadying him through the whirlwind of a storm conjuring in his head. 

“Yes?” His gaze met yours, and he stopped pacing standing before you and giving you a good look at his chest, the rise and fall of his breaths, reminding you to steady yours. 

You crane your neck up, looking him in the eye. “Read to me.” It’s a simple request, but you hide the quivering of your lip. He leaned in closer, engulfing you in his scent, causing you to bite your cheek to keep from groaning. It was heady and intoxicating and it was all him. 

“What?” 

Focus, you ninny! You cursed softly to yourself gathering your thoughts as you clung to your novel. 

“I asked if you would read to me. Literature is the art of words is it not?” You shifted in your seat, your feet now resting flat on the floor as any respectable proper person would have done from the start. You let out a soft groan when the balls of your feet touch the floor, and he leaned down further, his index finger barely stroking along your jawline. Your ankles were definitely covered now, but you suspected his reaction didn’t stem from that. 

He cocked his head. “You would prefer me to read romance to you rather than show you firsthand?” 

“Why ever would I need to experience such things firsthand? I have everything I need here.” Your stomach fluttered, almost dropping when he kneeled before you, his fingers brushing along your sides before grasping your thighs and squeezing gently. 

“You do have one thing right for this evening. We have everything we need right here.” Another squeeze of your thigh sent your mind reeling. 

“Does one intend to enact upon such desires, Mister Bridgerton? Or does one who reads such novels suppress them?” 

His hands traveled further up your thighs a silent challenge, one you were not backing down from despite the pounding of your heart. You were here with Benedict Bridgerton alone in Anthony’s study, someone you had known for years, a constant fixture throughout your youth, the source of countless daydreams and now, rather passion-induced dreams. 

“Do you know how long I’ve imagined this?” He growled low in his chest and you forget to breathe. None of the books you read prepared you for reality, not that you would confess. Benedict didn’t need his ego poked any longer, the more he knew he could unravel you slowly. 

You squirmed against him, tugging his vest. “I’ve wanted you for years but denied myself. I didn’t - couldn’t- imagine you felt the same,” your voice came out as a whisper, a plea for him to see you and he did. Benedict saw you and gazed at you with hope and adoration. 

He growled low in your ear, sliding his hands around your waist, rising to his feet pulling you against him, the racing of his beating heart restarting yours. He was your desire, your soul ached for him, knowing he was the only one you could ever hope to give yourself to. 

No one else in the world was meant for you or could compare to him. 

His heart beating in tandem with yours, clinging to each other, a lifeline. It felt like a lifetime before clarity finally made its way into the world, making its intentions known between you. It was more than the slow-burning passion and affection blossoming between each other.

His lips brushing along yours sent your heart soaring, connecting your souls and you welcomed him, and you were home, he pulled you flush up against him, groaning softly, digging his hands into your waist. He couldn’t breathe, utterly weightless, intoxicated by your scent, everything. He was high on you, your touch, oh how lovely it felt your fingers digging into his back, melting against him, needing him as much as he did you. 

This was love. It was Benedict in a new form, one you awoke, taking him back home, a home he’d always known for you were there through it all. He wanted to give you everything you desired, everything you deserved. And you would receive the best in return. But not in his brother’s study on his favorite reading chair. 

“Anthony will kill us if we do anything here,” He pulled away in a moment of clarity, holding you close, your legs trembled, overcome with your passions. You ached for him dearly, more than you knew possible. 

“I’ve done worse, I assure you,” you snicked, gathering your bearings, brushing off your outfit, ruffling out the wrinkles as if that cleared off any evidence of Benedict having his hands over you wasn’t obvious. “I’ve defiled my mind with notions of unrealistic nonsense.”

He raised a brow, looking unamused, a flicker of amusement flashing before boisterous laughter, likely caused by Lady Featherington passing by the door and you inhaled sharply, the anticipation ticking by each moment. As soon as it came it went, hopefully, spurred on in good spirits. Lady Featherington surely didn’t have half the mind to break into Anthony’s study.

Benedict cracked open the door beckoning you over, taking your arm by the elbow, “Up the stairs, second door on the left. I’ll knock three times so you know it’s me.” 

You nodded, taking in his appearance, his disheveled hair, mused vest, and undershirt beneath. You would be lying to yourself if you denied the excitement of what lies beneath but the other side of you was equally terrified. 

******

Dashing up the stairs was easier said than done, the events of the evening causing your head to spin in a mixture of wonder, anxiety, and borderline delirium. You were sure you were dreaming but the stairs beneath your feet are solid, beckoning you up to the elegant quarters where the Bridgertons slept. You glided your hand along the banister admiring the railing, willing yourself not to fall, raucous laughter closing in, dangerously close by from the sound fluttering through the halls.

Perhaps Lady Featherington sought to uncover your dalliance after all. That would be the talk of the ton, however, you knew the Bridgertons could afford some slander from Lady Whistledown, but fortunately, all she commented on was the growing size of the family, the lovely grandchildren Vicountess Bridgerton had the pleasure of seeing when Daphne and Simon returned to town. 

You silently cursed your attire and its restricted movement when you made it to the landing, stopping for the briefest moment to catch your breath. You didn't bother asking if his younger siblings were asleep, but he didn’t seem to care at that moment, the way his eyes glanced along your body, and the smile along his lips was far too distracting anyway. 

Your minds were busy with other thoughts, the taste of his lips still freshly imprinted into your memory. You did everything as he instructed, the door to his room groaning on its hinges making your heart race, but you peeked out the door to be certain.

No maids padded down the corridor, the only sign of life was the music and laughter intermingling for what you could imagine would be all hours of the night. The Bridgertons could throw a grand party, no doubt about it. 

Benedict's quarters greeted you with the scent of him, masculine and comforting. It felt like home, the furniture dark and handsome, the shelves lined with countless books, figurines along his desk not to mention his infamous sketchbook lying on his desk in the corner by the fireplace. Charred pieces of crumbled paper jutted out from the embers. 

Curiously, you reached out for it turning to a page. It didn't take you long to figure out the odd figures as you pieced each frame together, a culmination of finished pieces, sketches, and half-started attempts, frustrated pen strokes deft in their quest to uncover the beauty ready to bloom. 

Hands. Intertwined, graceful elegant, smooth lines, hardened ridges, callouses palms, delicately resting ones. Upon further inspection, you noticed the tried and failed attempts at an all too familiar pair of hands. It was odd to look at how he depicted yours, strong, yet graceful, adept at anything you put your mind to between needlework, horseback riding, the leather a fine feel in your hands.

You had to admit some were quite good while some lacked depth and luster. Practice made it worth it in the end, some of the figures he drew resembled a striking resemblance to his family, almost as if he were imitating the artist of the figurines, which when you looked longer were small likenesses of his mother, father, and siblings. The sight warmed your heart. 

"Benedict! You're missing the partyyy!" A shrill giggle outside the hall pulled you from your exploration, your heart racing in tandem. You hoped and prayed it wasn’t Gregory and Hyacinth. From your previous encounters, you knew they were sharp, keen-eyed, and inquisitive about a multitude of subjects on top of their general mischievousness. Plus, you weren’t in the mood to ask any questions, but where the hell was Benedict?

Despite yourself you began pacing, desperately trying to avoid glancing at the bed draped in fine sheets, a fine rich deep velvety blue coverlet gracing it giving the piece a regal appearance. You wanted nothing more than to lose yourself between the downy softness of it all and fall into blissful dreams, and yet, there are other pressing matters to attend to. 

The giggling resumed and you sighed, thinking better of yourself, not wanting this to be a joke.

You found yourself opening the door, greeted with the voice of none other than Violet Bridgerton whispering, on the verge of a quiet yell to her second song, grasping onto his elbow at the lower landing of the stairs. “Benedict! Good heavens, you’re to retire so earlyyyy???” 

He rolled his eyes half in amusement and exasperation. “Mother, I have matters to attend to, plus the other mothers merely want to hunt me for sport and pair them with their retched daughters.” 

His eyes flashed, glancing up, his gaze boring into yours, flooding your body with warmth. He quirked a brow, challenging you while his mother rambled drunkenly along, still grasping his elbow while he shifted his weight on his feet. 

Shut the door, he mouthed to you, causing your lips to quirk in the barest hint of a smile. 

“Quite right, you have a fair point. But there was that one lovely person you danced with twice back in the orangery perhaps…” 

At that exact moment, you opened the door further to grant yourself a better view of Benedict’s struggle and also partly in retaliation to his protests, only for the grand door to let out a massive agonizing wail. The giggle left you of your own volition at Benedict’s bewildered expression rendering you completely helpless as Violet looked up at you, the same Bridgerton eyes, older, wiser and so kind smiled at you, albeit borderline tipsy. 

“I see now I see. That’s the pressing matter you have to attend to. Don’t mess it up dear boy,” she slewed, chuckling to herself, before whispering in his ear, his face flushing in response. Violet released his arm, winking up at you before traipsing down the stairs, leaving a flustered Benedict behind to collect his thoughts before he came back to his senses, scurrying up the stairs while you slipped back into his room, posting yourself right in front of the door, keeping it cracked just so. When he arrived you only catch a glimpse of his eyes flashing before the door sealed you completely from his sight. 

Silence greeted you and you feared you might have ignited his wrath, alas you merely wanted to tease him.

The seconds tick by then three knocks follow. 

Were you going to answer him? Oh, he was going to make you pay for this with many kisses. He huffed before composing himself. 

You still didn’t answer. 

“Don’t play with me, dear unless you wish for them all to hear us when we should be dancing.” When he knocked for the second time, you decided to open the door, the scowl imprinted on his face illuminating a side of him you desperately wanted to see. You did this to him. Without hesitation, he locked the door behind him and immediately pressed you against the wall, a scowl forming along his lips. 

“You wouldn’t dare flash me before the eligible men of the ton tonight if you had to.” You whispered, brushing a stray hair off his forehead. “I belong to you, Benedict. Even if I am an old maid.” Your heart thundered in your chest. You were home, you belonged to no one else, nowhere else but here in Benedict's loving arms. 

“I am yours, oh love I’m yours.” His voice cracked, overcome with realization and the emotion of it all, his scowl replaced by pursed lips, wandering hands, lavishing your body in the simplest yet heat-induced touches and you wanted - craved - more. More of him. Benedict. Your Benedict. 

“Benedict, Benedict…Benedict,” Your was all you can muster with the meeting of his lips upon yours, feeling the depths of him, pulling to you crashing over you like a tidal wave. You were a sailor lost at sea who made it to the safety of the harbor and oh, it was blissful beyond anything beyond your wildest dreams. 

“Say it again,” he pleaded, each kiss awakening desires long suppressed, ones you hadn't acknowledged since they only came about throughout the course of your friendship with Benedict. Only he could put you under his unique spell, craving his lips, the brush of his hand against yours and here you are getting more than you dreamed. 

“Benedict,” You sighed blissfully as he kissed you once more, kisses languidly savoring the feel of you as he guided you up onto the bed, the coverlet as luxurious as you surmised. You’ve not come close to feeling something so heavenly as this and Benedict, oh, he was more than you ever dreamed. The novels you’d read didn’t hold a flame to each sensation buzzing through your body, the magnetizing gaze of his upon yours, already undressing you with his eyes. You wanted to take your time, alas it was getting harder to resist. Benedict was one thing if not impossible, but he was yours, irrevocably so.

A fire in the fireplace crackled to life, startling you for a moment, while Benedict caressed your jaw, memorizing every inch, and you selfishly wonder if he'll draw your portrait one day, trying to capture the first moment he had you to himself in his chambers. He moves his exploration from your jaw to your shoulder, then your hands, leaving kisses where he can, murmuring sweet nothings, soft praises that have your knees weak and you wanting him all the more.

“Your hands are lovely, nothing can compare to me holding them,” he whispered, caressing them softly, continuing to place kisses of adoration along them while you gazed at his soft loving eyes. “I cannot capture their beauty, their essence onto the page. I’ve tried and failed for months.” 

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’ve done a fine job, Benedict. Your art is beautiful, never lose that passion inside you, it’s ethereal strong, spellbinding, and magnetic.” 

“As are you. You’re everywhere in my waking hour, in my dreams and sleepless nights. You’re my muse. You inspire me.” His voice wavered, a tear sliding down his cheek. Every bit of him belonged to you, there was no question, no doubt about it. 

Without another word, you tug on his vest, a beautiful shade of the signature Bridgerton blue, his shirt embellished with small bees. Everything looked wonderful when it was on him, but you wanted more, to lose yourself to him countless times throughout the night. 

“You’re pretty much the only reason I get out of bed most mornings,” You swallowed as he turned to face you, his hands cupping your face. 

“My love, oh my love,” he kisses you softly, in equal parts awe and reverence intertwined, making you forget where you are, the time and place. It’s you and him safe in each other’s embrace. His kisses trailed from your hands up to your neck, nipping softly, eliciting soft groans from you and you returned them in kind, his fingers stroking along your back, pulling you closer in his embrace. 

You brushed away another tear from his cheek, one falling from your eye as well and he wiped it away, kissing you gently before wrapping around behind you, desperation, adoration, awe, and passion guiding him. His lips connected with your neck, and you sighed in satisfaction, his hands wandering down your torso, lighting you up on the inside and you groan leaning back into him, leaving your mind to wander while you savored his touches. 

“Good, you’re not thinking, that’s right. Much better see?” His hand wandered lower, down stroking you just so, warmth blooming through your body. He relished your moans, biting into your neck as he watched the effect he has on you, wishing he could have done this to you earlier all the wasted time you have to make up for now. 

You urged him on through desperate kisses as you pull clothes from your bodies, every inch of him visible to you, eagerness and passion alike driving you both. 

“Keep going, please.” The last of your clothing fell to the floor and he pulled you back onto the bed while assuring him you have all the time in the world. “I want you, Benedict, always have, always will.”

He needed nothing more but your constant assurance, his fingers dipping into you, gliding along your body making you fall into his ministrations, your breathing ragged as you fell into bliss, his fingers replaced with his tongue sending you soaring into another place another time and it felt so irrevocably right, your fingers digging into his mass of curls encouraging him along, more than eager to assist your release. And when you were spent, his lips met yours hunger and desire battling, intertwined as you tasted yourself on his lips. You wanted more, you wanted all of him, however, in the midst of it all you found yourself asking a question as you kissed him once more, this time slower, unrushed. 

"What did your mother say to have you flustered as you are?" You batted your eyes, casting an impish smile, a look you know he couldn't resist. He hummed, his free hand stroking your side, his voice low in your ear. "My dearest mother told me to treat you well and that we best enjoy ourselves a little bit before our union. Told us to enjoy ourselves."

“Her intuition is uncanny, I never want to be on her bad side.” You huffed as Benedict groaned, pulling you in for yet another kiss, trailing down your body, making you squirm, not listening in the slightest, for he was far too distracted, focused on you before him. He would never tire of the sight, thanking his lucky stars. 

Finally, after years of yearning and pining when you’re joined, it’s a bliss, unlike anything you’ve known. You stifled a moan at the feeling, Benedict brushing a stray hair from your eyes, trapping you against him. “Love, I want to hear you, alright? Can you do that for me?” Your eyes widened at the request but when he moves against you, pleasure filling every fiber of your body you cry his name to the heavens.

Oh, how he loved it the soft whimpers, you begging for more and your name sounding just as sweet and sinful falling from his parted lips, swollen from your nipping and kissing. You want the moment to last for oblivion yet when you both lose yourself to your bliss, delirium hits and you pulled him closer in your arms, his face resting in the crook of your neck, the bed and sheets in disarray. You smirked to yourself more than pleased with the outcome. 

He continued to kiss your neck, nuzzling more, your hands stroking his curls. “I love you, Benedict.” 

“I love you more, my love.”

“I’ll love you forever.” 

“How about eternity?” He intertwines your hand with his own, kissing your ring finger. “Will you marry me?” 

 Your heart thrummed erratically but warmed at his loving gaze full of joy, hope, and wonder. It was a face you wanted to wake up with a kiss and love for all your days. 

“Yes, Benedict, a thousand times yes.” 

The smile that shot across his face kickstarted your heart and he kissed you for the thousandth time of the evening, not that you were complaining. For you have an eternity to kiss, love, and be loved by him. You settled against his chest, his embrace warm and reassuring, his hands settling on your belly soft and warm, while you drift off to sleep of bliss thinking only of Benedict and what the future holds.

******