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papathe5th · 3 months ago

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IN THE SHADOW OF THE NAZARENE, I PUT MY LOVE IN YOU

Pairing: Papa V Perpetua x f!Reader

Rating: 18+

Warning(s): power imbalance, D/s undertones, degradation, claw play, spitting, scarring

I started writing this before the release of Chapter 20. The following 4700 words have a sprinkling of my own head canon concerning V's childhood, and, obviously, heavily feature my own dreams of what he'd be like as a lover.

After weeks of retouching his make-up backstage, tonight you get to see Papa V Perpetua’s face for the very first time.

Before Ghost hit the road for the Skeletour, Frater Imperator assigned you to be the make-up artist and hair stylist of the leading man, the newly anointed Papa V Perpetua who had yet to let anyone see him without the stage make-up, or one of several masks, before tonight. He had been applying it all by himself, never allowing you to do anything more than fix the face paint and restyle his hair between sets and costume changes.

Tonight is the first time he requests your services after a ritual has already ended. It was the first night he got to sleep in a real bed instead of the bunks in the tour bus. It is also the first night you were alone with him between four walls.

“What do they put in these products?” He greets you, voice raspy from not just one, but two encores.

His mask is off, but the paint is smeared all over his face in a gray gradient. Between the thick strokes of the make-up removing cotton pads, you spot his irritated, blushing, bare skin. The blush spreads to his ears, down his neck and past his collar bone where you see the sliver of pale skin uncovered by his unbuttoned purple shirt.

It feels forbidden to glance at him in this state, but he commands you to raise your head and look at him.

“You see this? My face is burning off!��

“May I speak freely, Your Unholiness?” You finally find your voice.

“You may,” his voice cracks, and it tugs at your heartstrings like an out of tune guitar riff.

“You must be exhausted after the ritual, so you must’ve forgotten the moisturising gel I packed in your make-up kit,” you cover your presumptuous mouth, your cheeks burning as brightly as the Papa’s appears to be. You bow your head, staring at the carpet again. “Forgive me, Papa.”

He sighs, drained and - dare you think it? - defeated. “I did forget about the fucking gel.”

You hear the sound of glass knocking against glass. He must be pouring himself a drink; you never knew he drank, and you bite your tongue instead of advising him against putting ice in his whiskey. The Clergy would hate for him to ruin his voice. And you’d hate not having to hear him speak, even if it is to give you a verbal lashing.

The lashing never came. Now, relaxing your shoulders and inhaling a breath, you wait to be dismissed for the rest of the night and the morning he’ll most likely be sleeping through. Instead, you hear Papa’s irritation as he ransacks the make-up bag. “What does it even look like?”

He gives up his search. Pouring another glass, he invited you to sit. However, he didn’t mean the armchair across from him and on the other side of the coffee table filled with beauty products and hard liquor. “Come on,” he says, not raising his voice, but rather his entire body, then resting it on a pillow that was tossed on the feet of the chair. “Let’s get this shit off my face.

“Forgive me,” you clear your voice, remembering you had one. When you remember you also have a pair of legs, you walk to the armchair that Papa freed, and warmed, for you.

“No more apologies,” he sighs again and you feel his breath blowing between your weakened knees. He places the make-up kit on your thighs and it covers up the trembling.

You have no choice but to look at him, the damage he had done to his face with the paint removal solution, the strokes of gray and his two-coloured eyes. There was a third color you found inside both of them: blood-shot red.

You warn him the cream is aloe vera and that it will feel like ice on his burning skin.

“Sounds like the Ninth Circle.” He closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and lets his lips twitch into a smirk.

Papa V Perpetua is bare faced and open hearted at your feet and you don’t know what to do with all this power. Having the public-facing image of the Clergy in your care is too much responsibility, but it was also your destiny. You can’t have doubt. Not now.

Your hands are shaking as you apply the ale, not making direct contact with his skin, but still feeling his stubble through the gen-filled cotton pad. His is pale under all that pink blush and red rash, and you notice healed, white, raised scars around his cheek bones and on his forehead. There must've been a real fire that actually burned his skin a lifetime ago. Your heart breaks for him, but you have to put yourself together again in silence.

Papa sighs once more and it’s a relief. “Thank Satan.” He opens his eyes and looks up at you with heavy lids, licking his lips. “And my mouth?”

The paint is all but gone from his lips, most of it on the whiskey glass he is still holding. Still, you wet them with the gel and made them shimmering, swollen and kissable.

No. You mustn’t think of him as you would a mortal man. He stands above you and your kind. The Ministry saved you from the cruelty of God and gave you a home in the new world Satan will burn to ashes and build anew with his infernal devices. And He has given you His Son to serve.

“Thank you,” he sighs, this time over your fidgeting fingers. You are thankful he closed his eyes again and blindly took a swing out of his glass. “It’s all over my mouth, isn’t it?” He smacks his lips and allows another smirk to cross them.

The paint he smeared on the glass was stamped back onto his mouth. It was nothing more than a spot of black, but you laughed like he was wearing a clown’s smile.

It takes him opening his eyes wide like he is awaking from a deep slumber for you to cover your face in shame. Again. You are reminded that you are seeing his face. And he looks as if he realized it for the first time tonight.

“Forgive m—”

“For Satan’s sake,” he slammed the glass back onto the coffee table. “I’ve already forgiven you”

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness, Your Unholiness,” you bow your head, but you are at eye level with him now. You can’t hide from Papa V Perpetua.

“You speak so lowly of yourself,” he whispers, and you feel the warmth radiating from his mouth into the crown of your hair like a kiss. “My brother speaks highly of you. He said you were a true believer, a natural-born follower, and a pretty face I can look at while in the make-up chair.”

You snap your eyes open in shock. This is the longest he’s ever spoken to you, the longest you’ve shared the same space, and you feel like this might be the last time. Yet, here you both are, sharing a single breath.

“I didn’t want a distraction, no matter how pretty. He said that I’ll be thanking him after the fifth or sixth night spent alone with nothing but the echoes of my adoring followers to keep me company. As I look at you, they’re still ringing in my ears, vibrating in my veins. I’ve never suffered this…affliction. My heart…it’s about to burst.”

You want to relieve him of this torture, to lift the burden from his shoulders. After all, Frater Imperator entrusted you to get him back into shape in every meaning of the word.

“It’s Copia who should be seeking my forgiveness. You are a distraction,” he searches your eyes and you have nothing more to hide from him. One eye chilled you and the other melted you.

“Is this my punishment?” You hear yourself ask, but you aren’t sure what answer you are expecting. “Am I being sent back to Frater Imperator?”

“And admit defeat?” His Unholiness sounds petulant, like a child. You hear the depth of a man in the voice, and the shallowness of a little boy. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You are almost out of the breath he shared with you before he blew more air out his nose over your forehead. He is kneeling before you, yet you felt the tilt in the balance of power. It was once again in its rightful position: Papa V Perpetua’s.

“You want punishment?” He raises to his feet so fast, your entire body jumps back into the armchair. The bag in your lap falling and your knees hitting your chest. “I’ll give you your punishment!”

Your eyes are wide as you follow him around the room, He slams the glass back down next to you, on the coffee table before rushing to the suitcase. He searches through it, turning it upside down when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. “Where the fuck did I put them?”

“On the bed,” you speak, your voice small. He turns around in one quick twirl and his curls follow, a few fall on his still sticky forehead and you’ve never seen anything more radiant. You had only touched his hair with a brush, an extension of your fingers.

“I knew it,” he snaps you out of your reverie. “I knew you wanted me to get my claws on you!” When he moves again, it’s to leap atop the bed and grab the gloves.

You watch him put his claws on, freezing and melting all at once. It takes him longer than usual, or maybe your perception of time is distorted by the anticipation. Your sense of space is just as warped, feeling like you want to bury yourself in the armchair and jump in bed next to him at the same time. Unable to decide for yourself, you await his command which couldn’t come any sooner.

“Come here, carrisima,” he pants, tired from the struggle of slipping the gloves back on, the rituals, the road, and all the alcohol he drank to make him even more of a somnambulist. “Come get your punishment!”

With him making the decision for you, your feet meet the floor, and you leap onto the mattress. Because he is sitting up on his knees, you lay yourself under him, on your back. He wasn’t hiding from you anymore and you couldn’t hide from him;

“You do have a pretty face,” Papa licks his lips that are still shining from the gel. “Copia must’ve been staring at it for years.” He rams the tips of his claws through the tassels on his forehead, but to no avail. The curls bounce back, forcing him to lower his face to get a better look at yours;

“How many years have you been with the Clergy? Six? That’s more than I have.” His breath is warm and you taste whiskey in the air. And, once again, you melt and freeze up as he traces the lengh your jaw with a single claw.

“I wish I were the one who delivered you from God, rescued you from the monastery. I had to save myself from the Church, did you know that? The Ministry didn’t even know I existed before Satan guided me to their doorstep like a Morning Star.”

His voice overpowers your thoughts and his touch governs your every nerve.

“I know all about divine punishment. And I know you do, too,” The slow stroke of his claw finally reaches your chin. “Open up,” he orders, his breath kissing your parted lips;

At last, you let your mouth fall open and release a relieved sigh. It was freeing, leaving your fate in his hands. And his claws.

“Tongue out.” You roll it like a red carpet and welcome the tip of the index as he dips in the pool of drool. He reaches the back of your mouth and you involuntarily gag. “Suck,” he looks deep into your eyes, water now filling them like wells. You scrunch them shut and suck it in deeper, fighting the feeling of your stomach leaping into your throat.

Papa pulls out, and you see a smile through the tears; “It’s true then? You’re a natural-born submissive?”

Because you can’t speak through the coughs, you nod. You probably don’t look as pretty now, all red and puffy, but both of his eyes appear to shine down on you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“And you’re my brother’s offering to me.” He blows air through his nose, apparently in amusement. “He knows me better than I thought. Which is not at all.” He wraps his own lips around the claw to taste you. “Sweet. Like I knew you’d be.”

You stop coughing, but you also stop breathing. Seeing that your throat is cleared now, he returns his claws to your lips and you open it without a single word from him. And he slides two of them on your tongue.

“You’re a fast learner,” Papa purses his lips, his red, bare face scrunched in concentration as he makes you choke again.

You moan louder than you choke this time and have the privilege of seeing Papa V Perpetua swallow a big lump that makes his Adam’s apple bob. You are not the only one whose mouth is watering. And when he pulls out again, you mourn the feeling of being filled.

“Does it hurt as good as you wanted it to?” He speaks, and his breath is hot and humid.

“Yes, Papa,” you struggle to clear your throat. “T-thank you, Papa.” You squeeze your thighs together and keep your hands on either side of them. Your mouth is not the only one being flooded.

“Oh, but we’re not done here,” Papa licks you off of his talons, tonguing them to the tip. With the other, dry pair, he snatches the side of your face and sinks the sharp ends of them into your burning cheeks. “Open.”

He watches intently as you open your mouth even wider than before. His own mouth closes in on yours, but they don’t make contact. He spits into the back of your throat instead. “Swallow.”

This time, your moan is not restricted and it flies freely out of you. NO longer could you control it, like you could no longer hold your hands at your sides. So you slip your fingers between your thighs.

“No,” he snarls, scratching your cheek as he moves his hand towards yours. He grabs your wrists and wrangles them away from your crotch and above your head. “Your pain is mine. And so is your pleasure.”

“Yes, Papa,” you swallow, tasting him like a load of lead that splashes in your aching stomach. Or, maybe, it’s your heart that aches so. And you pray that the feeling will not subside.

The second “no,” is softer and feels as cooling as aloe vera on your now stinging cheek. “Your pretty face.” He strokes the sensitive skin with the pads of the glove. “You’ll need to moisturise that.” His other hand squeezes your wrists when he feels you flexing underneath him.

You can hardly hear him from your heart beating in your eardrums, but you guess he groans out “Sit still.” Releasing your cheek, he rakes his claws down your shirt until it catches and rips. And that sound you do hear. Loud and clear.

When he traces the talons up your torso and between your breasts, it tickles and his smirk returns as you twitch under his touch. You focus on his face, drinking it in like he emptied that whiskey bottle. Without the make-up and mask, he looks like he knows all about punishment. The healed scars are not from shaving blades.

You’re snapped back into the present by him pulling on the bra and pushing it up to your neck. You follow his movement with your back, arching it and lifting your chest.

He inhales deeply like he’s trying to inhale the sweat forming on your chest. “What did I say about sitting still?” He exhales all over your hot, wet skin and chills you. And, before you could beg him from forgiveness again, he traps your torso between his thighs as he straddles it.

He knocks the wind out of you, putting more power into the fist around your wrists and more punishment into the hold he now has on your face. After basking in your watery eyes and wet lips for a few more breaths, Papa releases your hands and combs the hair out of your face with his claws.

Now, with a tenderness only you have shown him tonight, he cups your face in both hands and speaks as softly as his sore throat allows: “Won’t you unzip me, carissima? I’m…incapacitated at the moment.” As if to reinforce the idea, he taps the thumb talons against your cheekbones.

“Oh, yes, Papa,” You nod, an excited gesture that was constrained by the hands cupping your face. Your own hands are sweating, shaking as they unfasten the belt, unbutton and then pull down the zipper that is straining over his bulge.

He watches you, chin resting against his chest, hair a halo around his face. And you look up at him in all his bare-faced glory.

His cock is hot and heavy as it weighs between your breasts. You hold your breath as you behold it, how its head shines and its veins swell and it seems to you both soft and hard.

And he must have trouble breathing even without the weight of an erection on his chest, because he pops a few buttons as he pulls his shirt open. “You’ll take it all, won’t you?”

You open your mouth, wider than the last two times he ordered it of you. He looks big from where you are and you will at the very least try to take all of him inside.

He cocks his head to the side, admiring you in all your sweet submissiveness. His hands move to the back of your head and he raises it so your soft tongue meets his hardness.

“Take a deep breath,” he says between his gritted teeth, holding himself back for one more agonising moment. After you inhale, he slides down on your tongue like his clawed fingers have done before.

You are gagging as soon as he meets the back of your throat, but that doesn’t slow him down. It urges him on instead. So you focus on the claws combing through your hair, the sweet sting of the scratches on your face as your tears roll over them. And you let the world disappear until all you can hear is Papa V Perpetua moaning above you.

There is power even in this lowly position. You’ve given him release from the pain with your expertise and now, even without the proper experience, you are giving him pleasure. With a surge of confidence that could be confused with madness, you make up for your gag reflex by wrapping your hands around the rest of him.

Papa gasps, surprised to feel your smooth hands around him. He stops to straighten his back and hold himself still for long enough to pull a hand out of your hair and pluck out one of yours. Bringing your hand up to his mouth, he kisses the back of it first before turning it over and spitting in the palm.

You make a surprised sound that sends shock waves through him and he can’t control his hips as they roll and the head reaches the back of your throat again.

“Do it again!” He commands you, but it sounds more like a prayer. Whatever it is, you listen and you fasten your fingers around his hardness again and make another sweet sound to surround the rest of him. “That’s it! That’s a good girl!”

His spit on your fingers makes the glide much smoother and you welcome him in as he slides in and out of your mouth with more of your moans.

“Are you ready for me? Are you ready to take it all? Like a good girl?”

It’s urgent and his voice cracks, making your heart swell instead of breaking this time around. So you make your best attempt at sucking him even deeper than your body allows. And your effort pays off when he keels over you for the last time.

If you taste sweet to him, he tastes salty to you. His flavour is most like your own tear which you haven’t stopped leaking since you took him inside your mouth and down your throat. And salty might just become your favorite flavour after tonight.

As he pulls out, you are free to inhale again and taste him on your full pallet, not just the back of it. And your Papa sounds about as winded as you do as he pants above you, one hand next to your head, holding him up, and another around yours. He is guiding it along his girth as he spills the last of his seed on your face.

“Carissima,” he exhales, and you allow yourself to do the same. “Carrisima mea,” he smirks again, but you can’t see it through the tears or the shadows on his face. All you know is that he glides his glove across your face and snowballs the semen into your mouth so that you can take all of him inside.

Papa lifts himself off your chest and falls on his back next to you. Your head is still spinning and your saliva is still salty as you inhale deeply, free of the punishing pressure he put on you. You miss it already.

You didn’t hear him zip up his fly, but you do see his cheeks are the reddest you’ve ever seen all night. Or ever, for that matter. His lips are also swollen, like blood is rushing to them.

You’re so captivated by him, you don’t catch the dark shadow looking over you before it falls on your face and strokes your scratched cheek. “You took your punishment well,” he moves his lips. “But how well can you handle pleasure?” He stretches them into a smile. “Take them off.”

Seeing as you were still floating, still high from the lack of oxygen and his intoxicating words of praise, he gets back on his knees and pushes your torn shirt and bra over your head before pulling them off of your arms. You are slow to respond, but you do make it to your bottoms and wriggle out of them under his scrutiny.

Perpetua sniffs the air and closes his eyes. Everything else seems to disappear and all that he now knows is that you’re ready for the pleasures he threatened you with. When he opens his eyes again, both are blown out and black as they are zoomed in on what you are trying to hide from him between your thighs.

“Show me,” he demands, his voice deep like it has sunk into his chest. You think you hear a rumbling there as you slowly separate your legs. And, since you are not moving fast enough for him, he sinks his claws into the soft flesh of your inner thigh and spreads them on either side of his hips. “No,” he says, still staring at your wet, swollen lips. He must’ve felt your fingers twitching, itching to slide inside all that slickness. “This is all mine.”

With the leather pads of his thumbs, he spreads your lips apart, and fills the gap he made with his own wet, warm spit.

You throw your head back, and your back lifts off of the sheets as you struggle against his strong hold. Your mind has no hold on your body anymore. It’s all his now.

“Pleasure can be more punishing than pain,” he says and it sounds like a smile. “But you want to be punished, don’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question, but you answer it with a nod and your hands join in prayer between your breasts.

He throws his head back and his hair out of his face as he straightens his back and stands back on his hind legs. He brings you with him, lifting your ass on his folded legs and fastening yours around his waist. When you squeak in surprise to have your mound meet the silver buckle of his belt, he sinks his claws into your hips to keep you from moving a muscle.

“No hands, no claws, no cock.” Papa rolls his hips and the filigree rubs against you. “This is your punishment.”

He watches your wanton movements, your hips struggling against his sharp grip and your legs squeezing his waist. He listens to you recite his title like a pslam, peppering the sweetest of sounds in-between syllables. The friction sets a fire between the cool silver and your wet lips. And inside your belly.

“Come,” he commands. “Come for me,” he repeats himself with the same urgency your body is moving while you're climbing the high. But you don’t stop sorring until Papa takes pity on you and spits on the bud that’s been burning for a warm touch.

Your orgasm is loud, your pleasure now a public offering because you can’t even pretend the other people on this hotel floor didn’t hear you call for your Papa’s cock. And you keep your hands to yourself through it all, for the entire trip you take back to earth and the journey back to the sheets beneath you. The pleasure was blinding, deafening and even paralyzing. You barely feel the claws that are carving into the patch of skin above your pelvis.

“Your pain, your pleasure,” he looks at his work with pride, licking the little blood that got on his claws. “Your everything,” he looks at you, eyes half-lidded and face half-obscured by shade. “You’re mine.”

You’re so focused on the movements of his mouth that you don’t hear the knocking on the door. But he does. So you watch him slide off the bed and stumble towards his suitcase. He removes his gloves by pulling on the sharp claws with his teeth and then gets his hands on the silver mask. On his way to the door, he slips it onto the upper part of his face. And, as if casting a glamour, he is once again the Clergy’s public image.

With him out of sight and out of your hearing range, you fight the tears of relief and the ringing in your ear to lift yourself into a sitting position. And, since your abdomen is in range, you blink the tears away to see the attempt at a signature Papa had made on the soft flesh of your abdomen, just above your pubic area: V

When he returns at the edge of the bed he is holding up the sign he forgot to hang on the door. Blinking, you read the words DO NOT DISTURB on it.

“Was I that loud?” You try moving to the edge of the bed, but he insists on giving you a hand.

Holding onto both of your hands. “You were as loud as I allowed, so don’t let me hear you apologize.” His voice is raspy and it brings you back to the moment you entered the room and he was dehydrated.

“You need a drink,” you clear your own voice. “Water. Tea, even.” You’re still trembling, tenderized from the punishing pleasure he bestowed upon you. Even so, there is a surge of strength running through your veins, and you reach out your hand to wipe the little bit of paint that was stuck to his chapped lips. “And you need to skip directly to the moisturizing gel next time.”

“You’re gonna have to remind me again,” he sighs, his shoulders slacking, and keep your hand next to his lips long enough for him to kiss each finger.

There is indeed power in this lowly position and you stand a little straighter, a little prouder in all your nakedness.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His eyes shoot into yours from inside the skull shaped mask. It is another order, the last of the night. “I’m making use of this.” Papa V Perpetua returns to the door where he now hangs the sign. “I need to sleep and you need to apply my make-up as soon as I wake up.”

#the band ghost #papa v perpetua x reader #papa v perpetua #fan fic #fan fiction #ghost #ghost bc #papa v #papa 5

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lucifersyume · 3 months ago

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Pride’s bite

Based off a prompt I saw on here; Lucifer is a vampire lord—and MC is a vampire hunter whom Lucifer took in during a storm without realising they are a hunter. His coven knows—Lucifer is unaware. MC knows who Lucifer is, however.

warnings: Lucifer is clueless, suggestive scene (just making out), GN!MC, possessiveness, Lucifer is down bad, he wants to bite you, slight exhibitionism, his coven hate you, mentions of fainting early on

notes: Gets rather rushed toward the end, sorry!! T-T

Rythmic thumping of frantic footfalls, the cruel sounding whispering of the rustling trees, the shrill screech of birds all reverberating harshly through the dimly lit forest. Running through was the esteemed vampire hunter—you. Whilst out on your latest escapade, you appeared to have run into some trouble, and had encountered an especially aggressive group of vampires. While all were known to be murderous, ruthless creatures—the poor human had seemingly drawn the short straw, this group in particular were notorious for sparing nobody, not even young children who stumbled onto their territory.

Your chest burnt with exhaustion; it seemed as if you had been running forever. It never seemed to end, you’d been meandering through trees forever. It seemed as if there was no escape! Was this truly how you were to go out? It was supposed to be more glamorous, not having your entrails gruesomely torn out by undead bloodsuckers. Loud, murderous hisses, manical laughter reached your ears, merged with their relentless torment, saying you’re not making it back alive.

Running was futile at this point, you knew that better than anyone. Everyone who was anyone knew that. This bunch were practically inescapable. If they wanted you dead? You’re dead.

Well. Not everyone had a secret admirer like you. Not everyone had someone who was willing to murder to ensure your complete safety. Like today.

The taunts were cut short, followed by screams of confusion and horror.

“The boss is down!!” A raspy male’s voice resounded. It sorta sounded like he was a chronic smoker and was just one more cigarette away from death. Then, uproar—demands knowing who, or what caused their leader to fall comes forward.

Well, you wouldn’t be awake to see, the exhaustion of running at such a high speed for such a long period of time is certain to exhaust such a small human.

Your knees felt weak, trembling, your whole body covered in a thin sheen of sweat—muscles aching and throbbing with exhaustion. Before you knew it, your vision blurred, black spots clouding it, your surroundings spinning, everything merging together causing your stomach to feel heavy with nausea until eventually, your body went limp, and you collapsed on the marshy forest floor.

“MC.. Wake up..” A voice cut through your slumber, warm leather tracing your face, caressing the shape of your jawline. That voice, you recognise it. The deep, soft, yet seductive tone, the unfamiliarity of you, the worry.

“Open your eyes for me, MC.”

Opening your eyes, the blurry surroundings eventually came too—you were seemingly in some kind of bedroom, the walls were covered with old paintings, photographs from centuries old newspaper articles, but what really caught your eye was him. Staring at you with a concerned look.

“Finally, I thought I’d lost you,” he breathed—relief and joy lacing his words as he looked directly into your eyes, the slightest of smiling brooking his lips, replacing that usual frowning expression people often described after encounters.

There’s no way it isn’t him, it has to be. Lucifer Morningstar. One of the most notorious, feared vampire lords. A man known for his brutal nature, sparing almost no mortal, his mock-sweet words,his ability to easily charm others. You were convinced—his piercing, almost menacing black eyes and that soft red gradient within their depths, a slight hint that he is not a man to trust, but nor is he a man to cross.

If there was anything you had learned about Lucifer from your father; never ever upset him. The fact that warning was the one your father hammered into you with such urgency told you to always remember it.

“Can you speak?” Lucifer’s voice sounded—cutting your train of thoughts short. Ah, right. You’d best address him.

“Yes, I can. Thank you. But how did I get here?”

“I carried you, of course. I noticed that savage lot were surrounding you, and you were simply too adorable to let die. So naturally, I drove them away, and bought you right to my manor. For some reason unknown to me, my coven were giving me extremely odd glances, and they were staring at you like you were filth, why might that be?”

His words caused your breathing to falter and your heart race. Did he truly not know of you? Surely his coven would have stopped him from taking you in?

“I simply waved them away, they looked almost.. murderous. But, since you are under my protection, they dare not harm you, fret not, little lamb.”

Now, while your father said not to trust, or upset him; he was protecting you, why shouldn’t you trust him? After all, it was the upsetting him part your father warned you of more, if he was treating you well, you can surely let your guard down.

Noticing the tenseness in your body, Lucifer chuckles, placing a gloved hand on your arm. “Apologies if my words regarding my coven startled you. I assure you; they will not even look at you wrong while I’m here.” His tone was kind and reassuring. That sweet smile almost never leaving his lips. “Come, you must be famished. You look like you haven’t eaten all day.”

Reaching out a hand, and patiently waiting for you to take it. “Worry not, I won’t kill you, MC.” He teases with a laugh. It seems his words were comforting enough to soothe you, because you find yourself interweaving your fingers with his own, much to Lucifer’s surprise—but he wasn’t complaining. Not at all!

He helped you up, gently leading you through the long, winding halls; littered with skeletons in rather crude positions, or holding pillars of the house, large plush curtains, in all variations of black, wine red and royal purples. The floor covered in soft, almost inviting carpet seemingly leading the way around. Portraits of all sort littered the walls: blackbirds, cathedrals, coffins, bats, moonlit skies, the rain on a nighttime street, reflecting the faces of happy couples, neon signs, and of course, the early, classical illustrations of what people of that time believed vampires would look like. Perhaps Lucifer included those for humourous flair. Vines wound through, hugging the banisters and multiple pillars.

“Curious on anything?” Lucifer asked, looking down at you as he continued to walk beside you. “You seem to be taking in the decor quite considerably. Anything in particular catch your eye?”

Shaking your head, you respond. “No, just looking around, never been here—so I just wanna see the surroundings.”

“I see, and absolutely nothing is of interest to you? My, my. You must be terribly picky of nothing in here is of your interest.” He teases, before coming to a stop infront of a large, wooden door. “Here we are. Would you like any particular dish? I assure you, you need not be afraid to ask, my staff would be happy to cook for you, alright?”

Nodding, you follow him in, and introduces you to some members of his coven, who were eyeing you suspiciously, only to be immediately shut down by Lucifer who shot them a glare. If looks could kill; that would certainly be one of them. “Come, MC. Tell them what you would want to eat.” He said with a smile playing on his face.

His coven members look at you, waiting for your request, and nod when you say what you’d like, wasting no time in beginning to prepare it, walking to the pantry to get all the necessary ingredients. This pleased Lucifer greatly, and he lead you to the table, pulling a chair out for you to sit on. When you were sat and your seat was pushed in, he took his place opposite you, placing his chin in his palm, gazing at you with interest.

“You know, you’re utterly radiant,” Lucifer admitted with a gentle sigh, feeling slightly embarrassed over his openness. “I don’t know what it is about you, but I feel so drawn in by you, like there is some sort of connection between us, drawing me ever closer to you. Ever since you have been in my care, I have felt rather uneasy when I am not in your reach.”

The raw, unfiltered honesty almost stunned you. It was highly evident that his words were the truth, you picked up on the vulnerability that his tone contained, the usual composed man gone. This was different. This was what he truly meant.

A sharp sigh of annoyance and disbelief left his lips. “Wait.. What am I saying? This isn’t like me at all. Why is my heart racing? And why do I feel so desperate to rest my lips on yours??”

Taken aback by his revelation, your mouth fell slightly open. Desperate, Lucifer stood up, and cupped your face, gazing into your eyes, many emotions contained within: desperation, yearning, fear, love. His lips were slightly parted—allowing you to see the slightest bit of his large fangs; the sight sending shivers down your spine. If it was of fear or arousal, or something else entirely—you were not able to tell.

“Please, allow me to kiss you,” Lucifer whispered, his tone practically begging, no. Pleading. He was gazing at you like you were the light he needs in this dark world. “Please. But, do not feel pressured into saying yes.”

Shocked by his words, you find yourself nodding. Deep down, you had always found him attractive and also intriguing. Sighing in pure relief and joy, Lucifer leaned in and closed the gap, pressing his lips on yours in a shockingly romantic, yet sensual kiss.

To begin with, it was sweet, gentle—like a whisper shared between lovers. It was evident that Lucifer was savoring the moment, letting it linger before giving in completely. His hands moved from your face to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss with a newfound desperation.

As it continued, one hand left your waist, trailing fire down your spine, teasing over your thigh, your neck—everywhere he could touch, testing your reaction. The heat between you grew unbearable, his fingertips branding every inch of skin they grazed before returning to your waist, tugging you flush against him—leaving no space, no escape. He let out a ragged breath of desperation against your lips, followed by a hoarse whisper: “You haven’t a clue how long I have been yearning for this.”

Judging by the raw passion in his every touch, it was clear—Lucifer was fucking desperate for you. He kissed you like he was terrified you’d disappear, his arms tightening around you as if he could anchor you to him forever. Each lingering touch was a silent confession, a reminder of just how much he needed you. Just how much he wanted you.

Breaking away for a moment, Lucifer gazed into your eyes, his breath slightly uneven. “You’re amazing. A miracle gifted to me.” His voice was thick with love, admiration, something deeper.

Then, he dove back in—teasing your top lip, then your bottom, dragging out the anticipation before finally capturing you in a crushing, heated kiss. His movements were desperate, needy, almost. His desire was laid bare, past the point of restraint, past the point of pride. And he didn’t care. He wanted you to know.

Desperation all-consuming, he pulled you onto his lap, ensuring the kiss never broke. One hand tilted your chin, deepening the kiss, while the other tangled in your hair, giving a teasing tug. He chuckled softly at the soft noise of surprise you let out—a sound that vibrated deliciously against his lips.

He groaned into your mouth, like he was drowning in you, like he was utterly starved. When he finally broke away, it was only to trail his lips down your jaw, lower still—the tantalizing contrast of soft lips and sharp fangs sending a shudder down your spine. His breath came ragged, hot, needy, craving.

It seemed the proximity between your bodies shattered his restraint. Words he never imagined uttering slipped from his lips in a hushed murmur against your skin.

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” Lucifer gasped quietly, his fingers tightening at your hips, as if terrified you might pull away. “Wait, wait… I don’t want to stop here. Not yet.”

Slowly, his hands moved to your tie, undoing it with practiced ease, leaving it loose around your neck before deftly undoing the top two buttons of your shirt. The cold leather of his gloves traced over your chest, sending a delicious contrast of sensation through you. But just as his fingers lingered—

He stopped.

And then he smirked.

“No… Know what?” Lucifer leaned back in his chair, eyes dark with amusement. “Seeing as you made me wait so long… what harm is there in returning the favor?”

No. You were not playing this game. If he can tease you and believe he can get away? He’s wrong. Formulating the perfect idea—you gaze at him.

“Returning the favour? I didn’t realise demons were so.. generous.” You mused, tilting your head. “I didn’t realise you were so.. weak.. when things get a bit heated, Lucifer.”

Your statement made a small smirk creep onto his lips. “I assure you. I am not weak to tension.” He laughed, maintaining the tension-filled eye contact you had begun, waiting for you to break first. But you refused. Gently, you rolled your hips more into his, eliciting a little gasp from his lips.

“Ah, fuck, MC,” he growls, gripping your hips, dragging you further up his lap, gazing at you. “Are you truly so unaffected? Well, allow me to see how you fare when we do just what I am so very desperately yearning for..”

He grabbed you, dragging you into another kiss—kissing you like a man starved, hands roaming every inch of you, not sparing those spots that made you squirm. He refused to break and back down, no. He was going to make you cave first. No matter what.

Lucifer raises a brow as you undo his buttons, watching as you lean in.

“I knew you couldn’t resist me, Lucifer.”

Well that? That does it. He picks you up and stands you up, staring deep into your eyes. “Well, what do you say that this chat moves into my private quarters, and I can show you just how truly irresistible I find you, hm?”

He had barely let the sentence register before dragging you off his lap—picking you up in his arms, lips battering your face and neck. soft, possessive murmured promises of what was to come leave his lips:

“I’m going to take my time with you. Savouring every perfect inch of you slowly.”

It was almost as if he was toying with you, messing with you. Trying to get you as riled up as possible. he was done waiting. He wasn’t waiting anymore.

Once inside, he was behind you, “Now.”

He smiled, stalking toward you slowly, his eyes heavy with lust and want.

“I do hope you’re prepared for what is to come, because you are not escaping me. Not anymore.”

#obey me #obey me shall we date #mc obey me #obey me scenarios #obey me x mc #obey me lucifer #obey me nightbringer #obey me satan #omswd #obey me smut #obey me x reader #lucifer x mc #vampire au

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bonelyheartsclub · 4 months ago

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♡ Poplar - Valentine's One-Shot ♡

Written by @/duskyskye

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Splendid, absolutely splendid!”

Poplar gazed at your latest piece, raising it above his head. You’d tried your best to work with the tiny watercolor canvas and brushes he had available for you, but you really thought you could have done better with this one. Especially compared to Poplar’s prowess.

“I don’t know,” you thought aloud, “I don’t think it’s really all that.”

“Nonsense! The way you rendered this flower is lovely! I love the shading you did on the petals.”

“Poplar…you and I both know I was just following a tutorial. I couldn’t do that without help.” Your tone was light as you spoke, though the creeping feeling of inadequacy was still present. Of course, Poplar wasn’t taking that from you.

“Hmm…what I know for certain is that you shouldn’t be nearly this hard on yourself. Everyone begins somewhere, after all! I think you’re off to a lovely start. Now, may I?” Poplar stood, gesturing to the wall. You gave him a shrug and a nod, trying to keep the smile on your face. Without another word, he positioned your piece just above his desk mirror.

“Well, I think that makes for a lovely centerpiece. Done by an even more lovely person.” Poplar smiled, looking at the wall.

You followed his gaze. Yep. That was your piece, alright. Next to the other paintings that he had hanging. They seemed to dwarf yours in quality, the brushwork and delicate detail reflecting Poplar’s talent in his craft. You shuddered a little bit.

Poplar seemed to pick up on your discomfort, his smile faltering as he sat back down next to you.

“Does it really bother you that much? Your painting?”

You gave him a small nod. He sighed, looking downcast for a brief moment before his sockets widened, his smile quickly returning as he turned to you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever shown you my old paintings, now, have I? Oh dear, what a shame. Though surely if you’re so bothered by someone’s early works, you’d have no interest…” Poplar made a point of acting hurt, leaning dramatically against his desk. You giggled at the theatrics. Maybe you were a bit on the theatrical side yourself with how downtrodden you were being.

“Are you acting like that because you think they’re any worse than mine?”

“Darling, I KNOW they are.” Poplar gave you a quick grin before taking his cane and walking to his dresser. With a flourish, he pulled out a well-loved folder from the top drawer.

“I suppose I should clarify before I open this, but I am showing this to you with the express purpose of helping you understand that everyone struggles when beginning in a new medium. I fully expect you to laugh, to judge, and so on. All I ask is that when you reach the life drawing section, you refrain from visibly cringing too hard.” Poplar slid back into the seat beside you, placing the file on the tabletop where you had been working.

“What’s that supposed to mean, anyway?”

“You’ll find out in just a moment.”

You opened the file, which contained a relatively thick bunch of papers. The top started with a few color studies. Each labelled with various brush styles, paint colors, and blending methods. Wet on wet, wet on dry, flat wash, gradients, glazing… all things you had a vague understanding of, but more than you think you would have the patience to complete. You could tell that the strokes and coloring were not nearly as neat as the works that were displayed above your head.

Pages turned from dedicated exercises to a few applications. Circles in various colors were shaded using the previous techniques. He was experimenting with the various colors available to him. You could tell that he had also been following guides with a few of these as he got the hang of the technique. It all seemed fairly rudimentary, but you could tell that he had put a lot of effort in.

At this point it appeared he was branching out his sketching skills as well. Leaves and flowers were a common subject, it seemed. It was at that point that he broke the silence.

“Ash was beginning to garden at around the point I started to commit to bettering myself in the visual arts. It’s interesting, trying to capture the detail in such tiny little things. Though I think you can see that the subtlety is easy to lose.” He finished with a laugh.

Sure enough, the linework was notably shaky. The symmetry he had tried to go for had been lost. The lines clearly lacked confidence, and the veins of the leaves looked more like fur than anything else, somehow. Not that you could do much better if you were going for absolute realism.

“I think you still did a good job.” You said, gesturing to a couple illustrations. “This leaf looks really nice!”

“I’m well aware that they’re wonky, darling. They were my first attempts.” Poplar offered you a smile. “You don’t need to struggle to come up with compliments.”

“No, no, I genuinely think they’re good! Especially for first attempts.”

“Then I suggest you continue onwards. Though while you do, would you mind if I make a sketch of my own while you continue to peruse?”

“Go for it.”

Poplar nodded, pulling his sketchbook and a pencil into his hand. You flipped to the next page.

Poplar had shifted from leaves and flowers to objects that you recognized from around his room. A porcelain plate with floral decoration that he displayed on the other side of the room. A plush that he had carefully mounted on top of his shelves. What you assumed was either an older bed of his, or one of his cousin’s, as it wasn’t the one you were next to currently. Each had what looked like at least an hour of work poured into them. Even if they weren’t the best sketches, you could see he was gaining a better eye for detail as he worked at it.

Then you flipped to the next piece.

You could only ASSUME that what you were looking at was his first attempt at drawing chicken.

You looked back at Chicken, who had been fast asleep on their pillow for the majority of their visit. You turned in your seat, looking between the sketch and the real thing.

“Ah. You found it.” Poplar broke into a fit of giggles. “It’s absolutely awful, isn’t it? It’s alright to laugh.”

Well, it was…certainly an attempt. Poplar had gone VERY heavy on the wrinkles. One eye was notably misshapen compared to the other, and the muzzle was disproportionately long for a cat. The end product was what you could tell was Chicken from the approximation of feline traits and almost nothing else.

“I don’t know, I think you did ok.”

“No, I absolutely crashed and burned. There are only two reasons that that sketch isn’t in the bin. The first is that when I’m struggling with a piece, it reminds me that I could do so much worse. The second is that when I’m feeling overconfident, it humbles me.”

Hearing him talk…yeah, you knew what you sounded like now.

“Should I continue going through this, or do you think that your point came across just fine?” You asked him, a slight hint of comedy in your tone. The stack that you had left to sort through wasn’t thick.

“Oh, by all means, continue. I’m still working on what I’m doing over here. Though if you’re curious about any of the other pieces within, you only need to ask.” Poplar looked up at you from his paper, gesturing to you to continue.

So, you did.

While none of the pieces invoked the same level of shock in you that Chicken’s portrait did, you could see the purpose of these sketches was very much to learn the ropes of anatomy and shape. It wasn’t like you had much room to speak, of course. It was more of a comparison to his current work than anything else. You could see things improving as you thumbed through each sheet of canvas, each work growing more refined as you went on. By the end, you could see a couple of full pieces that started to look very nice.

“So?” Poplar eagerly piped up as he saw you close the folder. “What are your thoughts? Do be honest about it.”

“It’s your beginner’s folder. I think you showed a lot of promise even back then, even if your pieces weren’t always the best work.” You stated bluntly. Poplar smiled at your tiptoeing.

“Now, tell me: how many folders in do you think I am now?”

“…I have no clue.”

“Fifteen. All as big as this one. Plus at least three sketchbooks. It’s a hobby, but I’m quite dedicated.”

Your eyes widened. Wow, no wonder there was such a jump in quality between then and now.

“No kidding you’re, ‘dedicated.’ I can see that all that work paid off.”

“I’d like to think so. Of course, everyone has areas in which they can improve with their artwork. I’ve just been working hard enough and for long enough that things come to me more naturally than they once did. For instance:”

Poplar thumbed through the sketchbook he was holding to an earlier page. On it was a similar picture of Chicken, this time with more precise proportions. A marked improvement from what you had seen before.

“I see. You did an amazing job on that.” You reached out, gently touching the paper.

“I’m glad you think so! Though I find I’m still not the best at rendering skin folds. They look more like the folding you’d find on clothing than the kind you’d find on skin. It doesn’t help that I can’t use myself as reference, what with the bones and all.”

Poplar closed the sketchbook, looking you directly in the eye.

“I never want you to feel bad at where you’re at in your art journey, my love. We all have to start somewhere, and personally, I think yours is much better than mine. What matters is that you’re trying, because if you keep doing that, then you’ll get to where you want to be eventually.”

You looked back at the piece he’d hung up on the wall. Sure, it was more of an attempt than anything, but maybe it wasn’t so bad. You chuckled.

“Yeah, I got you. I appreciate the reassurance, Poplar.”

“Any time, my love. Now, are you curious as to what I was working on while you were distracted with my crimes against art?”

You giggled at his joke.

“Of course.”

Poplar opened the sketchbook back up, turning to a point about midway through.

What greeted you on the page was your reflection, not fully rendered due to the lack of time, but still clearly you, nonetheless. Your hair was perfectly textured, your eyes stood out brightly with a small amount of rendering, and your skin looked as light as the paper it was drawn on.

“Poplar…I’m flattered.”

“Well, you know, I think it has room for improvement. Time to shade and color, for instance. There’s SO much to improve on. After all, it’s hard to compare a pencil sketch to the TRUE work of art that it’s based on…”

“Yeah, yeah!” You shoved him, both of you laughing. “Seriously though, this is gorgeous. Thank you for this.”

“Of course, my love.” Poplar leaned in, planting a gentle kiss on your cheek. “You know that if you ever feel as though you’re lacking confidence, I’m happy to give you any encouragement you need. Even if it means showing you my first attempts at drawing my cat.”

You smiled, not doubting his words for even a second.

“Thank you, Poplar… and you know what?” You pulled a new canvas from the paper stack Poplar had supplied you and confidently took a pencil in your hand. “I’m ready to start on my next piece.”

Poplar’s sockets sparkled; his grin widened from cheek to cheek.

“I’m excited to see what you create, darling.”

#bhcmyvalentine25 #bonely hearts club #bhc

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serpentface · 8 days ago

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Sketch of a typical Wardi house (small), located adjacent to farmland on the Briya river floodplain.

Most houses are made with mudbrick and with a smooth outer coating, sometimes plastered or otherwise decorated (this one has fairly minimal decorative painting). The climate is dry overall and mudbrick is the most economical and resistant building material available (though it does require more maintenance than in outright arid climates due to regular and sometimes very heavy winter rains), with the use of wood generally being reserved for maintaining the structural integrity of the roof and portals. These houses are fairly effective at insulation, and a well-constructed home will not have dramatic temperature gradients between hot days and cool nights.

Some homes lack doors altogether and use fabric or straw drapes; actual doors are hung by pintles and made with wood and/or woven reeds. Domestic chimneys have not been invented anywhere in general, and smoke in a small house like this will be removed (not the most efficiently) through small tubes in the walls and via the door/windows. Cooking hearths in these smaller houses are usually placed in the center of the building, which goes a little ways to allowing smoke to disperse.

Flat mudbrick roofs are in use in some places, though pointed thatched roofs like these are more common in all but the driest areas due to better shedding rainfall/occasional snow accumulation. Thatching is made with straw or papyrus, location depending, and can become very thick as a byproduct of routine maintenance on old houses.

Misc bits:

-bell windchimes on each side of the house (wards off ghosts and makes a pretty sound).

-little clay guardian lion over the doorway (most houses will have one on each side, though those not overseeing entrances may be hidden in the thatching or buried to fully embed their protective qualities).

-dung fuel being dried on one of the walls.

-koli plant right outside (easy low maintenance fruit and vegetables)

#hhhhbbnmbbbbnbbn house #Tigran would've grown up in a house like this. This drawing is set in the area he was born.#Was trying to look up like chimney makes from antiquity and it was like oh damn chimneys were not used in domestic settings #until maybe the 12th century CE huh. I have worse anachronisms in this 'most of the tech doesn't exceed anything found in the 1st #century BCE' setting than chimneys but I'm going with no chimneys #In general for now and in this part of the world at least.#That's kind of wild to think about though like I think I knew that at some point but never really processed it #There's ways to keep chimney-less houses from becoming smoke inhalation death traps when wood has to be continuously burnt #but still people were still jsut living in smoky as hell buildings for the bulk of architectural history #Also learned that thatched roofs are not as easily flammable as they look #which was helpful in solidifying this because I was weighing the tradeoffs between a flat mudbrick roof (nearly impervious to fire #but doesn't hold up well against rain and may collapse under snow (bad news in occasional very bad winters)) vs a thatched roof #(more flammable in a grassland environment where wildfires are a key part of the ecosystem and happen much more #regularly than blizzards)

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redroomreflections · 7 months ago

Text

Something With Sea Turtles

Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

A Family Of Her Own AU

(Natasha has a secret family)

Summary: Pregnant R and Natasha loves on her.

Natasha is good at many things. Intimidating bad guys, disappearing without a trace, dismantling a firearm in seconds. Painting walls? Well, that’s a skill she’s still figuring out.

She had insisted on painting the nursery walls for the arrival of your little one in a few months. It was supposed to be a nice bonding experience. But, as with most things involving the two of you, it had quickly turned into a bit of a disaster.

"You said this would be easy," You teased from your spot on the floor, perched on a pile of cushions Natasha had painstakingly arranged for your comfort. Your hand rested on your growing belly as you watched her, amusement tugging at the corners of your mouth.

Natasha stood on a step stool, paint roller in hand, squinting at the wall. She was trying her best to create a soft, underwater gradient—blues and greens swirling together like an aquarium, the perfect theme for your baby’s nursery. But the brush strokes were uneven, and there was a smudge where she got a little overzealous with the darker blue.

"It is easy," she replied, her tone stubborn. "I’m just… experimenting with technique."

"Right," You muttered to yourself. "We could just hire someone."

"No!" She exclaimed, then, more gently: "No. I want to do this."

And, honestly, she did. The baby wasn't a shock by any means. Natasha had been dreaming about this day since the first time she fell in love with you. She had planned every detail down to the color of the paint, but when it came time to do the actual painting, she wanted nothing more than to do it herself.

"I know, but we don't even know if our baby will like water or animals..." You reached into your lap to open a bag of chips. "What if they hate all this ocean stuff?"

"If our baby hates all of this ocean stuff, then we'll just paint over it," Natasha lowered her paintbrush to glance back at you. "When did you become such a pessimist?"

"It's called being realistic."

Natasha huffed and dipped the roller in the pan, then continued her work.

"You're supposed to be relaxing."

"I can't relax when I have paint splattered all over my clothes," You gestured to the splotches of green and blue across your sweatshirt. "I'll never get these stains out."

Natasha glanced over her shoulder at you and smiled softly.

"Well, if you remove your clothes, I promise I'll be gentle."

"You're a dork," You chuckled. "And I'm not stripping in front of the baby."

"The baby's not even born yet."

"Still."

"Fine, then how about I strip for you," Natasha wiggled her hips and hummed playfully. "How's that for relaxation?"

"Tempting, but maybe you should finish the wall before we do anything else," You said. You looked down at the sweater to tug it over your belly. It seemed a bit tight these days. "Do you think I'm getting too big for this?"

"Your shirt?"

"Yeah, I mean... I feel like my stomach is stretching the fabric."

"Hmmm," Natasha mused. "Well, I'd say it looks pretty good."

"Good?"

"Perfect," She smiled to herself. "Absolutely perfect."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Of course."

"You're not lying to me right?" You tilted your head.

"When have I ever lied to you, Y/n?"

"A bunch of times actually," You raised a brow. "I was your superior."

"That doesn't count. Besides, it's my job."

"Your job is to tell me the truth," You sighed. "Do my boobs look too huge?"

"What? No!" She turned on the stool, her brows furrowed in confusion.

"But I've grown a size," You frowned, running a hand over your breasts. "You should be telling me to cover up."

"Are you crazy?" She asked, her eyes wide. "Y/n, you're carrying our child; I think you're allowed to dress comfortably. Also, I'm not complaining about your breast size."

"Yeah, but—"

"Listen," She set the paint roller down and stepped off the stool, "You're beautiful. Okay? And your tits are a part of that. You know, they're like an extra gift from the universe."

"Extra gift?"

"Like I'm already grateful for our baby," She said. "But then, your boobs get bigger, and, you know, I'm a very appreciative person."

"You won't be able to touch them for a while," You reminded her.

"I'm willing to wait."

"And I'm going to have stretch marks."

"So?"

"And my stomach will look weird and puffy," You sighed. "I mean, it's not going to go away."

"I don't care," she said. "Y/n, none of that matters. You're giving us a baby."

You were about to make a joke about how much it would probably hurt to push something the size of a melon out of your vagina, but when you saw the look in her eyes, your smile faded. She was so earnest, and suddenly, you felt guilty for not appreciating everything she was saying.

"Sorry," You said.

"For what?"

"Not listening to you," You shrugged.

"Don't apologize," Natasha walked toward you, then knelt beside your spot on the pillows. "I get it. There are days when I feel like I'm losing my mind. But, no matter what, you'll always be my favorite thing to look at."

"Nat," You grinned.

"Seriously," She smiled back. "And I'm gonna tell you that every single day until the end of time."

"Well, you'll be busy painting."

"Then, I'll paint it on the wall," She winked.

"God, I love you," You murmured, leaning forward to kiss her.

"Love you too," She replied, her breath warm against your lips. "Both of you."

"Now, go back to painting before you ruin it." You gestured. "I can kind of see the vision for the whale."

"See? That's what I'm talking about. I'm making art."

"Do you mind taking a breath to come rub this on my belly?" You gestured to the container of cocoa butter next to you.

"Of course," Natasha grabbed the tube, and unscrewed the cap. Then, she squeezed a generous amount onto her palm and set the bottle aside.

"You know," She began, "what you said earlier. I hope you don't believe that about yourself. That I won't find you attractive."

"No, I don't, not really," You shrugged. "It's just hard sometimes. My brain goes all crazy and my hormones are making me all weepy. But, I have you. And, you're not going anywhere, right?"

"Of course not."

"Good," You murmured. "'Cause I don't think I'd last long without you."

"Don't say that," She said, her voice quiet.

"Sorry."

"Stop apologizing," She scolded. "You'll be fine. I'll be fine. Everything will be fine. Now, can we focus on the positive? Like, for example, the fact that you're pregnant."

"I am pregnant."

"You are." She rested her hands on your belly. She began to rub the cocoa butter in circular motions against your skin. "You look so good like this."

"Really?"

"Yeah," She smiled, looking down at her hands pressing against the curve of your abdomen. She was so gentle with the bump. "This is exactly what I always imagined."

"What did you imagine?"

"A cute wife who was carrying my child," She smirked. "I guess I've always had a fantasy about having a family of my own."

"Well, you're living the dream." You grinned at her. For a second there wasn't much talking until you felt a slight movement inside of you. "She's awake."

"Really?" Natasha looked down.

"Yeah," You said. "Can you feel her?"

"Um, well," Natasha hesitated. "I mean, not really."

"Here," You reached down and took her hand, guiding it a bit further up your belly. "There. Do you feel that?"

"I—" Natasha paused, and then, she felt it, a faint movement against her hand. "Yeah?"

"Whenever you're near she gets to moving," You point out. "I think she recognizes your voice already."

A soft, surprised laugh escaped Natasha’s lips as she watched her hand rest against your belly, her expression melting into something softer than usual. She didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she let it linger, her thumb tracing circles on your skin.

"I think she’s already got me wrapped around her finger," she murmured, her voice full of affection and wonder. "Just like her mother."

"That's how it starts."

"Oh, is that a warning?"

"Yes."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." She leaned forward to kiss your belly. Then, she rested her cheek against your skin. "I couldn't be any happier than in this moment."

"That's good," You brushed her hair from her forehead, stroking her scalp gently. "But, just so you know, when I'm back on my feet, I'm kicking your ass for making me paint a sea turtle."

"Hey," she said, her tone playful. "You're the one who agreed to help."

"I regret everything."

#natasha romanoff #black reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanov #black widow x female reader #natasha x you

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