#their artwork hangs on the wall of my bedroom!!!!!!!!!!

[butch--dean]

It is so weird to see art made by my best friend when I was in middle/high school go viral!! Particularly when that artwork is about long distance friendship!!!!

[rueclfer]

shoujo touya save meeee pleaseee shoujo touya save me from the trenchessss

pull me through // touya todoroki

You awkwardly stood a few steps behind Touya as he felt around under the doormat for the spare key to his home. You two got along quite well for a couple of students who were on the opposite sides of the rankings, but never close enough to visit each other's home like this.

You were student council president, and Touya got suspended for setting the toilet on fire last year. That is how far you two were.

"Alright, come on in." He holds the door open for you to walk in before him.

At first glance, it seemed close to extravagant, but the closer you looked, it felt cozier by the second from the amount of framed photos, artwork, and trinkets displayed on every wall and counter.

In the living room, his younger siblings were all lined up like ducks as if they were awaiting for your arrival.

"Hi Fuyumi." You threw a wave at her.

"Hi Y/N!" She beams back.

You two worked on the student council together, so you were already close with her despite being a year older.

"Wait, this is Y/N?" The middle child with all white hair exclaims.

Fuyumi quickly swats her brother's arm, shushing him.

"Oooohh. Y/N, I know you!" The littlest one states, stepping up to you with an All Might figurine in hand.

"Oh do you?" You cock an eyebrow at Touya as he takes your jacket to put up by the door and your school bag off of your shoulder. You bent down to his level. "Your brother talks about me often?"

"No I don't." He quips before he could answer for himself, shooting a glare in their direction. "I don't know what either of them are talking about."

"Meet my ball and chains." He huffs with a hint of a smile in his voice. "Shouto, Natsuo, and you already know Fuyumi from your nerd thing."

"Can I play with them?" Shouto asks, moving over to Touya to tug on his pant leg.

"No you can't, turd. We have to work on a project so none of you bother us. Kay?" He motions you to follow him upstairs, slinging both of your bags over his shoulder.

You quickly follow behind him. "But maybe after!" You call out from midway up the stairs, giving them a final wave.

Upon entering his room, he sets your bag on his desk, letting you take the seat while he settles on his bed right next to you, whipping his laptop open.

Despite being somewhat of a delinquent, you knew that Touya was smart and had capabilities to be top of the class if he really cared to. You had no worries about this project, but the circumstance of being alone in his bedroom on the other hand, almost made you nervous,

"Your siblings seem to like me." You broke the tense silence as you two logged onto your presentation. "You definitely talk about me, huh?"

"It's probably Fuy. She's a big fan of yours." He glances over at you. "She talks about you way too much around here."

"You got a problem with that?"

"What, like I don't get enough of you at school?" He chuckles, biting on the end of his pen. "Don't I, Prez?"

"Lucky you, then. Not many people have that kind of access to me. I'm pretty high in demand, if you ask me." You tease back, meeting his eye for a moment before returning your attention back on your screen.

He pushes his laptop out and leans back in his bed, propping his upper half up on his elbow to face you with his pen still hanging out of his mouth.

"I wonder how those people feel about you spending all that time with such a loser like me? Not scared to tarnish that golden reputation of yours?"

"You give yourself too much credit." You laugh. "You've been such a good boy lately, I don't think anyone really bats an eye." You say sweetly, swiveling your chair to fully face him.

He chuckles to himself and diverts his eyes away from yours as a rush of blood floods to his cheek.

"Anyways..." He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as his ears slightly flush into red. "Back to this bullshit."

You two talk back and forth about the project for a while, slipping into silence every now and then as you work on your respective slides.

In your peripheral, you noticed that every so often, he would glance up at you from his screen like clockwork. It makes you a bit too self aware of yourself, forcing you to keep your posture straight, not to bounce your leg too much, and to keep your fidgeting at bay.

"You're grinding your teeth." He mutters, breaking the silence. "I can hear it, like sandpaper."

"It's just a focus thing." You reply, biting the inside of your cheeks to combat the habit.

"I can't stop looking at them in class.." You hear from outside of the door, paired with the boys' giggling. "...They're all I can think about, I feel so stupid."

You and Touya both stop shoot each other a confused glance, not quite sure what Natsuo and Shouto were going on about in the hallway.

"What are they doing?" You lean in and whisper.

"I don't fucking know?" He shrugs. "Maybe reading one of Fuy's books?"

"How cute." You chuckle, returning your attention to the project.

"Prez would never want a guy like me. I want to do better, but I'm fucking hopeless." The boys start, their footsteps running up and down the hallway this time.

"Natsuo! That's a bad word, you can't say that!" Shouto cries.

Your eyes widened and glanced over at Touya, whose face had now drained of color, jaw slightly gaped open.

He slams his laptop shut and frantically feels around under his pillow and covers, as if he had misplaced something.

"What're you looking for?" You asked, watching him rummage through his school bag after going through his bed.

"I'm going to fucking kill them." He mutters, throwing his bag on the floor. "I'm actually going to kill them."

He walks over to swing his bedroom door open, revealing the two boys leaning against the wall with a book in hand, flipping through the pages.

"Where the fuck did you two get that!?"

The two younger boys scream and scurry down the hall with Touya right on their tail. You follow them out into the hallway, watching them run a muck around the house.

Natsuo and Shouto eventually circle their way back to Touya's room, shoving themselves right behind you a second before Touya is able to get to them.

"Guys?" You look down at Shouto clutching your leg and Natsuo breathing hard, peering over your shoulder. "What did you two do?" You put a hand down on the top of Shouto's head, tapping it to get his attention up at you.

"Natsuo did it!" He cries, burying his face into your side. "I didn't do anything." He muffled into your shirt.

"You're the one who gave me his diary, you liar!" Natsuo reaches over and flicks Shouto's head. "Shouto did it!"

"What the hell is going on?" Fuyumi comes out of her room.

"These fuckers went through my things." Touya huffs, face now red. "Y/N. Move over please." He inches closer.

"No! Y/N please!" Natsuo cries behind you, clutching on you tighter.

"Whoooaa. Okay, okay let's relax everyone." You nervously chuckle.

"You, take a step back." You put a finger on Touya's chest, lightly pressing him to take a couple steps back into the hallways.

You noticed Touya clenching onto a journal so tight that his knuckles were white, jaw tense seething with anger.

"You two, go with your sister." You pried the two kids from your side, ushering them towards Fuyumi, in which she properly slapped the back of their heads the moment they got to her.

"Idiots. What did I tell you guys? Get in." She huffs before closing the door behind them.

"Don't think you're safe! Your ass is grass once Y/N leaves." He calls out before the door clicks shut.

"You, stop it. Come inside." You pull him in by the elbow.

"Jesus fucking christ." He groans into his hands, throwing the journal on his bed. "You didn't hear any of that, alright? None of that happened."

"Yup. You got it." You silently chuckle to yourself. "Absolutely nothing."

You watch him shove the journal deep into his school bag before throwing it back on the ground and flopping down in his bed, face buried in his pillow.

"FUCK!" He screams into his pillow, tightly gripping the sides of it.

"Okay let's just finish this shit and get it over with." He huffs, turning on his back and leaning up against the headboard, dragging his laptop back up to his lap.

"Oh so you really didn't wanna talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" He shoots you a threatening glance.

You ignored the hostile look, anyways. "You have a crush on me." You bite your bottom lip to hide a side. "That's what that was, right?"

"Who said all that shit was about you, huh?"

"You got another 'Prez' in your life?" You cock an eyebrow.

He went silent for a moment, running a hand through his hair and blowing out a breath of air.

"Let's not do this right now."

"That's fine." You turn your attention back to your laptop. "I'm just saying, though, you don't have to do 'better' for me to like you. I already do."

Another beat of silence passes.

"Cool. Cool." He squeaks out. "Um. Can you double check my slides for me?" He coughs.

You looked at him in your peripheral to see him covering the bottom half of his face with his hand, hiding the impending blush creeping up his face as he kept his eyes glued to his screen.

"Sure." You smiled. "Only if you double check mine."

-

bonus scene hehe:

over the next week of school, touya had been actively avoiding you- which you expected. it wasn't until one late school day where you had to stay behind for your council meeting when you caught him waiting by your cubby.

"touya." you greeted, holding out your bag for him to take while you started switching your shoes out. "what are you still doing here?"

"got a request to deliver to you, prez." he responds with a smirk, leaning up against the cubbies with your bag under his arm.

"oh yeah? well unfortunate for you, but i'm off the clock. you should file it in the student council box."

"it's a special request that can only be delivered in person." he rolls his eyes. "also i'm walking you home, so you don't really have a choice."

you laugh, starting your way out of school. "okay, then. go for it."

"go out with me this weekend."

your breath hitches from surprise. you had to admit to yourself that you had been waiting for some sort of confession or at the very least a chat about the last time you had seen him, but for him to almost demand a date with you caught you off guard.

"really?" you snap your attention to him, face heating up.

"really."

"i'd love to." you smile. "you feel like talking about it now? or do i gotta go through your diary for that?"

"shut up. it's a journal- two very different things." he nudges you with his elbow. "fuyumi yelled at me after you left and told me that i was an emotionally constipated prick, so i guess that inspired me to get my shit together."

"sooo.." you motion for him to continue.

"sooo...i like you. i have for a while." he starts "and i got my marks up for this quarter. for you. well, technically for me, but i wanted you to see that i was trying."

your heart swelled at this simple act. "you didn't have to do that. i told you i like you regardless- even after you set the toilet on fire."

"we don't talk about that version of me last year." he laughs "and i wanted to. you made me want to do it for me."

you two continue to walk home chirping in conversation and light teases. you had always been drawn to him despite his bad habits and annoying mannerisms, but you knew he always had it in him to do good things and make better choices for himself. knowing that he did it because of his inspiration to be a good person for you only made you like him more.

[fayes-fics]

The Secrets We Keep: Pt II

<< Part I

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you… (part II, see above for link to part I)

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, loss of virginity, vaginal fingering, oral sex (m to f), cunnilingus, hand job, vaginal sex, woman on top, orgasm. Also a lot of fluff and a few dashes of angst.

Word Count: 8.5k (13.6k for complete fic, including Pt I)

Authors Note: Part 2 of 2. Part 1 linked above. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. Here is the conclusion to this Benepic! Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. Enjoy! 🫶

-vii-

The first thing you feel is throbbing pain, an insistent drum in your head, mouth dry as if you have been chewing cotton wool—the instant regret of excessive drinking floods through you. However, when your eyes reluctantly peel open, your predicament escalates.

You have no earthly idea where you are. Or how you got here. The last thing you remember was Benedict kissing you; then the room was literally spinning from entirely too much brandy. 

Still in the dress you wore yesterday, but tucked under crisp white linens. A trace of a familiar scent upon the pillow that you cannot quite place in your fuzzy state. Gingerly sitting up, you try to get your bearings, not yet awake enough to have any reaction beyond puzzlement. 

The room is darkened, thankfully, save for a sliver of the rising sun that slashes across the bed through a narrow gap in the curtains. You are in a large mahogany four-poster bed; the room is decorated in rich jewel tones—heavy velvet burgundy drapes and dark blue Persian rugs, panelled walls on which stunning artwork hangs. Embers glow in a nearby fireplace as you spy your pelisse hanging on the back of a door and your shoes neatly arranged nearby.

Then you twist and see the bedside cabinet, and your stomach plunges.

There, alongside a glass of water, is your notebook. Your secret notebook. The one that should still be concealed within the hidden pocket of your pelisse. But instead, it is here. And what is worse, it is open. Open to a page with one of your favourite sketches of Benedict: his eyes crinkling against the strong rays of the sun, a carefree smile on his face.

Instantly, you grab it and slam it shut. Fingernails drumming urgently on its silken cover, now hugged into your chest. Horrified that your mystery generous benefactor, who must have seen you to bed, has also been privy to your most private thoughts. 

Galvanised by a need to solve the mystery of who, you relinquish your tight hold on the tome. It is then that a folded letter slips out of its pages and drops into your lap. Tentatively, you unfurl the paper and are aghast by the headed notepaper declaring the author and revealing your host. The worst possible person you could think of.

But then your gaze falls to the elegant script inked onto its thick parchment, and your life is indelibly altered.

Dearest Y/n

I hope you are well-rested. There are so many things I am impatient to impart, but I must begin with an explanation and, indeed, an apology.

You are in my bedroom, at my lodgings. I brought you here as I saw no other option that would guarantee your safety and welfare, which is always my utmost concern.  I made pains to ensure your arrival here was not seen, and I must assure you, in case your recall is uncertain, that nothing has happened between us beyond our kiss. 

Now onto my apology, which is two-fold, although I suspect it should contain multitudes more. Firstly, my most sincere and unreserved apologies for my ungentlemanly conduct at our last two encounters. As wondrous as those kisses were, they were nonetheless inexcusable. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive my impulsive actions.

Secondly, I must apologise for my discovery of this, your private diary. My knowledge of its existence is purely accidental; I removed it from your coat merely as a wish for your possessions to be in neat order upon your awakening. My knowledge of its contents, however… for that, I must throw myself at your mercy and beg for your forgiveness. Curiosity and liquor are not the best companions, and it seems both got the better of me. 

In what I hope is partial recompense, I will confess a secret of mine. Arguably selfish in nature and most likely the worst possible timing, too. However, given what I have now seen, I am utterly compelled to convey it….

I love you, y/n.

Most ardently and most truly. 

There is no person in the world I would rather spend time with. Whose thoughts I am always impatient to know and whose every moment I wish to be a part of. For some time now, you have occupied my every thought. 

It is why I felt compelled to act when I heard from Eloise about your impossible situation. I will do anything within my power to assist you. It is why I said that I want to alleviate your burdens. I meant every word and more. My happiness is seemingly inextricably calibrated to yours—when I see you happy, it brings me great joy, and when I see you are not, it brings a pang to my chest I know not what do with. 

I would have taken these feelings to my grave… were it not for this diary. When what I found hidden within ts pages gave me the exquisite burden of hope. Hope that perhaps you return my affections? May indeed have done so for quite some time as well? 

I must also take a moment to compliment your poetic talent, and that is to say nothing of your artistic abilities, which quite frankly are humbling. Dare I dream of a day that we could paint together? Sorry (Again! Multitudes indeed!), I am likely getting far ahead of myself.

I will not be home when you read this. Partial cowardice on my part, no doubt, but born out of utmost respect. You always deserve the right to choose, y/n, and that includes what you do with this confession. I do not wish for you to be obligated to see me or let me know your response, thoroughly eager though I am to hear of it. 

If you wish to speak to me before your wedding ceremony, please leave your hair ribbon tied to my phaeton upon your departure. I will find a way to see you. If you do not, I shall, of course, respect your decision. 

A vila mon coeur, gardi li mo: You will always have my heart; I hope you also choose to be its haven.

Benedict

You could read this confession a thousand times over and still scarcely believe it; the depth of his feelings declared plainly, boldly, and so lyrically in writing. You pour over it once more, giddily aglow, your fingers tracing across his elegant, looped script, your lips moving as you mouth his words, needing to have them within you somehow. Then, you lovingly refold and place the letter between the last two blank pages of your notebook—a more fitting denouement to its contents you could not imagine.

You put on your shoes and pelisse, still floating on a cloud. A valet meets you in the hallway and, with a wordless nod of acknowledgement, leads you out of the rear mews entrance, handing you a large silk scarf to conceal yourself under. With one final glance up at Benedict’s abode, you unfurl the ribbon from your hair and, insides aflutter, tie it in a neat bow onto his phaeton before wrapping the scarf around your head and stealing out onto the streets of Mayfair. 

-viii-

Still in a daze about Benedict’s confession, you slip into the servant's entrance of your family home, tiptoeing through the dormant kitchen and tugging off the scarf. Just as you believe yourself home-free, Mrs White, head cook and ersatz maternal figure, materialises from the pantry, nearly dropping a bag of flour in surprise.

“Lawks alive, sweet child, you gave me a fright!” she exclaims, clutching her chest. “Pray tell, why are you sneaking into my kitchen at the crack of dawn?”

You cringe and turn sheepishly to meet her gaze. “Sorry for the scare, Mrs White. I, um, indulged rather too heavily last night. I was in no fit state to return home. I stayed with a trusted friend.” The truth, albeit behind a veil of obfuscation. “Please do not tell Father!” you add hurriedly.

As she plunks down the flour and smacks her fingers together to rid them of its nascent dust, she chuckles. “I shall not divulge if you do not… for I was already under your father’s employ when I did the same many years ago, the night before I made my Harry an honest man.”

“Deal!” you giggle, clutching your notebook tight to your chest, unable to quash the ebullience fizzing in your being.

“You look as if you caught a rainbow and sold it to the sky,” she declares, crossing her arms and observing you closely. “Wedding day excitement, yes?!” she adds pointedly with a raised eyebrow, even as her tone very much suggests she suspects otherwise. 

“Of course, Mrs White…” you concur, attempting to conceal the quirk of your lip. 

She rolls her eyes and shoos you affectionately towards the hallway. “Away with you! I suspect the less I truly know, the better…”

You say nothing; just give her a nod and race up the servant's stairs, keen to make it to your bedroom unseen. 

As soon as you are safely there, you toe off your shoes and only then relinquish your vice-like grip upon your notebook to hurriedly change into your nightgown as if you had been asleep in the house all night. Enacting a plan you conceived on the brisk walk home, you grab a night bag from your ottoman. Flinging open your wardrobe, patently ignoring the wedding dress hung upon its door, you bundle the notebook with a couple of your favourite outfits and stuff them into the bag. Buckling it shut while you scoot across the room, you open the sash window and  - with a quick check of the garden below - drop the bag into the large rhododendron beneath, hopeful the dense, fragrant blooms will conceal its presence for now.

Just as you are closing the window, a gaggle of ladies descend upon your room, led by your fussing mother, your ladies' maid Rachel among them. Realising she has had to lie to keep your cover since yesterday at the modiste, you silently shoot her a brief look of reassurance.

“Rise and shine, darling!” your mother chimes. “‘Tis your most special day!”

And then everything is a blur as the preparation for your wedding starts in earnest, you still slightly detached from it all, your thoughts purely of Benedict. It is only sometime later that you get a few moments of peace with just Rachel as she puts the finishing touches to your look.

“You seem changed, my lady…” Rachel opines sotto voce, sliding a pin into your hair.

You say nothing, even as your eyes meet in the vanity table mirror, unwilling to confess details of what has transpired just yet. Unsure yourself even what it could mean until you get the chance to see Benedict yourself, your stomach in knots to do so.

“I told your family you took dinner alone last night in your room after returning from the modiste, and then you went to sleep…” she whispers, leaning in even though you are alone.

“Thank you. I am truly grateful,” you offer sincerely before adding: “I will tell you more when I am able. I do beg one more favour of you…?”

She makes eye contact again in your reflection, giving a brief tentative nod after a pause.

“If you should hear from a Bridgerton valet, please follow any directions he provides,” you implore, the image of your hair ribbon fluttering gently in the breeze emblazoned in your mind.

“A valet? Not a ladies’ maid?” she checks softly, frowning.

“Yes, just please… do as he asks?”

“Yes, my lady,” she demures before reaching for your jewellery.

It is only as the carriage you and your mother ride in shudders over the cobblestones towards St George’s church an hour or so later that reality comes crashing in. 

So engrossed in thoughts of seeing Benedict all morning, you had almost forgotten the dreadful fate that likely awaits you. A sudden spike of fear that he will not turn up, that something will prevent him from seeing you, or, heaven forfend, today’s stiff breeze has blown your hair ribbon asunder. 

All at once, your head is spinning, your dress feels too tight, and there is a plunging dread in the pit of your stomach, your skin prickling hard before your vision seems to swim with dots before narrowing to blackness…

“Y/n!? Whatever is the matter?!” your mother’s alarmed voice rings out as you woozily return.

You are slumped sideways against the glass window, its cool surface a balm on your suddenly fevered temple.

“Is it what I told you about your wedding night…?!” she frets, her laced glove tickling your forehead as she appears to be checking your temperature. “I can assure you, you will get used to it…”

You bat her away and slowly sit upright, taking a calming breath while also trying to blot out the memory of her talk about marital relations right before you left the house. Not able to confess it as unnecessary without raising suspicion, you had to endure a stumbling, unhelpful explanation of things you already know. Indeed, you have witnessed at Granville’s parties, even if you have not taken part yourself. 

But then the sudden thought of being required to do such with Lord Farringdon has you grasping the curtain, your empty stomach heaving at the mere prospect. The silent hope that Benedict can assist you at the eleventh hour is the only thing that stops you from passing out anew.

With a shaky gait and a queasy, oily feeling, you alight a few moments later, your mother lending an arm of support as your father and brothers pile out of the other carriage. This is to be the entirety of your wedding guest list. You have pulled into a side courtyard of the church, concealed behind high walls, away from the inquisitive sights of the Ton. The rushed nature of the union and Whistledown’s latest means your family has no wish for this to be a public event, keen to be rid of scandal. Only your immediate family, your husband-to-be and the vicar - a friend of your father’s - know of today’s ceremony. Well, and Benedict. You did not even get the chance to inform Eloise of this expedited schedule.

As he leads you up the stairs and into the side vestibule, your father informs you that Lord Farringdon is already awaiting you at that altar and that he will appreciate a swift ceremony. You swallow thickly and nod mutely, sensing the window of opportunity creaking closed with alarming alacrity, each incessant tick of the church clock seeming like both forever and not enough time, scrabbling for any chance to stall.

Just as you are about to lose all sense of hope, you see movement over your father's shoulder that has your heart leaping into your throat. There, through a mullioned window, you see the distorted outline of a phaeton swiftly pulling up on the other side of the church from where you entered, a palpable wave of relief and excitement washing over you. 

Benedict has come!

-ix-

“Father, may I please have a moment alone?” you rush out breathlessly, pulse-pounding hard in your ears. Hoping he will interpret your request as mere nervousness about the imminent ceremony, you add: “Before I must take this big step and become a wife?”

He reluctantly grants your wishes, brusquely telling you it should be brief before following the rest of your family through the doors into the nave. 

As soon as the coast is clear, you are darting out the entrance again and running around the outside of the church, wedding dress swishing around your legs, until you skid to a halt next to a pillar that conceals you from the street.

There, before you, arrestingly beautiful and jumping athletically down to the pavement, is Benedict—a vision in a blue velvet jacket and teal cravat. 

Your eyes meet, and your knees want to buckle; such is the magnitude of the moment. He bounds up the granite steps and crushes his lips to yours briefly.

“No time to talk,” he rushes out. “If you wish to escape, take my hand, for we must depart now!”

Your heart hammers as you do the only thing you could ever want to: grab tightly onto his proffered hand as his face breaks out into the most arresting smile. Then it's a blur as he whisks you down the steps to his phaeton, hoisting you up onto its leather bench and throwing a blanket into your lap, then clambering in himself. With a shake of the reins, you lurch and take off down an alleyway at a rapid pace. The velocity of motion, red bricks of buildings whizzing by mere feet away, has you momentarily stunned and so you almost jump out of your skin when he speaks loudly over the rushing noise.

“Cover yourself before we get to the street,” Benedict advises quick-fire, only taking his attention off the road briefly to nod to the blanket. Just as you are struggling to conceal yourself, the horses careen onto Park Lane, attracting attention for the speed you are already travelling.

“Benedict!” you chastise, your arm shooting out to grab the side of the partial umbrella-like hood that arches over you, having to cling on for dear life. “This is not exactly a stealthy escape!”

“I know,” he grimaces, not looking at you, “but we must make haste and be as far away as we can as soon as possible.”

“Regardless of destination, we will need to stop at my house!” you almost have to yell to be heard over the jostling wheels on either side of you.

“Why??” His whole face screwed up in disbelief.

“I must gather some things! I will not leave without them, Benedict!!” you warn.

“What could possibly be worth stopping for?” he decries, the whole vehicle swaying violently as he rounds another bend.

“Perchance, other clothing?!” you wither loudly, frowning that he had not considered such, before adding: “And your letter!?” 

His head whips around to look at you and there is an intensity in his gaze that has your heart stuttering. An all-consuming want to kiss his lips as his gaze falls to your mouth. Only the urgent yelp of a pedestrian you narrowly avoid colliding into rips your attention away from each other. 

He rights the phaeton, tugging the reins so the horses slow.

“Alright,” he concedes, quieter, calmer. “But please do be as quick as you are able…”

You don't get the chance to inform him you have already packed and stowed a bag because he is pulling up in the quiet mews behind your family home. You jump down and take off, sprinting through the small gate and across the lawn. Soon, you are diving into the large bushes on the side of the house beneath your bedroom window. Fumbling around, you have to wrestle your dress from a branch before you reach the wall. Emitting a muted noise of victory as you are finally able to grab your bag and out of the foliage without looking.

“Miss y/l/n!?”

You jump out of your skin, spinning to see Mrs White standing at a nearby door, wielding a rolling pin.

“Mrs White, please,” you beseech, “please, do not tell anyone!” 

She takes stock of you: your animated state, your wedding dress torn over your knee where it snagged upon that branch, a night bag grasped in your ringless left hand… and she appears to make a calculated decision.

“I fear I could not, my child,” she offers with a shrug, “I do not see anyone for me to tell of…” 

The small, sympathetic nod and smile toying her lips has you barreling towards her, throwing your free arm tight around her as flour dust puffs onto the silk of your dress. You utter your thanks, flooded with gratitude, hugging her close before disentangling, you take off sprinting before she can say anymore.

-x-

As you depart from your family home, a companionable silence settles between you—a tacit understanding that there is much to discuss, but the journey is not the ideal place to do so. Both resolute to put some miles between yourselves and your family, likely now emerging from the church and wondering where on earth you are. A flare of guilt in your belly for not informing Rachel or even your mother. You resolve to send word tomorrow that you are safe without providing details.

As the edges of London give way to the countryside, you do decide to ask one simple question. 

“Where are we headed, Benedict?”

“I have a suggested destination….” he begins enigmatically, an odd cadence to his voice, “but we will discuss that later, once we stop for the night at an inn.”

There is a little flutter behind your ribs at the thought, but it is forgotten as a strong gust of wind whistles over the carriage, making you shiver and burrow into the blanket, wishing you had grabbed your pelisse from the night bag before setting off.

You startle as Benedict pulls you snugly into his side, adjusting the carriage hood and then the blanket, too, so he provides partial shelter from the winds as they whip across the fields. 

“I am sorry I do not have an enclosed carriage for you to journey in comfort,” he winces, his speech humming into you. “But it is best we use this speedier option anyway. We will cover more ground swiftly travelling light.”

You nod in acknowledgement. “Thank you for the blanket, at least; it is very considerate,” you respond, not unpleased to have an excuse to cuddle into him as you reassure him: “I am well now.”

Indeed, the warmth of his flank on yours and the steady rocking motion of the carriage is soporific, the whirlwind of the day hitting you even though it is merely lunchtime.

“Please rest if you need to,” he intuits, “I will wake you if needed.”

And despite the elements, you find the lure of sleep inevitable.

A warm wetness on your brow stirs you.

“Y/n…”

You wish you could always be roused like this; your name a soft rumble from Benedict’s lips as they trace gently over your forehead. You nuzzle unthinkingly into the sound and feel, which has him chuckling into your skin.

“We are here, at the inn….” he murmurs, his breath hot into your hairline.

You blink awake. “We are?!’” You twist to see you are stopped alongside an elegant Tudor wood building. “How long have I been asleep?!”

“All afternoon,” he admits, a touch sheepish. “You looked so peaceful and I assume you must need the rest after a tumultuous few days.”

His touching manner has a warmth spreading behind your ribs that makes you push up and land a kiss on his jaw.

“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling away but pleased to see a dot of colour high on his cheekbones.

“‘Tis nothing,” he demures before changing the topic. “I am sure you are hungry and in need of refreshments. So we shall dine and remain here for the night. We have covered a considerable distance from London already—around forty miles.” He jumps down and stands expectantly holding out a hand for you to follow suit as he continues speaking. “To avoid attention, we should present ourselves as family relations—cousins, perhaps?” 

“I am in a wedding dress,” you remind as you wrestle your way out of the blanket and reach for him to descend.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he scans down your form, lingering slightly.

“Oh yes. Well. Umm. Perchance as husband and wife then?” he flusters as you step down with his assistance.

“Would that not draw the attention you mentioned we should avoid?” you murmur, your hands still joined even though you are on the ground now.

“Do you have another suggestion?” he queries, his breath warm on your face as you stand entirely too close, fingers flexing around yours.

“Unless you wish me to remove my dress out here…” you goad, a little crest of victory as his pupils rapidly dilate and he huffs a breath, “...then I do not.”

“We have much to discuss,” he almost growls, which stokes something low in your belly as he tugs you along towards the entrance, only stopping to nod briefly to the inn’s groomsman who emerges to take care of your horses.

-xi-

The tavern at the inn is a warm, convivial space, wood-panelled, the smell of delicious foods wafting in the air alongside the tannin of wine and the ferrous tang of dark beer as crowds of people of all walks of life gather. Benedict sees you into a corner booth away from other patrons as he orders food, then goes to secure your accommodation for the night.

As he returns, passing you a glass of wine, there is a nervous churning in your gut; this is the first opportunity you have had to talk properly since you awoke to his life-changing letter.

“I have no idea where to begin,” he confesses, looking perplexed, and it makes you reach out in reassurance over the table, pulse strong in his raised veins under your fingertips.

“Your letter was the single most wondrous thing I have ever received,” you offer honestly, his eyes softening, making your heart flutter. “Benedict,” you take a steadying breath before ploughing on with the truth you have never spoken aloud before, “I have loved you for as long as I can remember…”

His face lights up, and his hand turns under yours, your palms touching as he laces your fingers together in a tight knot, then brings your joined fists to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently. 

“Why did you never tell me?” He entreats softly.

“Why did you never tell me?” You return lightning quick, a quirk on your lips that has him chuckling.

“An entirely fair accusation,” he concedes, shuffling closer and grabbing your other hand, your heads so close together now. “I suppose I thought my feelings irrelevant, futile even, that you would secure a titled husband. Though why your father chose such a vile one confounds me, I must confess.”

“I believe that a chastisement,” you commence but are interrupted by food arriving at your table. 

So, as you eat, you explain the whole story between mouthfuls. That you were able to delay your debut last season in your father’s absence, but it meant this season, he was determined to see you matched swiftly. Recounting fondly your time spent with your Aunt Eliza, Benedict appearing impressed as you reel off all the skills you now possess. You also talk in detail about how her encouragement meant you fell into the London art scene and how you know Henry Granville. Benedict listens intently, taking bites of his dinner, but his attention never wavers from you as you recount everything. 

“So yes, I believe the match was about my father’s wish to quash a perceived rebellion more than a match society might deem appropriate for the firstborn daughter of a Viscount.” 

“An untitled second son, even less so,” Benedict muses softly, downcasting his eyes, a flare of insecurity that has you putting down your cutlery and grabbing his jaw.

“Benedict, please do not,” you petition, rubbing a thumb over his cheek. “You know me. You know that I have never cared what society might think! If I were to marry, I would only ever want it to be a love match. I would not give a damn if my husband were a penniless beggar as long as he loves and respects me.” 

You pause as he raises his soulful gaze to yours, your faces so close.

“Luckily for me, the man who stole my heart fifteen years ago is neither penniless nor a beggar. He is a wonderful, caring, handsome, passionate artist who I would indeed be lucky to paint next to,” you conclude with reference to a line in his letter, a scene you can picture so clearly it seems more premonition than a dream.

“Fifteen years?” he repeats, a look of utter wonderment as he turns his lips aside to kiss your palm where you still cup his face. You nod, a little nostalgic smile tugging at your lips as he adds: “Then I must confess… I have never been more grateful for my incessant curiosity; it led me to your diary and thus to this very moment.”

He takes your hands from his jaw, then kisses both of your knuckles again in turn, but this time, he lingers, his lips warm, damp and pursed open, and a trace of his tongue dabs your protruding bone. A shiver runs down your spine, stoking something acute, dangerous and exhilarating.

“Do you know I have kept that notebook hidden since I was fourteen? Sewing a secret pocket into all of my coats or hiding it under floorboards so it would never be found. For six years. Yet it took you less than one evening…” 

“Maybe it was waiting to reveal itself to the one person who needed to see it the most…” he muses between kisses, his breath gusting hot over your fingers. 

That seismic but simple poetic sentence devastates your ability or wish to talk anymore—a thronging need for him that you are powerless to resist any longer.

“Take me to our room, Benedict,” you command, voice tremulant with want and hope. 

His head shoots up, his face a captivating tapestry of barely bridled passion and astonishment.

“But I-I booked us separate rooms,” he stumbles, confounded, and that gentlemanly act just makes you want him all the more.

Uncaring that you are sitting in a wedding dress in a public tavern, you pitch forward and capture his lips in a kiss that instantly becomes passionate and demanding, your hand running into his hair and tugging him closer.

“You should return the key and request your money back, for that will not be necessary…” you decree, breathing the words into his mouth.

That seems to light a fire in him. He shoves back the table and sweeps you into his arms bridal style, striding out of the room purposefully, his mouth hot on yours, your pounding heartbeat almost drowning out the bawdy, raucous cheers from the drunken patrons you pass.

-xii-

Once the room door clicks closed behind you, his demeanour softens. He gently removes your shoes before setting your stockinged feet down on a plush rug in front of a roaring fire. He tugs his jacket off so he stands before you in a colourful waistcoat and ruffled shirt.

“Are you certain?” His ask is chivalrous, tinged with such delicate hope it makes you melt.

“I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life,” you declare candidly, boldly stepping towards him.

His hands encircle your waist as yours slide up his biceps, the warmth of his skin through the crisp white fabric making your blood run warm. 

“I may be chaste, but I know of what we are to do; I have been at Granville’s, remember. I also know that I want this. So very much.”

“I am the luckiest man…” he asserts in a low rumble, your honesty seeming to ignite him again as he crowds into you.

It’s an electrifying kiss that has your scalp tingling: his hands moulded to you, mapping your every curve as you take from each other as you never have before, desperation bubbling over with each parry of tongues. His fingers land on the buttons of your dress, between your shoulder blades, silently asking permission.

“Rip it off me,” you urge impulsively, chest heaving within your stays. “I want you to destroy this very dress and everything it represents….”

His responding growl inflames your core, molten liquid heat as his large hands grab the material and tear it asunder from your body so you stand before him, trembling with desire in just your stays and chemise.

He guides your fingers to his waistcoat, the crackle of the fire and the huff of his breaths the only sound in the room. His chest rises and falls steadily as you work on each button. When you reach the last one, he shucks the garment from his torso, then crosses his arms and discards his shirt in one swift motion, sailing away in a puffed arch. The broad expanse of smooth chest before you has you tongue-tied. A lean musculature and pale complexion reminiscent of Italian renaissance sculpture… but living, breathing and looking at you as if you are the most precious thing on earth. 

Long arms wrap around you, enveloping you in his warmth, fingers spidering up the notches of your spine through the thin cotton of your chemise until they reach your stays and pluck upon the laces there. He unties them slowly as his lips trail hotly down your throat. You have observed forms of intimacy but didn't expect the firsthand experience to be so rich, so all-consuming. The sights, the sensations, the scents. Like the tangy undernotes lurking beneath his woody cologne, an aroma that is all him, his bare skin. It makes your mouth water and lean into him; a want to be a part of him almost—so much heat and touch.

As your loosened stays drop to the floor behind you, a clawing need for his flesh on yours has you rapidly discarding your chemise over your head, naked now save your stockings. But before he has the chance to see, you propel yourself into him again, his solid chest colliding with your breasts, your peaked nipples trapped against his warmth. A loud groan from his lips that you swallow as you push up onto tiptoes and wrap your arms around his strong neck, kissing him ferociously. His grip slides down to grasp your bottom, pulling you into him, something rigid pressing your stomach through the refined wool of his trousers. 

“Let me look at you,” he pleads, withdrawing a half step, his eyes sweeping covetously down your body as you feel aglow in the heat of the adjacent fire. “You are so beautiful,” he attests shakily, an insistent throbbing between your legs that is all of his making, so close without any stimulation.

“Touch me, Benedict.” 

It’s equal parts order and request, grabbing his wrist and guiding it low over your belly. His elegant fingertips curl through the patch of hair before swiping between your legs, dilated pupils boring into yours as you emit a wanton moan, knees almost buckling. A strong arm wraps around you to keep you steady as he observes you up close, repeating the motion, parting your folds this time, you honeying upon his fingertips as he glances over your swollen clit. 

You whimper his name, and he claims your lips again, sliding the pad of his fingers over that spot over and over. Fingernails digging into his arm at his expert touch, the air swirling with the wet sound and scent of your arousal.

“You smell so utterly divine,” he groans, pitching forward and almost biting your bottom lip in a toothful, desperate meeting, your moans echoing over his tongue. “I need to taste you,” he stutters.

You have to shoot out an arm to grasp the mantlepiece as he suddenly drops to his knees before you and buries his face into your mound, inhaling deeply, his nose pressed onto your clitoral hood. He is so primal in his desperation as he lifts one of your legs and places it over his shoulder, diving into your folds, his tongue a wet, hot spear over your swollen nub. Your other hand burrows into his thick head of hair, scratching along his scalp as he hums his approval into your damp heat, the vibration causing sparks of pleasure to fan out.

It takes what little shred of concentration you have left to stay upright, clinging to the fireplace and him, rocketing skyward so dizzyingly fast, slack-jawed, breathless, rooted in your body as you gawk down at him. You had no idea this would be so intense, so carnal. His stare is fixated upwards on you, reading your reactions like a book, his glazed jaw moving with expert precision buried between your legs—an intoxicating sight that burns into your retinas.

“I need you to come for me, y/n,” he begs hotly into your soaked flesh, his tongue a muscular swipe greater than his fingers, his fingers plucking the ribbons holding your stockings loose so they slide down to your feet.

“I want to do so with you…” you gasp, unable to prevent whatever forms in your mouth from slipping out, leaking profusely onto his chin.

“You will; I promise,” his gravelly assurance, the permission you need to let go, riding his tongue with abandon, your body undulating, chasing that ephemeral high you have only experienced from your own touch before. But this is so much more, so wholly other, magnitudes indeed, the words from his letter never far from your thoughts even as you spiral somewhere close to bliss. His gaze locked onto you, able to read all your signs: skin flushed, ragged pants, shuddering with each quest of his tongue.

And then he gently bites your clit, and you are gone, his hands needing to clamp onto your hips to hold you upright as your body convulses. You cry out, sagging onto him as your body races with a high that fizzes in every cell, radiating in waves of pleasure that have you calling out, uncaring who may hear, incapable of anything but clinging to his hair for dear life and scrunching your toes into the thick wool rug underfoot.

You know you utter a curse, entirely overpowered by the euphoria coursing through you as he stands back up and pulls you into his arms, kissing your cheek chastely, the scent of you strong on his face. But as you come back to yourself, renewed passion stokes in you, determination to give as good as you have been given, a drive for mutual pleasure that has you shoving him backwards forcefully.

He falls back onto the bed, a look of total surprise claiming his face as you crowd over him, laying prone, attacking his trouser buttons with a vigour that has him stunned, his mouth agape. But he doesn't move to stop you, far from it. There is a flash in his eye as you grab his hands and cage them onto the sheets briefly before returning to attack his clothing. Wordlessly, he lifts his pelvis when you tap his hipbone, and then you are tugging his trousers down and off, flinging them across the room.

You are momentarily taken aback when you look down and realise he is without underwear, now as naked as you. His cock, nestled in a small patch of hair, is larger than you have seen before, tinged dark pink and leaking from the tip. It looks so good you bite your lip, a twinge deep inside that is pure want. 

His moan is beautiful as you take him in hand. He is hot and steely in your grip as you move your hand up and down, learning his contours, fascinated by the contrast of how silky his skin is.

“I am so glad you have seen things you should not have,” he groans, squirming delightfully, so very responsive to your touch. It makes you greedy always to have him like this, yearning for you as much as you do him, stuttering your name as you change your grip and move a little faster.

“Please stop…” he grits out, his hand covering yours and slowing your motions, but you can tell it is utterly reluctant. “I am too close, my love…”

That reflexive term of endearment makes something melt behind your ribs, and you crawl up over him as you release his cock, claiming his lips in a kiss, his hands encircling your waist, pulling you down so that his cock is trapped under your pubic bone.

“I love you,” you breathe quietly over his lips, holding his face, wanting to convey the depth of feelings you have for this man.

“I love you too, y/n,” he replies earnestly, his eyes glassy, a cloud of emotion claiming his expression as his hands cup your jaw as well, a profound moment of heartfelt sincerity amid this tableau of fevered physicality.

“May I?” 

Your ask is hesitant as you rearrange, sliding your legs up either side of his hips, signalling your wish to ride him, a need to be the one to give your virginity to him more than him to take it. Something achingly significant in the ability to choose.

He nods a reassuring and spellbound look, and a beguiling hitch in his throat as his tip brushes your entrance.

“It may hurt a little, my love,” he advises, wincing as if wishing that was not the case for you.

“I know,” you murmur back, grabbing his hands to aid you in sitting up so you have more range of motion. 

And then, with a steadying breath, you lower yourself onto him, mouth falling open at the invasive stretch with barely a fraction of him inside you. His face is a kaleidoscope of everything you hope for him—joy and bliss. Your fingers grasp tight around his knuckles, your joined hands a knotted fist, as you feel a pinch of pain that makes you suck air through your teeth, knowing this is the moment you become a woman. So glad it is with him, the categorical love of your life.

Luckily, the ache is fleeting, and you sink lower, him moaning your name lyrically, you puffing a breath at the complete fullness. A pressure holding you open that is so galvanic you now understand the hedonism of what you have previously witnessed—the drive to satisfy an urge that is innate and potent.�� 

“Oh my god, Benedict,” you stutter, as finally he is fully seated within your body, clinging to him, held open in the most arresting way.

“I know, my love, I know…” he soothes, untangling your hands to touch your skin, running his palms reverentially down your body. “You are amazing, a wonder…” 

“Guide me…?”

He smiles and whispers gentle instructions for you to push up with your thighs and then sink back down, his hands now clamped around your waist to assist you. The sensation is indescribable, the drag of his cock against your walls as you slowly ascend and descend, trying to catalogue every second as a precious memory.

Your speed increases as you get used to the physicality of movement, a cloying, dewy heat spreading over both your bodies as you move in unison. He starts to tilt his hips off the bed to assist in your strokes, pushing to a new depth that catches your breath and has you muttering a curse, your hands scrabbling his abdomen, enjoying the flex of muscles there. His grip moves to your breasts, teasing your nipples in a way that has you gasping and riding harder. His fingers snagging on your sensitive buds is a beeline zipping to your engorged clit, that mashes into his body with every downward stroke you take. Still on a high from your last orgasm, it won't take much more for you to come again; this time, you hope in tandem.

His movements become more urgent, his noises louder, his touch firmer, squeezing you, bucking up with force now, making you moan with each new plunge onto him, as if he craves to leave an imprint of himself inside you.

“Are you close, my love?” you query, borrowing his term of endearment. It has his screwed-shut eyes flying open, his hands flexing on your hips, and a ripple up his rigid cock you can actually feel.

“Yesssss,” he hisses back, “please call me that again,” he entreats through clenched teeth, a prominent vein in his neck pulsing hard as his whole being seems to tense.

“My love,” you coo, treating it like a gift to bestow, addicted already to the effect it has on him, his fingers digging into your flesh in a way that will leave marks you will be proud to wear.

You move faster now, the sturdy bed squeaking in protest, the sound of your damp skin slapping together, taking even yourself by surprise at how visceral this is, especially for a first time. Expecting it to be less somehow and enraptured that instead, it is better, burning brighter than anything you have ever fantasised of—skin and sweat, muscle and bone, heart and body in rhapsody. 

One of his hands squirrels between your legs, fingertips hooking against your clit, and within seconds, you are breaking. Your vision whiting out as you slam onto him, your pussy clenching in waves, his cock almost too much as you float somewhere that is both within you and a thousand miles above. Dimly, you sense his nails scrape your flesh as he calls out your name, loudly, debauched, wrecked, a strong pulse through his length as he shudders then goes entirely still, a warmth blooming deep inside your channel that is his seed, something about it so very primaeval. 

You slump inelegantly onto his chest, huffing breaths, altered fundamentally by this magical experience. His touch is soothing, encouraging to lay upon him as he softens within you, eventually slipping out as you lay nuzzled together, exchanging soft words of sated joy—a sudden tide of fatigue lapping your edges. Fuzzily, you feel Benedict chuckle under you and, with hushed, tender words, rearrange your pliant body, rolling you onto your side and curling protectively around you, a warming presence that has sleep seizing you almost immediately.

Awakening the following morning in Benedict’s arms is sublime, his stubbled lips grazing your neck as he rolls you under his warm weight. Just as your body stirs under his sensual kisses, he stops and sighs, dropping his forehead onto your clavicle.

“I wish to spend a lifetime right here, entwined naked with you, my love, but alas, I must desist,” he laments softly. “We need to get moving…”

“You never did say your planned destination,” you point out, running your fingers into his lush hair as he tilts his handsome face up to meet your gaze.

“Did I not?” He lilts, feigning ignorance. “I blame you entirely; your beauty is far too distracting..” Flattery falling from his lips reflexively. “Well, anyway, we must make haste if we are to reach Scotland by Friday as I have planned.”

“Scotland?” you echo breathlessly. “That is so far! Why there?”

“Gretna Green, my love,” his eyes sparkling as he hovers over you, entwining the fingers of your left hands together, his thumb brushing your ring finger. “I hope you are amenable to my proposal...”

And your heart veritably explodes.

-xiii-

The journey is long but worth it. Your wedding, five days later, over the border in Scotland, is everything you could hope for—a beautiful, romantic, private moment for just the two of you, promising your lives to each other in secret. Something thrillingly illicit about its location, too, the place to which all forbidden lovers escape. You do not wear a wedding dress, just a simple light blue chiffon one you had thrown into your night bag, always a favourite since Benedict once complimented you in it. He wears a cravat in the same colour. Exchanging matching wedding bands engraved inside with the same phrase Benedict signed off his love confession with: A vila mon coeur, gardi li mo (Here is my heart, guard it well).

You are happily ensconced in his idyllic Wiltshire cottage by the time family reactions to your elopement reach you almost two weeks later. The Bridgertons are supportive if a little shocked; the dowager Viscountess is always enamoured with a dramatic love story. Your family is less so, but they cannot deny a match with a Bridgerton is no bad thing, even if it was fleeting gossip fodder. You hear from your mother that Lord Farringdon did not demand compensation for your abscondment from the altar. Apparently, you were not the first to do so. Rumour has it that the odious man is negotiating a marriage deal with the Cowpers for their wayward daughter. It may be the first time you have felt a pang of sympathy for Cressida. 

Mostly, you are grateful that the more scandalous truth surrounding your union - Benedict stealing you away on your wedding day - never becomes public knowledge. Every couple must keep some secrets from the world, no? 

Although, a couple of weeks later, on a leisurely Sunday morning, you discover your marriage can no longer be considered as such.

“Darling, you might want to see this…” Benedict drawls casually, wandering into the bathroom as you luxuriate in warm water. 

He drops the latest issue of Lady Whistledown onto a nearby stool as he tugs off his shirt, apparently planning to join you in your bath. Your mouth falls open in shock as you grab the pamphlet. But it is not from his naked form as his trousers hit the floor; it's from what you read:

Lastly, this author may have to eat her hat. News has reached me that Mr Benedict Bridgerton had indeed done the almost unthinkable and married the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. They exchanged vows in a quiet ceremony far from the prying eyes of the Ton and will now settle in Wiltshire, I hear. 

“How did she find out?” you ponder aloud as he slides into the tub behind you. Surely Whistledown must be close to the Bridgertons to discover as such?

“I have not a clue. But perhaps I should send her some honey from our hives to make her headwear more digestible?” he jests, interrupting your reading by pulling you backwards into his arms. 

“Mr Bridgerton!” you chastise playfully, holding the paper aloft to save it from the sloshing he creates as he surrounds you, laughing carefree, so much delightfully naked skin around yours.

“Are you done reading Mrs Bridgerton?” His tone changes to a husky murmur in your ear, his fingers trailing distractingly upwards over your ribs under the water.

“You just brought this to me, husband,” you riposte pointedly, but your argument dies off into a wanton noise as his hands slide up and cup your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples expertly. You abandon any attempt to focus on the page, tossing the paper aside and twisting to capture his lips with yours.

Upon the floor, as water splashes onto the wood nearby, the last few sentences you missed glow in a shaft of sunlight:

Congratulations on the latest Bridgerton love match, and I wish them a lifetime of happiness. As I am certain, do all of you. 

What secrets will I unearth next, dear readers? Even I do not yet know. But I look forward to it. Don’t you?

Yours sincerely,

Lady Whistledown

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[halcyone-of-the-sea]

ALL THE THINGS WE SAID WE WOULDN'T DO (VIII)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER IX

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 13.2k

WARNINGS: Angst, stalking, guns/weapons, very dark/toxic modeling standards/expectations/abuse of power, body image issues, food issues, alcohol, scar descriptions, gore, light torture insinuations, hurt/comfort, NSFW, not full-on smut, fingering, descriptions of masturbation, praise, multiple orgasms, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“Oh,” you breathe out a long sigh. “This is horrible.” 

Pale eyes blink at you slowly from the side of his vision, Nikto watching your face fall as his brow lightly rises. 

The hotel is large—one main area with sectioned-off rooms much like any upscale hotel would be. But the decorations were…well, there wasn’t much you could say in their favor. It was all white, at least, all pale enough that you assumed it was entirely white. The walls, the countertops, the chairs.

“What are people's fixations with white and gray?” Your body moves forward, slipping out of your heels before you cross your arms over your chest. “I swear, I can’t even see color and I know how to style better than them.”

Blinking at a painting on the wall, which seems to be no more than a black line down a pale canvas, you look at Nikto in exasperation. You motion with a shaky hand to it. “What is this even supposed to be?”

You grumble the sentence, tilting your head at the artwork. 

Nikto’s low chuckle moves through you, and the void slips past as he moves farther into the hotel room, looking around. 

“It is not your…style,” he mutters, shoulders rolling. All of your bags sit in the front hallway right by the door, stacked up and up like the basework of a home of fabric. The image of the man in this glaring place is stark, and you blink through a smile.

“You can say that again,” you huff, but you quickly devolve into soft chuckles.

Nikto pauses, looking over his shoulder at you. He stares with confusion as your quivering form covers your mouth with your palm. 

“What?” The man asks, glancing around. 

“You,” you laugh loudly, walking closer one uneven step at a time. Nikto watches, still. “You look silly standing here. Like a blackhole just opened up.”

Pale eyes narrow, a thin grunt wafting out from his chest. 

Your hand carefully rests on his bicep, giggling heavily as an infectious amusement leaks from your lips. Nikto’s expression fights the sudden soft sweet that threatens it—mouth quirking as he sighs. 

“That is not funny,” he grumbles, head tilting away from you.

“Oh,” you breathe, rolling your eyes and moving away. “The irony.” 

Nikto watches you look around, coat hanging off one arm and your face lighter now that you've had a small rest. He hadn’t woken you up until the car had fully stopped in the street, only then shaking your shoulder until your eyes had fluttered open softly. The expression you had worn was still in the back of his brain, that open and airy thing—body shifting with tiny grunts that made his thighs twitch. 

The sensation of your skin under his; the warmth of it. 

Nikto’s eyes blink slowly, fingers at his sides twitching as his throat takes down saliva. 

Rolling his neck, the Russian shifts his legs and follows after to find where you’d gone off to. 

He won’t admit it to you, but he liked the simplicity of the hotel room. Yet, the exasperation you gained from it, he liked more.

Your hands open all of the doors, searching the bathroom and the room—the realization only hits you when you once more lay your vision on Nikto, who had been watching you glance around silently. 

A heat pulls at your cheeks, and with a low clearing of your throat, your sheepish face implores, “Did you see a second bedroom?”

The Russian's large body seems to take a screenshot, stuttering before his head roves the visible rooms to them. 

One bathroom. One bedroom. 

Immediately, he says, “We will take the couch.” 

“No,” you shake your head, waving a hand as if to convince him that it wasn’t the only option. “No, that’s alright. I don’t want you to feel pressured to—”

The front door gets a hard knock on it, and the both of you straighten. 

Eyes locked, your body releases a sigh before you shift and make your way back to the entrance. Nikto passes by, a hand brushing your arm as his boots thump on the floor. A flash of pale eyes leaves you widely staring.

“I will sleep on the couch,” he grunts, and then he’s already at the door and checking through the peephole. His opposite hand shifts to hover over his beretta, long fingers skimming the metal. 

Blinking, your hot face flares again, and in your stomach a swirl of heat levels. 

Something about him had changed again—just like you’d seen throughout your time together. It was a slow thing; delicate. Like taming a wild animal that stopped by outside of your porch once and a while, the eyes on the thing slitted and teeth bared. 

But it was undeniable at this point, no matter how much you wanted it to be false. 

Yefim has been slipping from your mind lately. The mantra you’d sworn to follow. 

Don’t get attached. 

It was easier said than done, and just as everyone always thought you were a mindless fool, you agreed with them in this instance. You were a fool. A beautiful, stupid, fool. At first, it could be pushed off as hope, maybe. An attraction to a big, dangerous man in the time after a traumatic event—his body promised protection; his hands, violence. That could be brushed off, only a sentence said in the therapy session you very much needed, but, now…

Now you were afraid it was far more than a simple distraction.

Wringing your hands a good distance away, you take down a low inhale and try to force the memory of his gloved fingers running your flesh. Or, worse, his bare skin pressing firmly into the bastardus scar on the back of your head—something you would have never let anyone see if it had been up to you. His hard hold, his easy work of your weight when he picked you up. 

The thump of his pulse right beside your ear. 

Even that small car ride had been suffocating with something unnamed. 

You run a hand over the back of your head, feet shifting over cold tile. 

“Nikto,” your voice carries. “Who is it?”

“Man,” he scoffs, moving back and looking with that mask over his shoulder. “He has suit on. Blond hair. Короткий.”

Fuck, that mask. Those eyes. 

You can’t even focus—what was going on with you?

“Okay,” you clear your throat, walking over as quickly as you’re able. A hand easily grabs your sleeve when you accidentally get too close to the side table, nearly bumping into it. You conform to a hard Kevlar chest, breath hitching. 

Rotting wood infects your nostrils, and you nearly sag instinctually into Nikto, pupils widening. With shifting legs, your fast feet backtrack, and the scent dissipates. 

“It’s probably Iakov—Iakov Mironovich Lisov,” Nikto narrows his eyes on you, looking up and down your body slowly in brief confusion. “He’s my media coordinator.” 

Grasping the handle, you open the door easily and come face to face with a casual greeting.

“Seraph.” You smile, albeit, you very much feel the presence of Nikto behind you—his low breath on the back of your head. Your ears twitch to the movement of his gear. 

“Good to see you again, Iakov Mironovich.”

“Ah,” the blond shakes his head. He was short; dressed nicely just as he should be. “We know each other, do we not? Iakov is just fine, my girl. No need for formalities.” 

Your smile is a bit more genuine now, and you chuckle, nodding. 

Iakov was kind to you—you wouldn’t say confident in all of his actions, but he knew how to present himself as such. New clothes, new watches, and jewelry. His job here was to update your portfolio as soon as possible, which meant he worked far closer to the photographers than you do. Iakov also plans out shoots, too; when to get that perfect shot for ads and media. 

“Have that schedule for me?” You sigh, faking a frown. 

The blond was all over AMA at any given time—you’re surprised the CEO had the resources to let him come along. 

Iakov hums. “I gave you breaks, Seraph, don’t worry. You know how I know you like them.” 

“You’re a lifesaver,” you mutter, smiling widely. 

A folder is passed your way, continuing outfits to wear and when to do so—locations and times. So much work.

The man chuckles, shrugging. “I’m always looking out for you.”

Nikto’s hand curls around your waist and takes the folder from you, asking for it under his breath in a way only you would hear. Shivering, you let him, and nearly feel his grunt of satisfaction at your spine. 

Aly’s jokes were getting harder to want to deny at this point.

What would it feel like to have him on top of you?

Your voice is a bit breathless as you push out, “A-and I’m very glad of it, thank you. Do you want to come in? We can talk some more about tonight and where I’m needed?”

But Iakov’s eyes aren’t on you—they’re on Nikto. 

And Nikto’s are staring right back from above your head. 

Blinking, you glance backward at your guard, brows furrowing. Your heart skips a beat at the intensity of Nikto’s piercing gaze, chin tilted down and his face dead-set forward. He isn’t even blinking. 

“...Boys?” You frown, shaking your head and moving to dispel tension as you usually knew how. Flirting. “I know I look ravishing, but please, don’t get into a catfight over my affection—it gets boring. At least do it outside.”

Nikto snaps out of his strange trance, wide eyes turning to look directly at you as you flutter a smirk to your lips. 

“I’d cheer for you, Big Guy, don’t worry.” Growling through his rapid blinks, Nikto detached himself from behind so close to you and disappeared into the room as you laughed loudly. 

“Enough!” Is the heavy bark, but it means nothing to you. 

“You’re adorable, Nikto,” you call, but only the suddenly stuttering pound of his boots is the answer. 

Grinning widely, your attention turns back to Iakov. Even you can see the pigment on his face, though it’s simply a deeper shade than the rest of him. The man’s legs shift—he looks…well, you can’t really place it. Something like annoyance slashes his expression, though it’s gone before you can comment and offer an apology. 

“No,” he grumbles, already moving away. “No, I need to speak with that photographer about the equipment.” 

And then the blond is walking away quickly. 

Frowning, you stare after him before you back up and slowly close the door, pausing at the entrance and looking down at your hands.

Peeling your grip from the handle, you confusedly glance at the clamminess of your palm before you lick your lips and shake your head. 

“Nikto?” You wonder, and a small smile comes back to your lips. 

“What?” Is the numb call from the kitchen.

Your legs carry you there, and you see him with his bag on the counter, large arms rifling through it before taking out all sorts of things. The papers were pushed to the side and looked through.

“What is that?” Your shocked voice makes his attention flicker to you, eyes swirling with dull amusement. 

“M13,” is the accented response. Casual, as if a regular walk in the part and not an Assault Rifle being set down to the hotel’s expensive stone countertops. Nikto’s smirk is heard as it moves like honey into your lungs, keeping them stuck together. “Big gun, yes?”

“What’s it doing in the kitchen?” Your confused face twitches. “I trust your cooking skills, but I don’t think you…” you pause. “Well, I, can’t eat metal even if you do attempt it.”

“Haha,” the Russian’s harsh speech only makes the mockery more funny. He huffs. “I am cleaning it, Птичка. For tonight. I will not have it jam if it comes my time to pull the trigger.” 

Your mouth opens, and you begin to ask if he’s even allowed to do that before your breath gets caught. 

“...What does that mean?” Pale eyes blink, hidden face tilting your way. 

Nikto grunts in question, taking out the same cleaning rag from his belt that he’d used all those days ago in his Beretta and setting it down. 

“I do not understand.”

Your tongue trips up, the word slipping together, but you get the chuck of it out that would need to be said, rough, though it sounded somewhat similar. You can only go off memory.

“Ptichka?”

Nikto’s fingers pause over the gun, and while it was impossible to tell, you feel the air go utterly still. He blinks, the Russian, at that moment, is highly confused and taken aback.

“We did not say that.” He slowly replies, rolling his shoulders before clearing his throat. “Must have slipped our tongue.” His hands visibly twitch from where you watch.

Face pulling in, your eyes narrow slowly, face tight. A deep curiosity brews like soup in a pot, and you instantly latch on to it.

Птичка. You stuff it away for later, but it sings in the back of your brain.

“Alright…” Trying to push past it, you smile teasingly. “Well, I hope you’ll enjoy the suit I reserved, anyway. The stylists should be bringing it up soon with my outfit.”

It isn’t easy to hide your glee when sharp eyes dart back up to meet yours.

—

“Stop moving,” one of the women hisses, the makeup brush moving over the lid of your eye. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, hands held together in your lap as you get ready in the bedroom. A large vanity is in front of you. 

You have three women working on you right now—you can’t recall their names, as you’d never met them before, but all are unyielding to your attempts at conversation. The one currently is working on your eyeshadow, the second on your clothes across the room, and the third on your jewelry. 

All you wear are your lacy undergarments, harsh ring lights relentlessly assaulting your already sensitive eyes. 

“Sit straight,” a hand is forced into your spine, and you breathe in sharply before you comply, eyes shut tight while she works. “Like child. Fidgeting.”

You clench your jaw and stay your words.

It was getting harder to fight the anxiety in your blood as the time grew nearer to leave. 

In half an hour, you were needed at a large building near the center of the city—dressed to the nines and slathered in perfume; dripping luxury in the dress that your boss had given you. 

You dreaded even looking at it, afraid about how far the slit up the side would go. How deep the neck. You didn’t have to hypothesize the color. 

“Open.” At the command, you open your eyes and blink quickly at the light. 

Instantly, your chin is grabbed and your face moved to the side as you make a noise in the back of your throat—lips getting pressed down by the tip of a lipstick tube.

Gray pigment is moved over the flesh and spread firmly. 

Face burning, you avert your vision from looking into the woman’s eyes, awkwardly looking around. This was by far one of the worst parts of getting ready for events, but nothing compared to how your night would go if prior parties were anything to compare.

“Get dressed. I have done all I can do,” you’re released and a large sigh is echoing through the room. 

She begins to clean up her items as you nod and stand up, muttering, “Thank you.”

A huff is all that’s offered, and you breathe out before padding over to the bed. Body tight, you play with your fingers in front of your abdomen with lingering unease. Your skin feels dirty already. 

One stylist comes over and grabs at the side of your strapless bra, peeling it back and letting it slap the skin. You startle, flinching. Something in Russian is muttered, and the women all chuckle to one another, sending sly glances as you stare dumbly, lips going thin. 

“Get dressed, Girl,” the one nearest smiles, but it isn’t comforting. “Long night for you, yes?” 

Your body curls into itself, and in that instant, you want to exit the bedroom in nothing but sweatpants and an oversized shirt; you want to sit in the kitchen and let Nikto cook dinner. You would eat an entire platter if that was all you needed to do to get out of this situation. 

But you can’t.

And you can’t go back to your penthouse either. You have no trinkets here—nothing to make your own. White walls, white floors. Gray bed.

Shame stuck into your face, your head snaps away to the dress you would be forced to wear as fingers pinch at your waist. More giggling. More words you can’t understand. 

You clear your throat, blinking away the sting in the back of your eyes that swells up at the sight of it. It was beautiful, you can’t deny it. Just as beautiful as you’re sure you look right now with all this makeup on your face like a mask. 

The top was essentially just a corset, the low-dropping neckline a wide oval ending at points only halfway up your breasts. The ‘v’ of the corset ends at your navel, and under, the pale silk of the train cascades down in a single cut, which would be your only cover beside a very sheer layer of lace underneath. Pearled adornments would sit on your arms, looped to the backing above the meat of your flesh. They weren’t sleeves—it was an accessory. 

They wanted you to show skin tonight.

The slit left little to the imagination, it would end far into your upper thigh. One tumble, and you’d be showing off your underwear to everyone. Never mind a tumble, you think. A single misstep. 

And this dress would make you more than beautiful—it would make you ethereal.

But you never said that was what you wanted to be.

This is all I’m good at, you take down a shaky breath, looking to the side until you can calm yourself and close your eyes. 

Heart hammering and your intestines going to mush, you rub at the back of your scar. It’s only a moment before you steel yourself and reach with shaking fingers. But you’re not entirely sure if they’re quivering from the brain damage or just the fear.

You’re not sure which you’d prefer.

Slipping into the dress, you huff and force your hips through the opening, grunting as you feel the fabric pull tight to your flesh.

“Eat too much, Girl. You’re struggling to get into that?” The comment is said under breath, but it’s like an arrow aimed directly at your throat. Snickering makes your lungs quicken. “Getting fat.” 

“I’m not…I’m not gaining weight,” you say, not looking back at them as you pull harder. “I never…”

But you had been eating more, hadn’t you? Nikto’s food was always on your mind nowadays—his hearty breakfasts, the warm lunches. Dinner was always a surprise; it always made you eat like it was your last day on earth, despite the alarm bells.

Blinking quickly, your lip wobbles.

“I can fit into it,” you whimper. 

But it’s just laughter as you pull harder. 

The dress pops over your hips, and you take a large breath, looking down at it as it sits around your waist, nearly panting from desperation. In a quick act, you peel it all the way up and hold the material there as hard as you can. 

“See?” Your voice quivers, turning as your legs stumble. “I got it.”

One of the stylists rolls her eyes, and the one cleaning up her materials scoffs and waves a hand to the others. A smirk is on her lips, and you can’t help but compare them all to dark-eyed harpies. 

“Lace her up. Tightly.” Fingers poke and prod, and as you bite your lip, flinching at every hard pull, trapping you into this modern contraption—this cage—until you feel your lungs push into your guts. Your sides burn and your head goes light by the time they’re done completely and the laces are tied. 

Putting a hand to your stomach, your creased face only softens at all at the faint sounds from outside of your bedroom door. Hard boots. Moving travel bags being organized by scarred fingers. You have to focus on it to bring away the infection of black dots in the corners of your blinking eyes, not-yet-dry mascara making the lashes stick momentarily. You rip them back open and steady your bare feet, fingers vibrating over the material suffocating you. 

Hands grab at your shoulders and turn you away from the bed, pearls clacking together. As if your shell-shocked being meant nothing, heavy jewelry is stacked over your throat and wrists. Pearls dangling from your ears, surrounded by precious metals—necklaces that are engraved with angels and feathered birds. Even the bracelets, dangling things, are weighted by luxury and meaning.

They still just felt like shackles.

When it’s all said and done, the heels you’ll be wearing are near the bedroom door. The women flock out and pass glances over their shoulders to you, left standing in the middle of the room as your eyes remain locked to the ground. Not speaking—barely breathing because the pinch in your chest aches if you do. 

Just a doll left sitting on the top shelf, waiting to be grabbed by grubby fingers and pawned off at the nearest thrift store for nothing else but notoriety. You don’t know how long you stand there, trying to gather what little strength you have for tonight above the relentless brutality of your heart to your ribcage, but it’s long enough to where you hear a sharp knock on your door. 

“Seraph,” Nikto calls to you, his glove-less fingers rasping over the wood. “The women left—are you…” His brows tighten. “Acceptable.”

The Russian’s low grunt exits his throat, boots re-situating themselves. His hidden ears twitch for your answer, looking to the side for a moment as your thin voice wafts out. 

“Yes.”

Nikto’s scarred face pulls at that, confused. If that was the case, then why hadn’t you edited your room yet? Were you nervous?

Pale blue eyes blink at that, slowly tilting his head in thought. You had expressed anxiety over these parties, perhaps that was what this was about. Nerves. The man’s lips thinned, staring hard at the woodgrain ahead of him. He can practically hear your fluttering heartbeat in the air.

“We have ten minutes, yes?” He utters, a low dread filling his chest. A pause. “Where have you placed the suit?” 

There’s a lapse in noise as Nikto’s words fully resign him to his fate, his eyes dulling with a slow acceptance. Only when the door clicks to open, does he decide that if it got you out of the room and gave you a distraction, being in a suit wouldn’t be the worst—

His throat tightens to hide a sharp inhalation of breath.

You stand in the doorway, and it’s like he’s looking into the sun.

Your dress trails behind you as your eyes stay stuck to Nikto’s chest, mumbling out. “I think the stylists left it over near the door,” and swiftly passed.

Trying to hide the pain that leaves your heart aching at the railroad-straight nature of your spine, you shuffle to the hanging suit left on the coat rack. Grasping it, you take as deep a breath as you’re able and turn around. 

“I didn’t know sizes, so I tried my best to get as close of an estimate as possible just by…” Your words trail off. 

Nikto stares at you so openly that the last bit of your breath is taken away in one swoop of a sparrow’s wings. 

Pale eyes are unblinking as they gaze through wide attention, hand still outstretched from where it was knocking at the door. Stopping in your tracks, you blink slowly, a pulse going through your body that you feel all the more wearing this dress.

The Russian doesn’t speak—he doesn’t say anything. He watches. Vision moving along the dip of your throat where those pearls sit; conforming to the swell of your breasts and the view of your cleavage. Then to your waist, tight and formed, and, finally, to the open view of your leg, and that bit of tantalizing lace.

Nikto felt his pulse under his skin, that flipping in his abdomen that was becoming that much harder to ignore. Yet, the sudden stiffness of his pants is a new one.

“You are…” He begins, voice low.

“Please,” you interrupt, “don’t call me beautiful,” you whisper. A small, broken smile comes to your lips. “I feel like a pig.”

Nikto flinches lightly, though you don’t notice it. All carnal attraction dissipates at a single word, as if in complementary action to your own. Something seems to have taken the air from his lungs before he clears his throat and nods his head stiffly. 

“You do not like it?” He grumbles, glancing up and down.

“Not at all,” you chuckle but stop when you get lightheaded. “I’m sure you’ll look handsome in your outfit, though.” Walking to him, you hand the suit over slowly.

“You change the subject,” Nikto huffs, eyes narrowing on you as the intent of his sockets is leveled with yours. “Why?” 

All you give is a twitch of your lips. “I put a balaclava in the pocket,” you nod your head. “I didn’t want you to feel like you had to change out of your mask, but I wanted to give you the option if you wanted to take it. The bathroom’s free, I won’t be needing it, so go ahead and take all the time you want.” 

Stepping back you don’t look at him again as your legs walk you to the window. Hands moving to wrap around your middle, you don’t clock the pale orbs that follow.

Nor the worried sheen at the sight of your far-off eyes. 

Nikto stands for a moment, struck dumb, and only after you pass him one confused glance, does he quickly turn and walk away.

—

The Russian pointedly avoids looking in the mirror—in fact, he actively avoids the bathroom altogether.

Slipping off his Kevlar and setting it to the floor, Nikto’s nostrils are stuck with the scent of your perfume; it travels on the airways, getting stuck to his skin. Grunting, he gets halted in his thoughts about your averted face as his fingers fiddle with his belt, pulling it out of the loops as his covered face frowns.

Why did you look like that? Why were you…afraid? 

Nikto didn’t like that look, and how could he? When he thinks of the face you wore when you slept in his lap, anything else seemed a sin to be marring your features. It was a slow realization that he’d never seen you more calm than when a killer’s hands were caressing the base of your head. 

Growling under his breath, the man focused on the dress pants you’d given him; a bit tight around his thighs and backside, but nothing he couldn’t work with as he stepped into them. 

“Absurd,” he huffs, grasping and stuffing himself inside so he can zip up the fly and button the top. “Why do we do this?” 

Because he hated seeing anything other than a soft smile on your face, that was why, and he can’t stop denying it like a fool. With a horrid weight on his chest, he rolls his wide shoulders and welcomes the chilled air on his bare flesh.

What he doesn’t welcome is the sudden opening of the door behind him.

Freezing like a deer in headlights, his ears pick up a sharp gasp and a rapid apology. Nikto’s still eyes stare ahead to the wall silently.

“I-I’m sorry, I thought you would be in the bathroom!” Your panicked face darts away. “I forgot my heels over here—”

It was your turn to be struck silent at the sight of your companion, and struck silent you were as your rapid eyes locked onto his scars. Not only scars but a tattoo as well.

They were…rabid, those healed cuts. You can feel your shock and horror as clearly as day when you look at them in their gray glory. Long, violent—almost made as if by an animal who just learned how to use his claws. Burns, too. Patches of skin that melt together around the dark ink of a snarling bear. 

Apt, your hushed brain thinks.

You should leave right now, you tell yourself. Leave immediately and forget what you’ve seen like you’ve tried to forget the pictures you’d been sent. But something is in the air that you can’t explain to anyone except your instincts.

Not making a noise, you take a single step forward as Nikto’s back muscles are wound tight; hands clenched. A bitter shaking that’s less noticeable than a dog in the bushes.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper, and the air is thick with unsaid words. “It’s…beautiful, Nikto.”

Not even you can predict your next move, not here—not like this. Why were you still here? The view was jarring and violent, and the longer you looked, the more your throat filled with bile at the thought of what had happened. These wounds had been made with intent, and the very recognition of that made your lip quiver, eyes wide with a bare horror. 

A pain.

Nikto’s chest jerks, his heart hammering inside of his breast. But for the life of him, he can’t speak. Can’t move.

Why can’t he move?

Your feet take another step forward, and a long shiver runs down your spine when you can begin to make out the individual dips and digs of long-gone blades. The fizzling skin—where cigarettes had been put out as if Nikto was someone's ashtray. 

You have to tell yourself to take a deep breath before you pass out.

“I…” But nothing comes out.

You don’t want to touch him, but at the same time, your fingers are shaking for it. You quiver, and you don’t know why.

If you were able to see color, you think you might have sobbed then and there—you might have been left a heap by the shades of abuse, written so plainly in a way you would never know. 

And blackened, inkish, eyes only stare you down as you stand there, dressed all in white. And such a strange thing it is, that ink, and how sad it looks.

If it could speak, what would it say? To you, the answer seemed simple.

I don’t know why I bite. 

Clearing your throat, you hurriedly begin to turn back around. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave you alone. That was rude of me, I should have knocked first—”

“Do you mean it?” Nikto’s voice is so low you think for a moment you never heard it, only pausing when the rumble moves through your eardrums. 

“Mean what?” Your voice is even lower. Layered with regret. “That I’m sorry? Of course, I do—”

“Нет.” It is swift and gruff. You swallow and shuffle your feet. “...Красивый?” 

“I don’t understand what that means,” you lick your lips, hands clammy again. It was time to leave soon—you need to get out and let him dress. 

Nikto’s muscles writhe, shifting, pulling. Small, beady eyes move from over his shoulders, and you’re caught by them; a bird in a bear’s jaws. The pupils are so small they almost make you flinch.

“Beautiful?” 

Your mouth goes dry.

It’s a long moment before you answer, and when you do, your thighs have already pushed themselves together from below you, the skin trapping in the betraying way your insides pulse.

“I meant it,” you whisper, unblinking. Without any thought, your hand raises slightly. Pale eyes slash to it, and you stop, not beginning again until nothing in refusal is said as seconds tick longer. Your middle finger brushes over burn scars before the others conform to healed flesh, laying delicate, heavenly, pressure. The bear tattoo shifts just as blotchy skin does, calling to you along the back of a broken man.

“...I like the eyes best,” your lips utter, and you feel the Russian shiver under your touch, breath hitching. Heaving lungs. Locked eyes bleed color you cannot see.

And so you stay there, fingertips gaining hellish heat as skin melts into skin—pulse into pulse. A fire of a different kind moving under flesh.

And then Nikto turns, and a hard hand is under your chin. 

“You do not like the word,” he grunts, and in his eyes, you see nothing but feral, desperate, pain. A wounded dog. A speared boar. He’s talking about how you’d reacted to his words from before—was he still hung up on them? But when he holds you like that, you can’t even begin to warn him about your makeup. Let him ruin it. Let him taint it. Spread his violence into your skin like fangs. His grip tightens. “Why?” A growl, nothing more. “Do you not believe you are, Girl?”

“It’s because I know I am,” you breathe, and watch his eyelids narrow. “And I know it’s all I’ll ever be.” 

A scoff. “I do not understand it.” 

You don't want to comprehend this word game. Your body aches. “I don’t either.” 

And for the first time, you want him to kiss you. Just to see how it hurts when he does. 

Your lips flicker, and his thumb moves the length of your jawbone; bodies so close your heart patters opposite his, chests brushing with every stuttered pull of intoxicating air.

Rotting Wood. Gunpowder. 

Alluring ambrosia. Mind-silencing touch.

Gold-chained necks, both.

“If I call you beautiful, will you promise to call me hideous?” It is a small gift the universe gives Nikto when your phone rings from the nightstand after you speak.

If you hadn’t startled back and hobbled over to grab it, he would have done something horrible. Irreversible. Just as a rabid dog would as it snarls at a hand so willing to touch it.

He would have grabbed on and never let go, even if it ended up drawing blood. Even if his whimpers filled the room. Even if his mind told him not to—not to take the food that you offer him, not to put that collar around his neck that he already knew was there.

Oh, it is a horrible thing to know the color of someone's soul, and even worse to know one’s own.

Your body hurries out of the room as Nikto’s voided eyes stare at nothing, snatching your heels and speaking to that friend of yours.

Even after the door clicks shut, the imprinting of your hand burns far hotter than the fire ever did, and Nikto knows it’s never going to leave.

—

You pull the designer coat harder across your body, and the fake smile on your lips seems anything but to the finely dressed men and women who pass by.

No one returns the grin, but you supposed the thought counted on your part.

The flashing cameras jar you as you hang off of Nikto’s arm, having just gotten out of the car moments prior, and already you were the center of attention. Heels meeting the long trailing carpet, your eyes threaten to close at the fast blinding light.

“Nikto,” you whisper under your breath. 

He hums, glancing down from over the tight clutches of his skin-tight balaclava. The Russian guard’s suit was pure black, and despite the size up you noticed he needed…he looked good. 

Insanely good.

The outfit showed off the bulk of his biceps—as big as your head—and the strength of his thighs; the push of his abdomen, which was very clearly the result of hard work and raw power. His tie was only partially crooked…the hardness of a bullet-proof vent underneath all of it.

“What is it?” Nikto grunts in question, accent rough. Your stint in the bedroom is pushed to the back of your mind, and it seemed it was the same for him. It was time to go to work.

Around his chest, his rifle is slung, and at his thigh, the beretta. Unknown to you, a combat knife was sitting comfortably under the tail of his suit jacket. Sharpened and only a fast jerk of an arm away. 

“The camera flashes are making it hard to see—the stairs. How many are there?”

“Seven.” A pause. “Lean into us.” 

You do so, shoulder finding his arm as you turn your head and grin at the photographers; the shouting comments and pleas to come their way. 

“Thank you,” you utter, and as his body rises, slowly, so you compel your own to do the same—clearing your throat.

He doesn’t answer.

“Seraph! Seraph!” It’s your moniker that rises above the rest. “The stalker, tell us about the stalker! How do you feel about three men being dead?!”

Your fingers tighten over your guard’s bicep, and the only thing that keeps you from tripping on the last step—the tip of your heel clipping the edge, is Nikto. He leans close and grumbles in your ear, lifting you discreetly with only the strength of a single arm. Hot breath puffs against the side of your ear as your breath gets caught.

“That one looks like horse,” he grumbles. “Long face, all legs, yes?”

“Nikto,” you hiss, but the growing smile can only be quickly covered by your fingers before a belly-deep laugh slips out. From behind your barrier, you whisper, “You can’t say that.”

Pale eyes narrow on you, amusement in the far backs as your giggles continue. Cameras increase their barrage tenfold. “Why can I not?”

You only shake your head, side-eyeing him as your face becomes hotter than the sun. 

“You’re horrible, you Brute.”

Nikto barks that hyena laugh, chest jerking. There is an undeniable rumble in his body that you feel roll through you, grip tightening on his suit’s sleeve. 

You blink away for a moment as you both walk forward and glance at one of the doormen, who blinks widely at you. Your words tumble out in a quick under-the-breath jest. 

This game was letting the anxiety leak away one grumbled sentence after another. A sliver of joy seeps in to take its place.

“The doorman looks like an owl. Can you see it?” Nikto’s head secretly shifts, and he looks above your head from the corner of his piercing eyes. 

Tall, lanky, big eyes; dark hair with pale spots.

“We see it…Very good.” Your heart palpitates at that, blinking a few times before an almost giddy expression comes to your face. 

Lord, you were in too deep.

Walking through the front doors, you thank the ones who come closer and ask for your coat, letting go of Nikto’s flesh and moving. People barely retrain their gasps as your skin is laid to light, and the extravagance of luxury is plain to see by the way the pearls lay over your body—the jewelry, the lace. 

Nikto’s presence sets them on edge, however. 

You don’t exactly know what clearance he has for him to carry around an actual rifle, the very one that his hands now find and rest on carefully, watching you. A handgun? Yes, you can understand that, but the thing around his chest now was anything but a handgun. Your mother had said that in order to keep good relations, your survival was very important. 

Maybe you’d underestimated how important.

Passing off your coat and nodding to the person who takes it, you shift back into Nikto’s side and let him walk ahead. 

“Do I make you nervous?” the question takes you back, but as your heels begin clicking in uneven steps to the marble floor, your reply is simple.

“No.” His eyes scan the entrance as the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses meet your ears, making them twitch. 

Nikto moves his shoulders, nodding his head to the M13. “This?”

You pause, brows furrowing slowly. “Not…not when you’re the one holding it.”

Pale eyes shift to lock with yours, and the flare of your flesh along his back makes him bite back his tongue from uttering anything else. A grunt moves across the area.

“Good.” Then, firmer, as if to reassure you, “We will not use it tonight.”

“Then why bring it,” your face is curious, form getting closer to the opening at the end of the hallway.

Gray eyes shimmer. “Threat.”

You can’t dwell on the revelation before the main room of the building unfolds in front of you.

You’d grown so used to these things and the events that took place during them, that you no longer cared about the expensive decor. This was no different, though you did admit they went all out. From the gargantuan chandelier on the ceiling, greenery and elegant gems were strung like hanging vines. At any given point, servers would walk around with sweets and champagne on, what you assumed, to be silver platters. Everyone was dressed to the very best of their abilities—dresses, suits, jewelry; makeup. 

Whispers are rampant, that murmur of secretive conversation in Russian and fast eyes to others all around. 

This was a party of equal opportunity, and your boss had sent you to be the most alluring of all. It was already working. 

People look over and blink in shock, whether at your dress or seeing you here at all, you don’t truly care. Men jeer, gazing openly as their eyes slip down to your chest and legs. Clearing your throat, you stutter for a moment and carefully lean your head closer to Nikto’s muttering casually even as your heart pounds. The words feel like poison as they slip out of you.

“I may have to slip away for a little bit to meet with potential investors for AMA.” Immediately, there are firm and heavy eyes digging into you. 

“Нет.” 

“Nikto,” you stop yourself from biting into your lip as a server comes over—you smile stiffly and quickly grab a flute, fingers tapping it only once before you curl your digits around it. “I have to, this is my job. I was sent here for a reason.”

“And this is mine,” he says. “You will go nowhere that I can not see, Seraph. That is not up for question, yes?”

You begin to open your mouth again, a kind of stiff refusal that is entirely foreign to you. Nikto has already picked up on that—his hidden face tight and confused; fingers twitching to try and understand. 

And then someone walks up to you. 

“Seraph,” you get called into conversations that you care not to be in, and brushed by hands that shouldn’t be touching you. Hands that hold rings and bracelets, pulling intention that your body writhes at. You don’t know anyone here, but all of them know you.

They know your body. 

You smile when you know it’s acceptable, and you see Iakov in the crowd as well, always glancing over before he’s once more lost. Flashing cameras, though now it’s more subdued, but they still always follow you. The woman who had made news because of that steadily growing problem. 

Nikto stays a respectable distance away, but you never lose sight of him. An ever-present dog at your heels, who walks with a high-held tail and sharp ears. More than once you’d seen him throw vile glances at the people who talked to you—specifically the ones who only spoke in Russian. 

You’re leveled with swift and jumbled sentences, making your head burn with how you try to take the throaty language in an attempt to decipher it. More than once you have to wave up a hand and shrug helplessly, embarrassed at the disgusted looks you get, and Nikto moves forward with a bark of something. 

People move away faster at that, of course.

Until Oriel Grigorovich Tarkovsky. 

His hand is resting on the back of your shoulder blade, thumb moving up and down on your flesh. Older—he had to be in his late fifties, wrinkles were on his face surrounding sly eyes, and a beard. He looks down at you like a piece of meat, and only because that was exactly what you were. He organized this party. He was why you were here. 

Rich, influential, and looking for investments wherever he could stick his fingers. He also had a daughter your age, whom he was considering sending to AMA. Like all rich men, he needed a reason to feel he was winning something out of it.

Sometimes, you don't have to wonder why they always put you into white.

“Fedorov told me you were back to doing parties,” Tarkovsky chuckles, the watch on his wrist glinting in the light. “I did not believe him.” He licks his lips, looking down at you as your fingers quiver, reaching for your fourth flute of champagne this evening. You want to be drunk for this.

The gray liquid sloshes in your grip and you fake a laugh, body tingling. 

“Here I am,” you don’t offer more than a glance his way before staring ahead again. 

“I expected the other girl—tall blonde.” A small grumble, slight annoyance emanating from under his breath. 

“Aly couldn’t make it, unfortunately.” You clear your throat. “Mr. Fedorov only sent me. I hope that’s acceptable?”

Fingers tighten over your flesh. “I suppose. You look well enough in that dress.” Lips near your ears, making you restrain a heavy flinch. “I hope you look just as good without it. Fedorov knows I can be a generous man, let’s make sure he gets what he thinks he will, hm?”

Dark eyes dig down into you, and Nikto, who stands far behind near the wall, taps his fingers against the barrel of his gun. He can’t hear what’s being said, but he doesn't like it regardless. You don’t look comfortable, yet you haven't once looked back at him to show you needed him to intervene. Nose scrunching from behind his balaclava, the Russian’s gloved fingers flex above his weapon. 

He needed to get his head screwed back on, and the lingering scent of your perfume was addling him. Your actions in the bedroom. 

“Сосредоточиться,” he orders under his breath, glancing away from the back of your head, and what he knows that lies there. 

No one has approached him while he’s been here, but all flock to you. Nikto takes a head count, memorizing faces and the names that seep into his ears. Everyone here glances at him and then quickly averts their eyes, but that second is enough. 

If your stalker was here, Nikto could point him out if he had to. But then again, the man’s eyes slip to stare in reverence at his M13, he might be able to put a stop to this once and for all—his way. Those investigators of yours were worth less than the dirt under his boots.

Pale blue eyes move through dresses and suites of every color, unphased until they lock back onto your white pureness. Your goodness.

Except for the fact that you’re gone.

Startling, the guard’s body is rendered iron-rod stiff before action is taken like a bullet to a brain. Pale eyes snap back and forth; rabid.

Feet slamming forward, a low growl echoes in Nikto’s chest, shoulders wound up just as much as they’d been when you’d entered in on him changing.

“Seraph!” He has no reservations about barking over the noise, and his large body shoves people over without a second thought. 

He won’t admit it to himself, no, never, but the feeling he forces down is far more than duty or pride. It makes Nikto’s blood pump as his black-ink form shoulders your media coordinator and his gaggle of lessers, all calling after him to try and get him to come back. Cameras flash, rich people curse at him. 

The Russian’s skin itches—his breath is low and heavy. The only thing that mattered was finding you again. Quickly. Efficiently. Without a single scratch hurting you. You can’t have gotten far. With his head constantly at a swivel, it was like a dove to a hellhound as the hard set of Nikto’s eyebrows peeled back. 

Pale blue locks onto a whisper of your gown as you turn a corner far off into the party, and then he shouts. You were too far. 

Too far from him. 

“Птичка!”

—

Your face is devoid of blood, and more than once you clip your thigh on the side of some table or decorative statue going down the hallway. 

You’re led with a hand so hard on your bicep, that you fear it’ll bruise. A part of you had wanted to tell Nikto about the real reason you both were sent out of Yekaterinburg, but a larger part knew that if you wanted things to smooth over, then it was imperative that you didn’t. You’d be back to the rest of the party soon. Maybe you can say that you had to rush off to find the restroom. 

You knew that Nikto had already picked up on something making you nervous to come here, but you were always nervous now. 

Just get it over with, you think to yourself, pearls clacking as they connect to one another. It’s no different than all the others—just block it out. 

“Have you met your soulmate yet, Girl,” Oriel asks. “I can’t imagine letting my own get played with like this. I keep her tight to me, even if most days I hate her guts.” Dark eyes narrow, and a kiss is pressed to the corner of your mouth. “But she fucks good, so I suppose that makes up for it.”

Eyes not looking into his, you wipe at the left-over saliva and state, numbly, “I don’t know.”

Confusion litters the old man’s face, and he drags you closer to his chest. You let out a surprised yelp at the pain in your arm from his grip. A sheen of fear mildly makes you want to call for Nikto to come barreling down the hallway. 

I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t. I’ll take being fired—I’ll take the social suicide, please, I can’t do this again.

You want a bear tattoo and burn scars—you want burning flesh. Rotting wood. Dark metal. 

Pale eyes.

“What—?” A hand wraps Oriel’s wrist and completely snaps it back. 

A crunch of bone leaves itself ingrained into your mind far faster than the scream, and only your stick-open eyes can process it. 

Stumbling back as a strong grip shoves you behind his shadow, you snap a hand to your mouth and gasp loudly. Heart pounding, you place your palm on Nikto’s back to steady yourself; your raw shock is more intense by the second. 

“N-Nikto!” You yell, but he’s not looking at you—he’s not listening to you. 

It’s a low and steady command that meets the air, left in an accent so thick you struggle to understand it as your head swirls. 

“Do not touch.”

Oriel still shouts and grasps at his wrist, which bares bone to the light in the form of a brutal and bleeding compound fracture. You gaze from over Nikto’s side, hand not leaving the firmness of his spine as fingers press deeply and dig into the expensive fabric; creasing it. 

Your head goes a bit light, truthfully. 

The old man divulges into his native tongue, curing loudly, screaming in that fearful desperation that you know well—a hiccup of horror was the best way to describe it, really. 

But you were only looking for a mere second before you were suddenly being dragged off down the hallway. 

Mouth opening and closing, your heels skid across the hard floor, and with your other hand quickly sliding up to claw into Nikto’s sleeve, you’re rendered speechless. It isn’t long before the Russian turns a corner, and then, nearly instantaneously, rips open the door labeled ‘складское помещение’ and moves you inside. 

It’s only then does sense return.

“Nikto,” you shout, eyes blinking wildly as your hand connects with a wall. It was dark in here—and there were metal racks on one side; mops and buckets. A storage room. “What the fuck did you just do?!”

The Russian doesn’t answer, but when you’re fully able to look at him without squinting—eyes adjusting—it’s a very angry and silent man who greets you. 

Nikto’s hands are clenched, and across the front of his hidden face, there’s a spray of dark liquid across his visible eyebrows and nose bridge. 

“What did we say to you, hm?” He utters, not looking away. Your lips fall into a flat line, heart already going far faster than it should be. A guilty tingle of hesitation makes your shaky hands increase until you’re like a woman out on ice. “Tell me.”

Your brain is deathly still. 

Nikto takes three firm steps forward, and then his fingers are under your chin, and he moves it up as you pant, eyes tiny. 

I can’t tell him, you think. I can’t tell him that. He’ll never look at me the same if I do—no one ever does. I can’t tell him. 

“Tell me,” Nikto growls, and your throat bobs, lips wobbling. 

“You said not to get out of your line of sight,” you breathe, locked into pale orbs that spear you like a snake. 

“And what happened?”

“I left,” you whisper. 

Damn this corset—damn this dress. Black dots shimmer in the sides of your vision. You’re breathing too fast; the women laced it up too tight. Lungs tight against your ribs, you clear your throat and attempt to calm down. You’re not sure if Nikto is helping, or making it worse. 

“Why?” He asks as you move back from him, trying to focus. “I did not take you as a woman who leaves to get…” rough words trail in a low growl. Nikto scoffs, looking you up and down. Something sparks in his eyes, a roving monster stuck behind pupils. “No one touches, until we clear them.”

“It isn’t like that,” you’re desperate to say something similar, and you don’t know why. You quickly shift, knees hitting together until you right yourself. Nikto watches after you, head-turning and emotions unreadable. 

“It’s not like that, really. I wasn’t going to…” But you were, weren’t you? You clear your throat again, fingers pulling at the front of your corset—too tight. 

Suddenly air was hard to come by, and it was worse than what it had been in the bedroom. When you speak, it’s a painfully fast spillage of words—a flood of fear. 

“It’s not like that,” you repeat for the third time. “I…I it’s not like I have a say in it, you need to understand. It’s what I get sent here for—I’m not,” your eyes snap everywhere but at him, and you keep trying to back up farther. Nikto stares. “I never want to, it’s not my choice. I was going to try and explain it earlier—”

“Seraph.”

“—But none of it would have made any sense, and then I’d have to go back to AMA and…and then I’d get let off because of the deals Fedorov made going unfulfilled. I’d be out of a job, out of a home, I can’t go into anything else because I’m not good enough to—

“Seraph!”

“I wouldn’t be able to get another job with everything that’s wrong with me, and then I’d have to tell my mom that everything fell through. I can’t do that—I can’t lose this, it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore,” a hitched sob slips out, and then there are hands stuck at your cheeks.

Nikto’s heart is heard through his suit, fast and hard. You suck down wheezing breaths, tears dripping off of your lashes and a certain far-away look to your eyes as the Russian moves out quick words you can’t hear. 

Too tight. Suffocating. 

There’s a moment of nothing, and then gloved fingers are grasping at our shoulder and moving you around, a snap of laces as quick as a cat’s claws, and then a ripping of fabric. A gleam of a cruel knife as a rifle bounces off a chest.

You gasp sharply. Air once more gets moving down your closing airways as the two edges of the corset are opened in one fast push and a hand sticks itself at your pulse. 

“Breathe, Seraph. Дышать, Птичка. Slowly, now.” 

Your back is to the wall, and you don’t even realize it before fingers weave to cup the base of your skull, Nikto’s knuckles scraping against the material so your skull won't. Blinking through the vile tears that slip past your cheeks, your wide eyes flutter and snap about, mouth open like a stressed animal. The air is hot—sweltering, but you can’t stop the way your body is shivering. 

“Stop,” Nikto utters, and the heavy set of concern in his visible skin is bare even to you. “Do not speak. У��покойся. У меня есть ты.” 

You don’t know what he’s saying, but the way the harsh words bleed into comfort is just about the most addicting sound you’ve ever heard. 

“I…” 

“Hush,” Nikto tilts his head in a shake. His grip and gaze are not for one moment straying. “Listen to us, yes?” 

So you do, and when he hesitates, when his body tenses, and when his forehead lightly bends down to bump into yours, you continue to listen even as the delayed shock sets in.

 “You are leaving and you are coming with me. I am taking care of you. That is it.” Every word is hard. It’s like a stamp at the end of a letter—nothing bleeds as the mold forms to wax. Dog-ish eyes and a heavy creasing to the flesh around his sockets. There was no room for debate. You shouldn't have expected anything else, really. 

Violent dogs rarely give a reason for why they take to softened flesh.

You can’t nod, but the heat of his body melts into you one temperature rise at a time. You’re guessing your face gave something away because Nikto grunts softly from above you.

“That is it. Good.”

“I wanted to tell you,” you whisper, tears dripping off of your jaw. 

“You just did.” Nikto mumbles. “There will be no more of it. None. We will take this one problem at a time.” He pauses, the fabric of his balaclava shifting over your flesh. “But we will not allow this to continue. Нет. No.” 

You don’t have the strength to argue right now, certainly not when he’s here—so willingly close to you and letting you bend into him like a stem to the wind. 

“Sorry,” you whisper and only hear a large sigh in response. But Nikto doesn’t comment on the apology, only lightly squeezes the base of your skull and blinks at you. 

Your breath mixes with his, and his dark lashes move as his eyes shift over your face. A large thumb comes up to swipe at your tears, pushing them back as a wobbly smile goes over your face. The tension in the air was still there. An underlying anger. 

Because, and make no debate, Nikto was angry. 

Angry at himself for losing sight of you, angry at that man for touching you in that way, and…and he was angry at you. Angry that you’d not told him about your body being sold like goods—that you’d come here while dealing with a million other problems, and still, you’d held this one close to you. But nothing could beat the burning rage at that fly-eyed CEO. 

Suddenly, a broken wrist on a man seemed pointless. Bloodlust shimmered; broken bone was too easy a thing to get away with.

And he was angry, too, at the worry that you make him feel. 

He’d never felt that to this extent before—save for men in his old unit, of which none he holds to that same loyalty anymore.

And you. A woman dressed in a beautiful white dress, contrasting the rabid unholiness branded into Nikto’s soul with every step and swell of lungs—the lungs that had stuttered when you stayed near to him. Leaning into him. Breathing him down. 

Such things as this were against everything he’d told himself to forget; to cast into the fire with his stabbed and burned flesh. To throw away like a slim hope of ever finding a soulmate that would complement his flaws without even speaking. 

A soulmate? Nikto had discarded that reality to the blood of the corpses he left in his wake. 

Ever since he’d come back from the bleak nothingness of a momentary death in that concrete room, blood on his flesh and rope around his limbs, and found himself seeing in all color. 

And then you’d walked through that door in the Consulate building, and he’d seen your face—open, curious. You were different to him, and he couldn’t understand why. It scared him, there was no use denying it. 

This violent, desperate need. 

Your touch was like a drug. A deadly pair of fingers around his neck; sliding down his scars until he was left panting and begging for it like a mutt. 

Mutt, mutt, mutt, that was what he was. A dog, a large, brutish, beast of a thing that shadows you and lets you use him. Collar to neck, leash in hand. 

“Nikto?” You ask him, and he knows that even being a pet was what he would revel in, if only he could be called yours.

“Что это такое?” Your eyes blink slowly, tears in the lashes, and the Russian repeats. “What is it?” 

“I really do think you’re beautiful, for what it counts.” Your hands are on his chest as you whisper to him. “I just thought you should know.” A small, weak, chuckle. The light in your eyes was slowly coming back, and your heart was gradually returning to an even pace. 

It’s only then do you both realize how close you are to one another. But no one moves. 

“I think your scars are pretty. I wanted to tell you, but,” you smile, another tear slipping out. “I got nervous.”

It’s a ploy to change the conversation into something more comforting, and Nikto is astounded by how fast it works on him. 

Clever, he thinks. If he were a dog, you would be the fox.

His own pulse now skips a beat, and he’s back to that deer-in-headlights mindset that he had in the bedroom. He doesn’t know how to respond to this.

Nikto grunts, eyes shifting away as he leans more heavily into you, acutely aware of your grip on him. His suit is suffocating like a noose. 

“You do not have to lie,” he huffs, eyelids narrowing. “You should not have seen them.”

After a moment of hesitation, your fingers move to brush against his jaw, capturing it and drawing his attention back. Pale eyes flinch wider, locking quickly with your own. 

“I’d never lie to you,” you utter, and the man’s hidden lips part. “Not about that.” Your breath pauses. “I like them. Believe me?”

“...Да. Я верю тебе.” 

His grip slides to your waist, sitting above your hips. He can say he believes that you believe that, of course. He didn’t doubt you. 

Nikto doesn’t know the words that spill from his lips, and he also doesn’t know how long you’ve both been there as people rush past outside, calls of alarm on the air. He knows you don’t look away from him—he knows you look beautiful, yourself, even if he knows you don’t want to hear it. 

So he blinks slowly and softly utters as the pads of his gloved thumbs run circles into your flesh, playing along the slit of your dress.

“Hideous.” 

It’s after a tiny moment that your giggles meet his ears that he can truly sigh into you and grunt out a rare chuckle. Hands roaming his chest, you hum, eyes soft. 

“That was funny…are you making jokes now?” 

“Perhaps,” he huffs. “Do you like them?”

Your head shifts, and before Nikto can realize it, a kiss is placed above his balaclava directly where his lips would be—those cut and brutalized things. That half of a Glasgow smile. Frozen, your hands spread over his abdomen melted into him as the press of the rifle in between you is of little concern, digging against your lace-cut corset. 

Pale eyes are wide open, staring into the wall as you breathe against him.

“Yes.”

“Seraph,” Nikto lowly warns, but it wasn’t like he wasn’t reacting the same. The Russian’s fingers tighten on your flesh. 

You move back and re-attach your forehead to his, and both of you stare. Not another word is uttered, but in the air that same fire from before flickers. Nikto swallows down saliva and watches your throat bob with the same nervous and, yet eager, self-soothe. 

A second. Two. Three.

A beast can’t move from the promise of a warm invitation. 

“Tell us,” Nikto grunts, his fingers flinching. “...Tell us what you need.”

You take a long, low breath. Adrenaline coursing your veins, mixing with some semblance of warmth. 

“You.” 

Nikto stares, studying, and a stuttering dip of your hand slips to his belt, staying there. A minute passes before one hand goes to wrap your wrist firmly; shifting it back to your side. 

“No,” he whispers, emotions unreadable. Nikto’s shoulders widen, feet moving close to yours. A slight sinking feeling emanates from your stomach embarrassment infecting your veins, until he speaks again. It didn’t feel right.

“Not like that, hm?” 

Your face creases in confusion, pupils wide, before Nikto’s hand dips into the slit of your dress. You gasp lightly, and the man watches without blinking, humming under his breath as he grips at the lace layer and pulls harshly. 

A rabid rip of fabric emanates around the storage room, and your heart pounds against your chest. Pulse flaring, your attention doesn’t stray even as your legs twitch open, electricity over the air. Nikto’s hand slips in, but as gloved fingers trail over the top of your panties, he licks at the corner of his lips. 

He waits, stiff—stuck like a pillar of stone. 

Neither of you thinks that this is an entirely smart idea, but even now your insides have turned to mush, a slickness seeping out of your core as your thighs tingle. You were never against sex, but you were cautious with it; especially with everything going on, most of the time it was a quick affair that never even got you off.

You’d never…had someone work at you like this—care enough to not seek their own pleasure. It excited you and, at the same time, made you hesitant. 

You hadn’t expected this. 

“Let us take care of you,” Nikto murmurs, head tilting as you shiver and shake. “Make you feel good, yes?” He grunts, looking down and you feel his fingers twitch, palm moving to cup your cunt. You breathe heavily, a small whine slipping out as the heel of his hand brushes your clit. “Give us an order, Seraph. Leave, or no?”

“No, stay,” you instantly push out, hand slipping down and sliding between the M13 and latching onto his forearm. The Russian stares. “Stay,” you say again, firmer. 

Nikto hums in approval, lightly grinding his hand in a bit harder. Your mouth opens, eyes fluttering. Your insides bunch and tighten, teeth biting your lip as a shiver moves your spine; an itch that needs to be scratched deep in your abdomen. 

Nikto’s palm rubs slowly, and your hips move with it, trailing farther open the longer his actions continue. You sigh, small noises in your throat that exit into the air as the material of your panties gets stained with slick. It felt good—very good. It was the push of hard pressure and the subsequent vanishing of his hand that made you desperate for it; white dress flowing around your feet.

The Russian’s large feet step closer, and he leans into you with his face going to your ear. 

“That expression,” he breathes, smirking. “It looks good on you.” His palm grinds harder, and you gasp, nails digging into his flesh as your brows tighten, M13 almost like a tree branch as it rubs against your chest with every movement. “Little face, skin screwed up.”

“Nikto,” you huff. 

“Hm?” he asks, boots going to shove open your legs farther. “Don’t worry—we won’t let you fall, Seraph. I want you to feel it, yes?” 

You want to think about how this messy situation just got a whole lot messier, but then thick fingers are pulling at the elastic of your lace and letting it snap back to your skin. Your hips jump, eyes jerking over to stare at the man who chuckles under his breath at your frazzled attention and fast-blinking eyes. 

Your dripping cunt is left to pulse around nothing as the scent of sweat and carnal action perforates the storage room. Getting touched back here wasn’t on your plans for the night, but, damn, if Nikto’s eyes were going to be watching you like a hawk, giving attention solely to you and not the hard-on that ruts against your abdomen, then you’d willingly become his mouse. 

His claws could enter your skin without a fight.

You stare at him, breathing hard and your thighs desperate to close as the chill of your ruined panties makes itself known. Your tongue licks at your lips, and pale eyes follow before leather gloves move. 

“Wet,” he grunts next to your ear, groaning as his fingers move to play, shifting your clothing until the fatness of his digits are sliding up and down the length of your slit, gathering what he can with every intentional brush of your clit. The sounds can be heard through the layers of fabric—the squeak of leather. “Hear it, Girl, hm? Hear that?”

You nod, panting harder as your feet shift unconsciously to his teasing. 

“Inside, Nikto, please,” your mouth breathes, voice tight. “Feels good.” 

“Patience, Птичка. You’re not ready for that.” Pressure moves over your weeping cunt, feeling it, circling. “Let me play, first.”

You moan softly as his wet thumb moves up to your clit, circling until your desperation makes you whine at him to move faster than this slow, tortuous, pace. 

Nikto clicks his tongue, his hand still behind your head and cupping the base of your skull, he angles your chin up and stares down at you, puffing a breath with every grind of his limb. 

“I’ll give you my fingers, Seraph, I promise. Я обещаю.” You can hear the brush and sound of shifting wet skin, leather gloves moving slightly quicker as your noises start to increase. All the while, those pale eyes stare, wide and blown to the max. 

If you had to take a guess, above the fog of your brain and the building pressure in your core, he was getting off on this just as much as you were.

Strange, you’d never seen someone so eager to have you cum on their hand before. 

Your breath hitches, legs shaking. 

“Look at that,” Nikto breathes. “Nikto’s good girl.”

You clench over nothing at that, locking eyes and face pulling in, pearls clicking together in a steady rock. 

“Harder,” you order, lips swollen from being bitten over and over again. “Fuck, Nikto harder, I need it.”

“You like getting off like this?” He tilts his head, keeping you pressed against the wall, gun stuck between the two of you—hard metal and heavy pressure making your mind almost lose itself to the hypnosis of the groves and bulges. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” you say it louder than you intend, moaning when his pace increases. 

Your legs move and tighten, eyes going glossy as your whines get tighter and faster. Slick drips from your cunt and its stretched panties, dripping near booted feet and the flinching heels. 

The word is whispered in your ear as your first orgasm rips you open, your breath getting caught and your eyes shuddering closed; walls tightening and flexing, needy for anything to fill it.

“Beautiful.”

There’s little waste in between, and even as your lungs heave and your mind fights to focus, there’s a prodding at your pulsing hole. Gloved fingers push inside, and your brain short circuits.

“Leaking,” Nikto breathes, feeling your cum dribble off of his hidden knuckles. He looks hungry for it—and the erection that tents his dress pants aches something painful. But he isn’t hungry for that. His heavy hand can do all the work he needs, if he must. He’s hungry for that pleasure on your face; that mindless arousal and the thin line between sense and animalistic instinct. He didn’t need to stuff you full of his cock to watch your face blow out with release, and with that, he felt nearly smug. 

He wanted to show you how good it could be to be attended. He can’t make it all better, but he can certainly redefine what it means for you one orgasm at a time. You had said you wanted him, and he was selfish in the way he wanted you—until he felt you were ready to get stretched open under him, naked to his eyes as his pelvis fucked into yours, he’d give you this, instead.

Two fingers enter your drooling pussy, and the squelch of the flesh is vulgar as they start to fuck you open until the entire length is engulfed in heated flesh and textured walls.

You whimper airly, body numb and still reeling from before, the same sparks itching at your skin as another coil forms as your mindless hips snap. It’s a stretch, a small burn around the ring of your entrance as it yields willingly.

“Nikto,” you cry, head shifting to press into his shoulder. You didn’t know what else to say. Your own fingers had never stretched you like this. The slap of skin makes you clench, and the Russian groans lowly in his chest, chuckling. 

“Tight for me,” his digits curl, and your back arches, hands snapping to his waist as you stare pleasure-blown from over his shoulder before more feral sounds bounce off the walls. “Give me a second one. Let me feel you break.” 

Nikto whispers into your ear, fingers carefully on your scalp and caressing the hair—a calm de-escalation that doesn’t match with the abuse of his bullying fingers minute after minute.

The fact that he had snapped a man’s entire wrist with the very hand that was playing with your cunt was lost to you. But it was a shameful admission that, if you had been thinking about it, you would have shattered far sooner than later. 

“God,” you moan, shoving your burning face into his neck, keening into it, and gasping. “Want you to feel it. Never felt this good with something inside of me—working me so well.”

His fingers crook inside of you again, digging; searching. He finds that point again, incredibly easy, and continues to stroke it with every fast flex of his arm. You clench your eyes shut, arms tensing.

“Yes?” Nikto smirks, arrogant. “We are glad. You are my charge, Seraph. Remember that.” He leans in close to your ear, humming as the sweat under his suit makes him chuckle. “Want to make sure you are always satisfied.” 

Your stomach rolls, and the pace of his digits increases as his palm brushes your sensitive clit, making you shake and whine at the overstimulation. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but it ached in such a way that made the pleasure sharp like a knife. 

“Break for us,” the Russian mumbles, grinding his palm between every thrust of ruined gloves. 

The second orgasm is stronger than the first, and it makes you bite down on the man’s neck in a play to try and silence the loud, long, mewl that escapes your lips. Nikto grunts and feels your walls spasm, trying to push him and force him in all at once.  

It was instinctual the way his mind went to how it would feel around his dick, but the thought was put on hold until tonight when he could do all of the imagining he wanted. 

He’d wait until you went to bed, and then he’d shift out of his belt and shove his hand into his pants like some desperate boy. Fisting his cock to the remembrance of your cunt and your hips—the clench of your thighs as cum dribbles down his wrist and soaks his suit sleeve. 

A mutt he was.

He’d keep jerking himself off until he was whining from the pain his red tip would cause him, spending so much seed onto his clothes that they weren't even worth keeping. Legs shaking and hips rutting into the air, eyes blown wide open and staring at your bedroom door. It was shameful, he admitted, but he’d never claimed to be anything but. 

And then he’d keep going. 

You snap him out of his thoughts, sagging against Nikto’s chest and panting, hands clenching and unclenching into his sides. The Russian feels the large stain of pre-cum on his pants and finds it pointless to try and hide. 

Licking his lips, he hisses at the brush of fabric at his erection, but only grinds once into your body before he pulls his fingers from your heated core and breathes into your ear. He’s patient. He can wait.

His heart is rabid, and yours is too, but the tired smile into his black and blue neck is welcome, he thinks. Sweat dribbles from his brow.

“I am taking you back.” A teasing pause as you sigh, fluttering an eye open. You’d expected him to take something from you, maybe. But leaving? Without any expectation of you getting on your knees for him? Without sitting in his lap and letting him rail you open? A tiny smile moves your face up—something far more pure than the actions that had just taken place moving softly to your flesh. Nikto was just…strange. 

But you suppose that made two of you.  

“Sore? Do we need to carry you?” The man huffs, eyes glimmering. 

For now, there was only a calmness—the explanations would start tomorrow, a long and hard one, but now…now it was just a still middle point of the aftermath and the events yet to come. A peaceful present.

A joint pair of tired chuckles wafts out of the storage room, where a man stands alone, hands clenched. 

This dark shadow looms as the party is cut short by the result of the host getting his wrist snapped, worried looks moved out and high calls of alarm. Yet, he stands, listening. Unmoving to what he just heard. 

What he’d cracked the door to witness with burning eyes. 

There’s something about him that isn’t quite right—a bit ragged in appearance, blinking quickly as if in an animalistic shock. Blond hair a mess as if it’s been run through multiple times. 

He breathes heavily, eyes stuck to the door. 

And then he’s gone before the two individuals can walk out moments later.

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @kra-rino4ka, @caramlizedtomatoes, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

[pedge-page]

Imagine baby Sarah getting paint all over the house and marker all over the walls and paint stains of her foot prints everywhere and reader gets emotional about the “art” and tries to convince Joel to keep the mess

Joel Dealing with Sarah - Art

- - - -

Joel never realized just how much damage and unsupervised 2 year old year old can do in 5 minutes. He was used to an immobile Sarah, whether that be needing carried everyone or just seeing how far she can crawl. But when she grew new able bodied lightening legs? It was a new level of parenting he didn’t fully think through.

 Art and colors were all the rage at this age. He has so many squiggly, scratched out, vomitous “art” pieces hanging on the fridge. And it didn’t matter what you wanted her to draw. her uncoordinated hands could only stab and streak across paper. And thus, Yellow streak was Spoon, blue streak was mom, and stabbed holes were Dad.

He had grabbed something very quickly in the kitchen before coming back to supervise the kid who was coloring with her fist and an upside down crayon on a very large sheet of paper. Only now, she was nowhere to be found. There were crayons and pencils and paper scattered all over the floor, but no baby. 

More horrifically, he did notice the box with all her art supplies was left opened, and the vacant spot that held her child-safe paint tubes were missing.

“Oh Shit.”

He’s checking behind the couch and then back into the kitchen in case he didn’t notice maybe she had followed her in there.

“Sarah,” he announces cautiously, but his voice echoes in the house.

He contines into the entry way when the first clue emerges: a bitty pink paint foot print.

“Oh Shit. Sarah!”

He runs up stairs, following the ever growing number of painted footprints left in her trail, and then splotches on the newly painted walls, fingers and smudged handprints like a multicolored serial killer following its injured victim up the stairs. 

“Shitshitshit,” he mumbles, putting his thumb to his tongue and trying to blotch it out quick. The paint was pretty damn un-eraseable with saliva alone.

“SARAH,” he booms more angrily. Nice daddy was on his way out, damned be your soft Mommy reaction.

The girl was getting spanked.

Finally rounding the corner to the master bedroom, he sees the little monster happily squiggling on his walls and she dances side to side. Her hair and face and clothes and skin were covered in paint, as if rolling her whole body along ever possible surface.

Hands on his hips, puffing steam through his ears, he opens his mouth.

The front door clicks open, and both Joel and Sarah’s ears perk up as your familiar footsteps enter the home.

“Oh my god!” You shout, undoubtedly noticing the horrendous streaks of paint all over your walls.

Sarah gets to her feet and barrels past Joel, hoping to see her Momma because FUCK this boring guy.

He smirks, knowing you’re gonna throw a fit. That THIS time Sarah and her behavior won’t slide, and you’ll take the fury out on her.

“Did you make art baby!” You shout excitedly as you finally see her waddle towards you. She coos giddily as you scoop her up. 

Joel frowns and makes his way to you. “Excuse me??”

“Oh hi Daddy.” You wave him off casually with a barely-kiss to the cheek. “Aww honey you got paint all over your hair little bean.” You kiss her forehead, all wrapped up in your arms and hanging off your hip. “Show momma what you made.”

You put her down and the two of you make your way past a very bewildered and near exploding Joel.

On your knees, Sarah directs you to her “artwork” all over the walls like an art gallery. She goes on with her gibberish words and you listen as intently as if it were English. 

He clears his throat. 

“Hmm?”

“I’m spanking her, right?”

You narrow your brows. “What?”

“Are you kidding me? What do you mean ‘what’.” He gestures to the destroyed walls. “I gotta repaint the whole house!”

“WHAT! Why would you do that???? We’re keeping it like this.”

He’s so ready to dunk you in time out too. 

“Joel its art—“

“This aint art—it’s a god damn mess! All over the walls? Baby, she can’t just do this.”

“But its her self expression, its probably one of the few ways we can try to understand her beauty— she could be a picasso when she grows up--"

“ITS SCRIBBLES. And she’s got it out for me,” he narrows his eyes to Sarah, scowling. “If you won’t let me discipline her—“

“She’s two--“

“Then at least let me make this house right.”

You cross your arms over your chest. Sarah looks up and does the same, minicking the disappointment on your face. 

“You never let us do anything fun,” you pout. “Always destroying things that make us happy.”

“Don’t you start on that,” he growls with a pointed finger. “She painted the walls, and she’s not allowed to do that.”

“If I painted the walls, would you tell me I can’t?”

He’s very tempted to say yes because you’d make a mess, but prevents the words from leaving his mouth. “No…”

Dignified, you announce: “Then I say my baby can paint the walls the way she wants.” 

He lets out a long, defeated sigh. “Staircase. Starcaise is only place she can have paint. I’m painting over everything else.”

You think it through, but nod. “Fine. And We will make it beautiful.”

He closes his eyes ask you and mini-boss version of you Sarah make your way, baby finger in your hand, out of the bedroom.

He lies down face forward in bed, and bites down on the pillow to muffle his shout.

-

The next day is Saturday. He had a project in the morning that helped distract him from the mess of his own home.

When he walks in, he’s immediately greeted with your bear hug.

He smiles and kisses your forehead. You’re covered in streaks of paint, some of which clearly wiped on your hair and lips without you realizing. 

“Keeping busy I see?” He chuckles.

“I think it’s coming along.”

True to your word, he’s impressed with the transformation. Once a plain beige, then a hodgepodge of paint, you had gone over and added creative detailing to the colors and mishap that Sarah had splotched over and made a unique design of flowers, suns, meadows and rivers, free flowing patterns and shapes that felt full of life and artistic workmanship, making the whole thing look intentional.

He wraps his arm around your shoulders and admires the work. “You really know how to save that kid, don’t you?”

You nuzzle your face into his sweaty chest.

‘Speaking of, where is…?”

You widen your eyes and look around, forgetting that Sarah had abandoned her post of watching you. 

“Oh SHIT!” You shout, running down towards the living room.

Sarah had somehow gotten a fresh coating of paint all over the new dress you bought, and her poor victim today was helpless Spoon, who stares at you remorsefully. She is sitting quite obediently as Sarah splotches her little pink handprints on the dog’s head and back.

“Ankles weights,” Joel says plainly, observing with a little nod at the scene as you go to yell at Sarah about painting the damn dog. “How about baby ankle weights?”

"Order them now," you seethe, grabbing her hand and Spoon's collar and stomping off the the bath tub to get them clean.

Joel rolls his lips in circle motion, trying not to smile to himself.

- - - -

Taglist

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrsoharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005 @theoraekenslover @animez96 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @puduvallee @cassiecasluciluce @loohoop @himboelover @callsignwidow

[sylusjinwoon]

{ 201 }

enamored by you.

zayne x artist!fem.reader

dedicated to @nyashykyunnie because she’s a zayne girlie 🥰

to say dr. zayne was a bit grumpy when he woke up cold and alone this morning would be the understatement of the century.

you, his lover of nearly 3 years, had left him suddenly yesterday. after enjoying dinner with you, you suddenly had an epiphany, your inspiration seeming to strike at an inopportune time as you already made preparations to head back to your studio where you could bask in your muse with minimal interruptions. he tries convincing you to stay, yet you didn’t relent, all to eager to temporarily leave him as you were determined to get your muse onto a canvas as soon as possible.

ah, but zayne supposes this is just what he has to deal with when it comes to having an artist as his lover.

after his morning routine, zayne was currently in the kitchen, making his breakfast for the day as a series of knocks were heard coming from his door.

he frowns a bit, checking the time on his phone while searching through his messages, letting out a huff when he didn’t see a reply from you. pocketing his phone, zayne takes quick strides to the door, opening it as he was taken aback by the large canvas in front of him.

the young doctor remains silent, taking a moment to admire the painting. it depicted brightly colored koi fishes swimming in a pond, filled with lily pads with purple blooms sprouting from it. the colors and overall aesthetic of it all was enough to make zayne’s heart melt:

just as he was ready to burn the image of such a wonderful painting into his memories, something much more beautiful catches his attention the moment you peak out from the canvas.

“zaynie! hi, do you like my latest gift for you?”

“hmph, so this was what took you away from me last night.” zayne grumbles in response. despite how he hated your absence and how you were not safely tucked within his arms last night, he was still thoroughly impressed with your artwork. taking the heavy canvas within his hold, he hears you shut his door before following him from close behind.

heading up the stairs, he opens the door to one of the spare bedrooms where its walls were already defrosted with your past works. as you step inside the familiar room, you couldn’t help but feel your cheeks turning warm at the sight. every painting and sketch you had given him remains perfectly preserved and cherished within this singular room. just knowing how much zayne adored your love language was enough to make your heart swell for him.

after hanging your latest masterpiece, zayne returns back to your side, a frown on his face when he automatically takes you into his arms, burying his face within your hair as he breathes in the scent of your strawberry shampoo while giving your head a kiss. you feel the gentle sensation and giggle, hugging him back with a beaming smile on your face.

you spend a few more minutes within his embrace until you heard a familiar sigh coming from him. he says your name in a bit of a stern voice. “how long did it take you to paint that for me?”

a sheepish expression was seen on your face, and you knew that you couldn’t just lie to him, because then he could hear and possibly feel the rapid pace of your heart (he was a cardiac surgeon, for god’s sake!) you, being the good girl that you were, opted for the truth.

“i ah… i may have spent the whole night working on it?”

a sharp inhale was heard coming from zayne, with him removing your form from his chest. you give him the best pout you could muster, only to feel your lover pinch at your cheeks in response.

“h-hey!”

“that’s what you get for not taking care of yourself.” zayne tells you with a cool hum, returning you back to his embrace as he carries you, bridal style, out of the room and downstairs into the dining room. he settles you on one of the seats and points a finger at you. “sit still and behave. i’m going to make you breakfast, and you are going to eat everything that is on your plate, doctor’s orders.”

you felt a shiver running down your spine, only managing to give him a nod as you felt your mouth water in response. zayne was an amazing cook, and you always looked forward to the times where he would prepare meals for you (which just happened to be every single day, but you digress…)

as you waited patiently for him, you could smell the scent of honey waffles fill your senses, making you let out a soft moan. everything that zayne was cooking smelled so good to you, and you couldn’t wait to devour the feast he had plans for you.

not even 20 minutes had passed when zayne returns to you with two plates in hand. one plate was filled with the honey waffles with whipped cream strawberries on top, while the other plate was filled with more savory items like scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, and buttered toast. when he settles both plates in front of you, you eagerly dig in with a happy grin on your face.

instead of eating, zayne chooses to spoil you instead, picking you up from your seat before taking your spot, settling you on his lap instead. with a happy giggle, you eagerly share your breakfast with him, allowing him to spoil you as he fed you bites from this delicious meal.

when the plates were nearly emptied did you begin to feel tired, letting out a yawn as you cuddled closer to zayne’s chest.

“what’s this? is my honey getting tired already?” you shiver at his petname for you, only managing to give him a nod as you let out another yawn. he clicks his tongue in feigned disappointment, but really, you knew he was just worried about you.

with breakfast completed for the day, zayne takes you in his arms and stands back to his full height, walking back on the stairs to your shared bedroom. he listens to the way you let out a hum of his name, smiling before entering your shared bedroom.

tossing aside the comforters and sheets with one hand, zayne settles you against the king sized mattress first before joining you. he lays beside you while bringing your form closer to him (almost greedily) as he left no space between the junction of where your chest meets with his.

you felt so warm and comfortable, already falling into a deep slumber the moment zayne feels your soft breaths against his chest. as he twirls a strand of your hair against his fingertips, his gaze lands on the drawers that were settled in front of him-

perhaps when you woke up, zayne would surprise you with a date all while revealing a gorgeously crafted ring for you, the velvet box still remaining hidden within his drawer as you remained blissfully aware of his promises of forever to you.

a.n. - the artwork that you see in the story was also drawn / painted by @nyashykyunnie, she is an amazingly talented writer and artist, and i highly recommend that you readers follow her for some zayne content! 🥰

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[stagefoureddiediaz]

I am having a lot of thoughts about the Christopher of it all right now in light of this bts we got from Gavin!!!

Because - Mountains and rock climbers and forests!!!

Look I've already climbed onto the Eddie and mountains to climb train in this post here but I'm about to make it a Diaz boys have mountains to climb train!!!

So Eddie now has a photograph - in black and white - of Half Dome on his bedroom wall - right above his bed

And then he has a lone cowboy on a horse - on the opposite wall - a cowboy on a horse in a flat landscape (which is yellow/orange - and with the blue walls also therefore plays into yellow blue theory)...

...and there is just something about Eddie sitting in his bed - looking at a picture of what is essentially a lone ranger in a barren landscape, on a wall that Buck helped him repair, while behind him is this looming mountain that is notoriously difficult to climb - the thing he can see when he is having sex with M - upside down.

The rest is under the cut because being brief is not my wheelhouse!!

Something about playing into the idea that Eddie has been this lone ranger in a barren landscape - searching for something - an something about how that search in this barren landscape is hiding (happening) the holes in the wall that Buck helped him patch up - something about how he feels alone even though the help he needed and wanted is already there - just hidden out of sight.

How that mountain is looming behind him also out of sight. How Eddie is in t his good place right now, but there are still mountains for him to climb - how those mountains are connected to his past.

There is also something in the choice of black and white for the image - something about the thing Eddie needs to deal with - the mountain he needs to climb is black and white - Obvious - not a complex myriad of colour (something something about his catholic guilt being obvious - black and white - something about it being a part of him that is finite and defined and not changeable - something like being gay perhaps!!)

Then there is the fact that we can make a fair assumption, based on the fact that we were shown Buck helping him fix the holes, that Buck helped Eddie with all of the redecorating - that he helped him paint the room (and choose the lovely duck egg blue colour), helped him hang the pictures - helped him choose the artwork for his walls - implicitly tying Buck to that mountain - that his feelings etc tied to Buck are his mountain still to climb. The thing with this as a concept is that it also plays into the upside down on the bed with Marisol - things being wrong or upside down/ backwards with her - that the spectre of Buck looms large over their relationship.

The otehr thiing I'd like to point out is kind of the biggest thing of them all and plays into the two cut lines and red string of fate of it all. Because Half Dome has a permanent cable tether for climbers attempting to summit to use and the metaphor of that is fascinating to me. There is something in the idea of Eddie feeling untethered, but also in Eddie not fully trusting he has a tether. How Eddie still hasn't fully grasped the permanence of Buck in the Diaz family's life - in Eddies life. Eddie needs to scale that mountain and buck is metaphorically speaking the half dome permanent cable run. Eddie might've made him a permanent fixture from a legal perspective - but that was for Chris, not for him (and Chris has already figured out Bucks permanence if you ask me - he already ran to Buck and opens up to him in a way he can’t with his father) but Eddie still doesn’t fully trust that the support he has in his life through Buck is permanent rather than a temporary tether. Eddie is almost there - but not quite - it feels like there is something in Bucks coming out to him that will be the catalyst for him to figure that out (don't ask me what or how - I haven't figured that bit out yet but it has something to do with the whole nothing has changed between us and Eddies dawning realisation of that that gives him his own confidence to make changes in the same way Buck has!)and start his climb so he can explore the mountain (his queerness) safely.

But back to Christophers t-shirt and how it fits into everything. Christopher has his own mountains to climb - dealing with his feelings of being abandoned by his mom - by being abandoned by the women in his life - because we need to remember that Abuela is also now absent from his life as she is now back in Texas. How Ana also left and how we've very much not been shown Carla at all (or had mention on her I think) this season. we can even, by virtue of the relationship Chris and Buck share, include Taylor leaving (being kicked to the curb) as part of the list of women exiting his life in some way.

Bringing up Shannons letter and having Chris read it at the very start of the season, for me is a clear indicator that that is the arc he is going to go through this season - that while there are still elements of the Shannon of it all in Eddies story, it is actually Christopher who needs to let that ghost go and move forward, not Eddie.

911 loves to play with imagery - they excel at it in the Diaz house, and I talk about how the kids costuming on the show is always so deliberately chosen to reflect their arcs, Especially with Chris. So here we have Chris in a t-shirt with mountains, trees and climbers on - setting up the idea of exploring him climbing that mountain he has to climb, but also playing on the idea that he's a bit caught in a forest as well - cannot see the wood for the trees. It a great metaphor for his current abandonment issues - because he is still a bit too young to fully comprehend that some people are not meant to stay in your life in a permanent way or that sometimes, just because they are not physically present in a regular way, doesn't mean they have abandoned you. Hell that is a difficult thing for many adults to comprehend, so to ask a kid to - especially one who's hormones are starting to go crazy - is never going to be practical.

The fact they’ve very deliberately not shown him actually interacting with with Marisol before now - establishing her as existing in Christopher’s world but not actively being a part of it - really ensuring to set her apart and off to the side - apart form establishing the contrast between Shannon and Marisol, is so interesting and feels, to me at least, like it’s building up to possibly playing into some version of the idea of you’re not my mother etc etc. They've taken great care to establish Shannon as Christophers mother - that she is still a major presence in his life, even in her absence.

They're is also something in the way that the idea of Marisol being 'portrayed' (can't think of the right word but I hope you know what I mean) as essentially a babysitter - we've never been shown them interacting - just told that Eddie has been getting her to babysit and in tv show land if you want to tell the audience that two characters have a good relationship (of whatever form) - you show it - you don't allude to that relationship as existing - especially when you are developing a narrative around a child's fear of being abandoned by the women in his life - not showing her looking after Chris before this point, and after you have established said abandonment issue, just reenforces the nature of their relationship - that it is one Chris is not likely to be engaging in - because she's going to leave anyway so what is the point of getting attached.

Now this is interesting because it feeds into Eddies arc rather nicely - its an arc they have already established with the audience - his jumping in too quickly and without thinking things through properly. it also plays back into an already existing arc - the one where he does things for Christopher and not for himself. they are to all intents and purposes the same thing. Eddie lets Shannon back into his life - for Christopher, he re-proposes not for himself, but for Christopher and the second baby he thinks is coming, he starts dating Ana for Christopher not for himself, he Makes Buck Christophers legal guardian for Christopher (even though at this point we don't know if Chris knows this fact), yes a part of that id for himself as well, but it is predominately for Chris. Eddie asking Marisol to move in - almost immediately in the aftermath of Chris revealing to Buck that he feels abandoned by his mom and that is where his multiple girlfriends/ becoming a player is coming from - how it is having an impact on who he is becoming as a person (one who things women leave and therefore treats them as temporary), is Eddie doubling down on his relationship with Marisol as a way of giving Christopher a female who is present. The entire thing - Eddie - in therapy and healing and now in a place where he thinks his issues with Ana and becoming a ready made family etc are 'dealt with' and in the past - hearing Chris talk about Shannon that way and to then have his immediate response be to go one step further than he managed with Ana - to ask M to move in - to essentially create something permanent - the whole going with is gut - despite his own feelings and thoughts on the matter - boils down to him still doing things for Chris’s happiness and not his own feels kind of loud. Because that is what his gut tells him - double down and sacrifice yourself and your own happiness for Christopher.

on the subject of guts - its very clearly a major theme for the Diaz boys this season, the show has been using the Diaz house to great effect already on this front.

Christophers homework that he was doing in episode 1 - all aobut guts

we had him studying blood types and transfusions

the function of kidneys and the nephron (literal guts!!)

and then - when he's read Shannons letter - frog dissection - again literally looking at guts

then from up coming episodes - thanks to Jihanes bts content we know that the fridge has the following charts on it

All things related to the gut and gut health. something something about Eddies heart having been worked on and now his gut is next in line to be sorted out. Especially as catholic guilt is something that plays into the idea of being something you feel in your gut rather than heart or head - related.

And there is also something in relation to the catholic guilt of it all and Eddies gut and Chris feeling like women don’t stay thats in play with Eddies relationship with his mother - that she's stayed too present in his life and that she treated him is such a contradicting way - the juxtaposition of not letting him be a kid whilst he was a kid - needing him to be the man of the house in his fathers absence whilst then not letting him grow up/ treating him as a child when he became an adult - and dominating (or trying to) his life and how he (and Shannon) raised Christopher.

Because it is fair to assume that it was Helena who took Eddie to church every Sunday and who was predominately responsible for his religious up bringing (we don't know how long Ramon was away for but to me at least it feels implied that his business trips would be for several weeks or months at a time and then he would return home for a period before disappearing again) an therefore much of his catholic guilt is attached to her and how if they are going in the catholic guilt/queer repression direction it is Helenas forceful personality that kept him in the closet even if he managed to step back from Catholicism

Something something about hearts and guts and minds being concepts of the human condition that are so intricately intertwined and needing to be in balance - how Eddies heart has been looked at and worked on (his relationship with his father), how his gut needs to be worked on now (which is related to his mother) and then finally his mind - Eddie needing to learn to communicate and talk things through with people rather than burying it - something he cant do until he has worked through is catholic guilt and his letting his gut rule his decision making (even though it rarely pans out for him) - much like his mother has ruled over his life in one way or another until recently.

Something something about that being a mountain they are both climbing - but in different ways and therefore separately and it all comes back to them not talking - Eddie not talking to his son (he even had Buck have that initial conversation with him rather than do it himself) there is still so much misunderstanding between the Diaz boys!

Wow I did not mean for this to get long!!!! Hopefully it makes sense!!

it may just be the incoherent ramblings of a woman obsessed with the way they are picking a part Eddie and putting him back together - endlessly fascinating to me!!

[dantesunbreaker]

I don't know if you're doing requests but, it's alright if you're not or if you don't want to do this.

in case you do, though: I've been thinking about the papas with an artist s/o. I'm a painter and my hands are always covered in paint, like, always, and I was thinking about what they would say when they noticed, what they would think about it, you know?

I hope you're having a great day :)

Papas with a Painter S/O

Absolutely! While not as often, I do paint and I always end up getting a decent amount of paint on myself! Hopefully you enjoy these anon! Thank you so much for the request.

Primo

Of all of them, Primo would have the most heartwarming and wholesome response! When he tends his gardens, his hands are similarly stained with dirt from the labor of his passion

“Ah look at you, beautifully colorful, just like the tulips in spring!”

If it is something you are up for, Primo would love for you to paint murals along some of the walls in his garden

Sometimes you bring your easel out to the gardens when the weather is good and the sun is up so you can paint alongside Primo as he tends his garden

While not a strong painter himself, Primo makes his own watercolor paints with the flowers from his garden. On days when nothing needs tending in the garden, Primo will happily paint alongside you

Will laugh if you try rubbing the paint on your hands off onto him, Primo retaliates by rubbing some dirt onto you

Secondo

The tone of Secondo’s response is entirely dependant on where he is and what he is doing at the time

If there is work to be done and you are to approach Secondo with paint coated hands, he will have a more serious stern response. While being as polite but blunt as possible, Secondo will ask that you either keep distance and refrain from touching any of his work, or that you wash your hands before doing so 

Not that Second does not care for your passion for painting! But he already put enough strain on himself that he does not need the added stress of potentially ruining important documents with paint stains

However, any other circumstance, Secondo will smile and will try to be subtle about his excitement as he asks to see what you have been working on

Loves to watch you light up as you talk about your artwork, wants to know every detail, your reasoning for every brushstroke, every color choice

Would never tell a soul, but hearing your story for each painting makes Secondo feel a deeper understanding and connection with you. It makes him fall ever more so in love with you

Do not rub the paint on him. It will make him grumpy and pouty(secretly will find it cute, but does not enjoy cleaning paint out of his suit or robes)

Terzo

Ecstatic whenever he catches you with paint on your hands! You must show him what you are working on at once! Doesn’t even matter if he is meant to be working at the time

Terzo also wants to see and know every little detail about what inspired you to create each piece. If you are passionate about it, Terzo is passionate about your passion for it

Proudly hangs some of your paintings in his office and bedroom

Of course, being a cheeky bastard, Terzo will pull the whole “paint me like one of your French girls”

But really, if you do paint Terzo in any sort of fashion he will be beyond delighted and will insist on showing it to every single person in the ministry

If you touch him with your paint hands, Terzo will insist that you leave a handprint on his butt which he will proudly sport for the rest of the day

Copia

Understands and admires the effort and passion you put into your work, just as he does with his work as Papa...though Copia’s work is far less colorful and messy 

Whenever he catches you with painted covered hands, Copia always feels a bit of excitement as he asks about your latest piece

Though a bit shy and insecure about it, sometimes Copia will ask to come paint with you and have you teach him different techniques. Not that he is expecting to become a painter himself, but he does find it relaxing at times

Always happy to be in the same room together as you paint while he either reads or catches up on paperwork

Acts super proud of your work and will showcase it to his ghouls whenever possible. If you ever have a gallery exhibit, you can guarantee Copia loads up all the ghouls in the van to take them all to see it as a family

Will be shy and flustered if you get paint on him, definitely making numerous Copia noises

[billielolly]

Sims 3 Build - Relaxation Retreat

A vibrant family home full of opportunities for fun and relaxation, with plenty of space for a budding gardener. 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, on a 30x40 lot.

Watch the speed build: https://youtu.be/-7bnRL8bAsA

Download here:

Patreon (free): https://www.patreon.com/posts/111265768/

Exchange:

Expansion packs:

Ambitions

Late Night ?

Generations

Pets

Supernatural

Seasons

University Life

Stuff packs:

None

Store content:

Stones Throw Greenhouse - Greenhouse Window, Greenhouse Roof Center

Custom content:

heaven - Neutral Slate Roof with White Trim

missyzim - Neoclassic Build Set (Tall Wide 2x1, Tall Wide 1 Tile, Counter High 1 Tile, Tall 1 Tile)

Cakenoodles - 13pumpkin Rustic Wood Floor

Angela - Aiden Buildset 3x1 Arch

Martassimsbook - MyCupOfCC Hot Tub

Onyxium - Jena Bathroom Accessories (Reed Diffuser, Soap Dispenser, Toilet Brush, Tooth Brushes)

Mutske - Toiletroom Aria Toilet Paperholder

Gosik - Kobe Bathroom Towels 2

Martassimsbook - cmdesigns Anemone Bathroom Set Candle

Martassimsbook - Ars-botanica Cup of Pansies

Martassimsbook - Cowbuild Dahlia and Delpinium Vases

Mutske - Plant Palm Large

sim_man123 - Emerson Ficus Tree

Martassimsbook - novvvas Planties pt3 (Ficus Lyrata V1, Ficus Elastica, Monstera Deliciosa)

Martassimsbook - Cowbuild My Home Set (Hanging Pothos Plant)

ATS3 - Kitchen Herbs (Basil)

ArtVitalex - Mayorka Ceiling Spot Lamp

johziii - Irene Lamp

NynaeveDesign - Lyne Curtains (Curtains 1x1 Left, Curtains 1x1 Right, Curtains 2x1, Curtains 3x1, Rod)

ArtVitalex - Kalkgrund Mirror

Onyxium - Gibsonton Bed

Martassimsbook - Lorelea Floral Paintings

ArtVitalex - April Kitchen

ArtVitalex - Glen Mirror

Angela - Michelle Bedroom Mirror

ArtVitalex - Hampton Dining Chair

sweetdevil - More Planters (Prickly Planter)

sweetdevil - More Planters Part 3 (Fancy Box Planter)

Wandering Sims - Wildflower Mix Pattern 4

missyzim - French Country Paintings (Country Floral Painting, French Country Paintings 3, Provencial Painting)

Mutske - Liatorp Palm in Basket

Angela - Simspiration Issue 01 Watering Can

ArtVitalex - Upland Bathroom Accessories (Toilet Brush, Soap Dispenser, Toothbrush and Paste)

Twinsimming - Single Serve Hammock

Crowkeeper - The Cryptic Triptych Paintings (Enchanted)

ArtVitalex - Rowlett Hallway Extra (Key Bowl, Umbrella Holder)

Julietsimscc - Dark Landscapes Artwork

ArtVitalex - Doyle Pen Holder

Lulu265 - Bedford Bedroom Wall Art

deeiutza - Cottage Reading Corner Books

Martassimsbook - Pinkboxdesign Kitchen Clutter Set Dishsoap

Martassimsbook - Syboulette Millennial Kitchen Fruit Basket

ATS3 - Ceramic Canisters

Dhalsims - EA Ceiling Smoke Alarm

ATS3 - Wall Rack IKEA Fintorp-like

ATS3 - Washing-up Wooden Dish Rack

Martassimsbook - Cowbuild 500 Patrons Gifts Notebooks

Kerrigan House Designs - Belle Epoque Vanity

Martassimsbook - novvvas Mid Century Modern Living Room Books 2

QoAct - Lina Cushion II

sim_man123 - Celea Lily Vase

ATS3 - School Notebooks

ATS3 - Parisian Bistro Chair 4

bioniczombie - Tom Berry Knife Block

Martassimsbook - Chicklet Modern Lenai Patio (Chair, Box Deco)

Martassimsbook - Marvell Breeze Collection Plant

PralineSims - Contemporary Carpet 22

PralineSims - Big Flokati III

PralineSims - Classic Carpet 3

(Optional) zoe22 - Flower Arranging Mod (Table Used)

[klausysworld]

you can do a one-shot for yandere klaus mikaelson, where he walks into y/n's room (he doesn't kidnap her) every night and leaves her gifts and watches her sleep and even tells her about his day, and ends with a long statement of love.

You’re my heart and soul.

Klaus had been visiting her each night for weeks. It was his new routine, terrorise the locals, be in the centre of a war zone, fight for his life, listen to low lives and how much they despised him, drain some lesser being of their blood, go home to clean himself up and then go see his girl.

He had already memorised her sleep schedule, but it wasn’t very relevant as he came far too deep into the night for her to still be awake. On the odd chance that she was he would have to wait in her house, hidden from her eyes as he awaited sleep to take her.

He knew that perhaps this wasn’t the best way to go about his love for her and he knew that if she were to see him, she may think him to be strange and he couldn’t have her being scared before he can even begin.

And so here he was again, walking through her front door after unlocking it with his own key that he had made for himself, coming to see her.

He quietly made his way up the stairs and into her bedroom, the curtains were closer covering the locked windows, at least the other creatures of the night had lower chance of getting inside, or humans breaking in. He knew how she locked the front and back doors, windows shut tight to keep her safer. He was grateful for that.

Klaus took his usual seat in her desk chair, bringing over to the edge of her bed to sit beside her. A few times he had dared to sit on the bed with her, only once or twice did he lay with her but she began to stir awake and he panicked, it wasn’t worth the risk.

So there he sat, leaning back so the chair stood on its back legs and his upper back and head rested against the wall. His hand held her lightly enough for her body not to react much, is anything her body reacted well to his touch, often squeezing his hand or even rubbing his skin with her thumb. Occasionally he wondered if she were really asleep, he somehow hoped she was secretly always awake, and loved him too, but then..if that were the case why hasn’t she come to him yet?

His other hand’s fingers drummed against his leg as he though it over before deciding to forget about it and look at her.

So delicate in her sleep. Such a peaceful expression, soft and gentle. Her hands smooth in his, lips slightly pouted in her sleep. Something his thumb would brush over them to help him imagine how they would feel on his.

“I have something for you tonight my love” he muttered while opening the little bag he had brought

Klaus often brought a gift. Mostly subtle things, a little plant that he was put on one of the window sills, a dream catcher on her wall, a new bracelet in her drawer, snacks in the cupboard, favourite ice-cream in the freezer, that book she wanted on her shelf. He did what he could to make her life better, even if she barely noticed.

Today he decided to make himself a little more visible for her. He had made her a painting, a painting of a younger her, it was her favourite photo of herself when she was a child and all happy and innocent although Klaus would argue she still very much was from what he had been able to gather.

He decided he would hang it on her bedroom wall, his initials lay on the corner of the artwork, a clue for her. He was nervous, yes, but excited.

“I do hope you’ll like it, it’s smaller than my other paintings of you at home but I didn’t want to overwhelm you, not yet” he explained. He put the painting aside on her desk before making a very cautious move to sit with her on the bed. His hand ever so lightly touching her hair, his lips upturning as she unconsciously hummed quietly at the contact.

“You wouldn’t have liked today. There was far too much death than i would normally have liked. I believe over the years i have captured far too many enemies for my own good, i worry what they would do if they were to find out about my love for you. I also worry they would see you the way i do, that you may leave me for another” his face slowly morphed into a frown as his fingers gently caressed her head, her soft breaths filled the air as he paused and studied her sleepy face

“I don’t think you would do that to me, i believe you love me nearly as much as i do you. Or at least you could..”

“..I’m sure that one day everything will be just fine, you’ll be in my arms with one of those gorgeous smiles on your face and telling me about your day.” He smiled at her as his fingers combed through her locks

“I dream of the day you declare your love for me back. To have you tell me your feelings and for you to wholeheartedly mean them. I hope for you to be happy with me and trusting” he whispered

“You know that i would never harm you, never. I would rather give my own life a thousand times over than watch you be in pain. I will protect you and your heart with my life. For i love you more than i ever thought it to be possible. Nobody has ever loved anyone the way i do you. All i hope is that one day you may say that too” slowly he leant down so his lips could hover over her face. A feather like kiss awarded to her cheek as a sign of his affection.

“You are my heart and soul” he uttered, another kiss, this time at the corner of her mouth.

“I love you very much” he promised before standing up. He silently put the chair back to it’s place. His feet carried him over to the wall opposite her bed and he hung up the painting he had created. He slowly made his way back out of the house, his heart swelled in the best of ways as he damn near skipped home.

[3vergr3en]

a lil semi part 2 of my roommate geto writing. and also bc I was really inspired by this artwork!!

______

“Fuck, Suguru..” You breathe out as you circle your middle and index finger around your sensitive clit. You grind your hips into your hand, eyes fluttering shut as vivid descriptives of your roommate flash inside your head. A surge of heat blossoms, traveling down to your sopping cunt. You can perfectly picture Geto’s god-like build. His well-sculpted abs and his prominent v-line make you quicken the pace on your hand. “Geto!” You squeak out, teasing your entrance with the tip of your finger.

You arch your back off of the mattress when you finally slide a singular digit into your hot, slicked walls. When you’re knuckle deep, you curl your finger in search of that specific gummy spot within you. You imagine his lips on yours, swiping his tongue along your bottom lip like how he did last night. It’s been barely a day since that incident happened, but you can still feel his kisses lingering on your skin. It’s as if he was on top of you, planting open-mouth kisses along your neck, down to your collarbone.

You slide in another finger, hearing an audible gushing sound. You wonder how it would feel if it was his fingers stretching you out rather than yours. You squeeze your thighs around your hand at the thought of his long, thick fingers fucking you. You curl your fingers, letting out a moan as they brush against that spot. You curl them once more, desperate to feel that sensation again. “Please, Geto. I want more!” You moan out, thrusting your fingers in and out of your hole as you grind your clit against the palm of your hand. Too busy being engrossed in your filthy fantasy, you fail to hear the door of your apartment being closed.

Geto places his phone against his ear before raising his shoulder to hold his phone in place, “Just got home. M’cooking for Y/n tonight.” Geto hums as he slips off his sandals before placing them neatly on the shoe rack. “But didn’t you cook for her last night?” Gojo questions. “Yeah, and?” Geto replies nonchalantly. Gojo gags, “It’s actually disgusting with how much you are in love with her,” The white-haired chuckles. Geto rolls his eyes at his friend, letting out a sigh. “Anyway, y’all fuck yet?” Gojo’s voice rang through the phone. “Hanging up. Talk to you later.” He states as he grabs his phone to press the red button on the screen before allowing his friend to get another word out.

He shuffles down the hallway to the kitchen, placing the bags of groceries down on the counter. “Y/n, I’m home.” He announces.

“Geto..”

He can barely hear you calling his name as it was muffled. But he could still make out something.

He looks over to your bedroom, realizing that’s where the noise came from. He walks closer with his hand extending out to knock on your door, but he stops.

“Geto..” You call out again.

He parts his lips to speak.

“Put your cock in my pussy.”

“Oh..” He whispers, listening to the sound of your squelching pussy. He drags his hand down his face till it rests over his mouth. Shit. He can feel his pants tightening around his growing erection.

“Oh shit! M’gonna cum. Sugu’!”

He groans into his mouth at hearing the nickname you gave him. The way it innocently slips off your tongue in contrast to what you’re doing almost makes him cum in his pants. He wraps his hand around his prominent bulge, giving himself a good squeeze. Fuck. He might just go give you what you want.

[ssahotstuff]

Day 17–Edging

Aaron Hotchner x reader

Warnings: oral, fem receiving, fingering

Word count: 1.4k

Being away from the man you loved got tough, but even on the worst days, you never regretted a single moment of the love you shared. Aaron's job required him to be on the road more often than not, giving him little time in between trips to see you, and lately, the trips had taken twice as long as usual. You were never one for complaining, but you'd done a lot of muttering under your breath as of recently, cursing his job and the psychos that kept him away from you for weeks at a time. You knew it was hard on him too, but it was his work and his dedication to the job that caused things to be so difficult. He'd never slow down, not when he was on fire, solving more cases than anyone else could ever dream of, putting away some of the worst minds in the world.

You'd just made a bag of popcorn and sat down to watch an old rom com when your phone rang, his name flashing across the screen, making you do a little happy dance. It was still pretty early, so you hoped that meant he was on his way home.

"Hi baby," you greeted him, excited to hear his voice after days of radio silence between your phones.

"Hi, sweetheart. Are you home?"

You'd moved in with him after only six months. It didn't take a lot of convincing; his place was closer to your job and the places you frequented, so it made more sense than anything to just make the leap. You hadn't regretted a moment of it; he'd let you add elements of yourself to your shared home, decorating to your liking because before, the walls had been bare except for a few framed photos of the team and the occasional piece of artwork, most of them received as housewarming gifts when he'd first moved in.

"I'm here, I just sat down, actually."

You'd been on your feet the majority of the day, eager for a break and to do a bit of unwinding as the evening came to a slow pause. With Aaron home, the house would feel complete and you might actually get more than a few hours of sleep. You would toss and turn, ending up on his side of the bed most nights.

"I'm on my way home. I thought I might pick us up a milkshake and you can tell me what you've been doing while I've been away."

Milkshakes were your thing.

He'd found a place that had tons of choices, a multitude of topping and add in options, along with dairy free ice cream in more flavors than you could count. They were open super late, so on his way home from the airstrip, he'd always get something new for you to try, and you'd take turns swapping milkshakes while you filled him in on what he'd been missing.

You waited patiently, meeting at the door as soon as you heard his car in the driveway. He took you in his arms, sitting his things down on the table so he could hug you properly, scooping up your body so he could hold you against him. Your legs were wrapped around his waist as he held you tight, letting you smother him in the affection he was desperate for, even if he'd never say it out loud. Aaron was a man who loved to be touched; at first, it took a bit of work getting him to warm up to you. He'd hold your hand and cuddle with you, but he was always afraid of being too touchy with you until one night that you let him know how much you loved him hanging all over you. Since then, Aaron was attached at your hip, clinging to you anytime you'd give him the chance.

"Your milkshake has m&m's and Oreo pieces, I couldn't decide," he mumbled into your hair, kissing the top of your head before he sat you down on the counter. He handed you both milkshakes and he was picking you up again, carrying you in the direction of the bedroom while you held onto your late night snacks.

As promised, you sat in bed drinking milkshakes that were entirely too sweet considering how close it was to bedtime, and telling Aaron how work and things had been while he'd been away. He opted to eat his milkshake with a spoon because it was so thick, occasionally feeding you a bite of his while you talked. Once you were finished, you climbed into his lap, straddling him while your arms snaked around his neck, your lips meeting his quickly, and soon the two of you were tangled together, shedding clothes at record speed until you were both in your underwear.

"I've missed having you like this," he was between your legs, yanking your panties down, licking his lips as he did so, his fingers deftly spreading your glistening lips before attaching to your clit, tracing patterns on your sensitive bundle of nerves as he peered down at you, a mischievous grin on his face. It was contagious, you couldn't help but smile back at him.

"Going to make you work for it," was all he said, ducking between your legs to secure his lips around your clit, making you cry out at the swift change in sensation—your head hit the pillow and your hands fell to the back of his head, rooting in his hair as he got comfortable, parting your legs a tiny bit further as your eyes rolled back at your legs started to shake. You were already getting close, and Aaron sensed it, pulling away before you could get ahead of yourself. You whined at the loss of contact, looking down at him as his smile grew wider.

"I promise it'll be worth it baby," soon enough he was back between your legs, lapping incessantly at you as you tried to keep your composure. You put on your best poker face, hoping you could contain yourself so Aaron wouldn't know you were close, but just as you were about to reach your high, the heat of Aaron's mouth disappeared and you were left empty, not even his fingers on your body.

"So sensitive," you mewled, already overstimulated, his fingers slipping inside of you, pumping lightly as he sucked at your clit. He had his fun, playing this new game with you as you grew more and more impatient by the minute, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you only grew more tender, each flick of his tongue driving you wild.

"I know, sweetheart. You're doing so good. Soon, I promise," he assured you, pulling his fingers from your slick before you had a chance to get too close. You tried to steady your breathing, gripping the sheets for dear life as he started again, bringing you nearer to the edge than you'd been all night, so close you could practically feel the waves of euphoria consuming you, but not quite—even though it took every bit of his willpower to stop, his mouth hovered over you, making you groan in frustration as Aaron chuckled lightly in response.

"You've earned it baby, come here," his arms wrapped around your thighs as he buried his face into you, barely coming up for air as he pleasures you. You were so close you couldn't stand it anymore, Aaron's tongue swiping ever so gently against you as your hips wiggled and your legs shook, your head spinning with desire as you came down from your high, barely able to open your eyes to look down at him as he scanned your features to make sure you were okay.

"See? Wasn't that incredible?" He kissed your thigh, his face sticky with your arousal as he peered up at you through his dark lashes, intoxicated on your presence alone. He was love drunk, with stars in his eyes and a blush across his cheeks that could only be explained by pure, raw bliss. He looked truly happier than ever, without a care in the world.

"You were right. I'm glad I listened to you."

He let out a light laugh before his eyes darkened and he was disappearing between your thighs once more.

"Great, so let's do it again."

Master tags: @wheelsupkels @periodtcevans @hausofwhores @criminallyobsessedcm @tojithesourcerkiller @fireworksinthesky @pedrohoe04 @rousethemouse @thegettingbyp2 @mojo366

[standbyric]

this was mentally draining and don’t even ask why I decided to torture myself cuz I did (took so long between getting distracted, struggling with his abs and his pose, and… well yknow 😎) I’m reaaaally happy with how this turned out—it’s simple but-ehem-powerful 🫠

ChilliCarlos Sainz for red, black and golden prancing horse a.k.a Ferrari with a hint of golden leaves cuz he reminds me of a greek god in that pose 👉🏻👈🏻

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#sbr.LOOKBOOK

and Prints are available here👇🏻

don’t be shy, peeps~ don’t be shy to hang a smexhy Carlos artwork on your bedroom wall 😎 or any wall

[imaginedreamwrite]

Hello, I want to share this idea with you that I had from the Turkish TV show... I don't if you know about Turkish soaps...

So, reader is District Attorney’s daughter and Steve is the son of the mafia/mob.. they’re both artists and met in same art school. They started with love hate kinda relationship, then some mutual pining but they still can't tell each other they’re in love because its forbidden. They’re from two different worlds and in love. Steve doesn't have any criminal record YET but he's still a mob's son...

I'm just sharing it with you, if you want to write a one shot perhaps turn it into a series... whatever... or maybe you won't consider giving it shot.. that's okay...

Thankyou for providing a safe space for everybody and let me share it with you...❤

Bad For Me

It’s immaculate, the dark walls that are encompassed by rich gold trim around the baseboards and crown moulding. There’s a oversized chandelier hanging above the bed with teardrop crystals and the same gold trim that surrounds the room, the base of the chandelier that holds it against the ceiling is carved and etched metal that mirrors the sconces on the wall.

The bed is an Alaskan king, the size would have seemed almost outlandish if the room was smaller, but as it is the bedroom is as expansive as you would have imagined.

The bed is made of sturdy wood, dark to match the colour of the paint, with a curved headboard that rests high against the wall, almost like the back of a throne, and there’s two distinct round studded holes that you can only imagine would be for your restraints. There is a section of padded material to keep you from injuring your head should you throw yourself against it.

The rest of the room is as breathtaking and stunning to match, across from the bed is a fireplace that’s still burning leftover logs. There are walk-in closets set against the right half of the room, both are placed precisely between two floor to ceiling mirrors. Across from the closets is the ensuite bathroom with the shower and bathtub placated flush against each other a design, he had claimed, was to bring an air of intimacy to the relationship.

And to finish off the room, there was a chaise set before the windows, the furniture designed to be the focal point for his artwork. He had claimed, again, that it was meant for intimacy.

“And I will be drawing and sketching you.” He promised you that everything in the room would come to good use.

The heavy door opened and his footsteps were heard on the hardwood floor. You had stood before the windows, glancing out at the property below, so entranced by the prospect of escaping.

“There is no running from me.” His voice had hit your ears, the scent of his cologne invaded your senses and you had wished you hated it more. “Why so somber, my wife?”

He was the son of a ruthless Don, and you were the daughter of the district attorney. He was attending art school where you had taken a few classes, your main focus was classical and contemporary dance while he was dabbling in sketching, drawing and painting.

You didn’t know who he was, he had only ever given you his middle name but he knew who you were. He had you figured out on day one, and you knew you should have left his presence before he got in too deep.

It was your fault, it was your fault that you were here.

“Steve please don’t do this.” You begged him, you pleaded with him to let you go. “Choose someone else, anyone else.”

“You know the tradition of bride kidnapping?” He brushed your hair off your shoulder, his large hands had come to rest on your waist as his lips met your jaw.

“You could have anyone else-“

“The groom snatches the woman he wants as his bride to save her from any other suitors. It’s most common in other parts of the world, but its a practice that suits me well.” He was possessive yet tender, kissing your neck as he pulled you back flush against him.

“You’re the most dangerous man on the east coast, you could have-“ you stopped breathing, negating your reaction to his fingers tugging on the silk tie that held your robe around you.

“I know what I am,” he hummed, his cock twitching against your ass, “I know what I want. I know who I want, that’s why I had to take you.”

“We met at school, we didn’t-“

“I know how you felt about me. Before you knew what I was, we had gone on a date. We had fun and you let me taste you. Did you really think-“ Steve groaned in your ear, hands running up your abdomen to your bare breasts.

“-I could handle just one taste?” Steve’s hands grasped your breasts, his fingers squeezing as you moaned and pliantly pushed back into him. “You are not the kind of woman who only requires one taste.”

“Please…” you whined, cratering with your willpower. “Steve…”

“Yes, Mrs. Rogers.” He nipped your neck and let go of your breasts only to sweep you into his arms and take you back toward the bed. “I will feast on your sweet pussy again. But…”

Steve leaned back and looked down at you, your chest heaving and your legs spreading to reveal the dampness of your thighs.

“I think its time,” Steve pulled you up and switched positions with you, this time it was him laying back on the bed, “you ride my face.”

“Steve I-I can’t…I’ve never-“

“Yes, darling wife.” He snatched your wrist and pulled you forward, dragging you until you had sat on his chest. “Don’t leave your husband starving. Ride my face.”

He settled his hands on your hips and dragged your forward until you hovered above him. “Don’t hold back, fuck yourself on my tongue.”

[blackroseguzzi]

Girl Next Door Part 5

Summery: ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m sorry’. Something good happens before something bad.

Sitting at your desk inside your small bedroom, you stared at your old MacBook. The college essay prompt was written in bold letters on the top of your document.

‘Discuss an event that sparked a period of personal grown and a new understanding of yourself and others.’ 

Before today you had been stumped, having complete writers block when it came to this important paper. You felt a tear roll down your cheek as your fingers started typing feverishly over the keyboard. The words effortlessly coming out of you in your emotional state. After the events that had happen in the last few weeks, you knew just what you had to write about. 

Exactly two weeks ago you had been sitting in that same seat, staring at the snow falling from the sky out your bedroom window. You couldn’t find any motivation to write this paper. You were a small town girl living in the suburbs, with zero crime and white picket fences. You had good grades, a great family life, and you were not some leper in society. You fit in well with most, especially with your neighbor Kai, who you had been hooking up with for the last 7 months. 

It was hard to believe it had been that long since you shared your first intimate moment together. You guys didn’t talk much about your relationship status, hell you didn’t speak of it at all. You were best fucking friends, and both you and Kai didn’t want to discuss what your new level of friendship was doing to your old one. 

Your thoughts were pulled from you as your phone rang beside you.

It was Kai, so you decided to answer. “What’s up?”

“Can I come over? I just really need to get out of this house,” You could hear it in his voice that his parents were arguing. Winter was always at her girlfriends, and Vincent hadn’t been living there for years, so you knew it was just Kai home with the two of them as they were at each others throats.

“Yeah of course, I’m just finishing up my essay.” You lied. Kai thanked you before hanging up the phone. You frowned as you looked to your empty document on your computer screen. Sighing, you shut the laptop and got up from your seat at your desk. You sulked down the  stairs moments before Kai’s hand banged on your front door. 

He looked tired and worn out as you invited him inside. Your parents had taken a mini vacation for themselves for the 26th anniversary so you had the house to yourself all week. You hoped someday you’d still be in love with your husband 26 years in, just as your parents were. 

He rubbed the fallen snow out of his brown shaggy hair. “Hey, thanks for letting me come over. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” You looked down at your appearance and suddenly felt a wash of embarrassment wash over you as you looked down at your yoga pants and Baggy sweatshirt with a guacamole stain from your afternoon snack lingering on the chest. 

“No god Kai, you know you’re always welcome over.. Especially when your parents get like that.” You smiled lightly at him, nodding at him to follow you up the stairs. 

You got to your bedroom door and entered the mess of your headquarters. Your room was a vibrant coral color, but the artwork on your walls were of dark comic book covers and thriller movies. The vast difference in the interior design of your room always gave kai a warm feeling in his heart. 

Kai plopped down on your unmade bed, his back falling back as he stared at the ceiling which was scattered with stick on glow in the dark stars from your childhood. 

“You know, sometimes I wish they would just fucking give up already.” Kai closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back the emotions pulling at him from the inside. “They’re just going through shit after your dads’ accident. It can’t be easy for either of them, or for you.” 

You took a sip from your iced coffee that had been sitting so long in your quest to break your writers block that the ice was already melted. 

“Its been years y/n, this isn’t going to get better. It's just gotten worse over the last year, and I feel like I can’t leave home. I can’t leave her with him.” He sat back up, his eyes were glassy. You knew he was talking about his mother. She was the brunt of all his father’s PTSD. 

You had overhead your mom talking with your dad about how Kai’s mother had been showing up with bruises on her arms lately and that she was worried about what was going on in the Anderson home. You knew that Kai’s dad was a dick, but you really didn’t know how bad until you had found out he was leaving marks on wife. 

Casting your eyes away from him, you fidgeted in your seat, “I’m sorry, I wish I could make things easier for you.”

“You do. Seriously you’re the only good thing in my life,” his words made your head shoot up and your eyes locked into his. He was smiling sheepishly, and you wondered how you had gotten so lucky as to have him.

“You don’t mean that,” Your voice came out as a quiet whisper. You felt your chest tighten at the words he had spoken to you. He had always been sweet but something in his words felt different today, like they were heavier than normal.

“Y/n, I know things with us are unusual and we’ve never really talked about what we are. I just want you to know that I love you. I love you as a friend and I love you as something more. I always will.”

It had been two days since Kai had confessed his love to you, and you froze and all you could do was kiss him in fear he was going to expect a reply. You didn’t want to complicate things more, and you really were starting to worry what was going to happen when you went off to college…if you went off to college. 

You had other things to worry about today of all days because even though two days ago Kai told you he loved you, it had been two weeks since your missed period. 

You stood in the bathroom of your home with a pregnancy test in a cup of your own piss. You paced the bathroom, biting your thumb nail and going through all the other options of why you could have missed your period. I mean there was stress, that was a big one. You had been under so much stress since applying for colleges, the essays lay dormant in your document drafts. 

“Im so fucking stupid,” You whispered to yourself as you leaned over the sink, staring at yourself in the mirror. Your hair was slung in a messy bun and the mascara smudged on your eyelids from the tears that fell from your eyes.

You pulled out your phone, realizing that it had been 10 minutes since you had stuck the test in your urine. It was clearly enough time to give an accurate result.

You slowly made it over to the back of the toilet, your eyes smashing shut as you picked up the stick. You prayed, prayed to a god you hardly believed in, but you told him that if he cared at all about you that he would let you off the hook just this once. Please dear god, don’t let me be-

PREGNANT

The words om the little electronic test were clear as day, and you dropped the stick with a shaky hand and covered your mouth. The tears escaping and cascading down your face. 

How did this happen? How would you explain any of this to Kai.

Kai. Oh my god, Kai. 

You were supposed to go over his house for a movie night tonight, but you couldn’t even fathom how you were supposed to break this news to him. 

You picked up the test off the ground, the words pregnant still permanently written on the clear blue test in your hand. You chucked it hard at the wall, the test clanging against the tile of your bathroom. ‘FUCK!,” You angrily yelled out. You stared at the stupid stick that lay flat on the floor. Your hands were sweaty and your throat felt like it did when you were 5 and found out you had an allergy to shellfish.

You grabbed your phone off the sink and pulled up Kai’s number, texting him a quick message that you were headed over. 

Entering the Anderson household you rushed right to the basement, walking by Winter and her parents at the kitchen table. They awkwardly looked between themselves at the odd actions of their neighbor. It wasn’t unusual that you walked into their house without knocking, but you usually said a quick hello. Tonight you were on a mission.

Kai sat on the couch, his laptop on his lap when you rushed down the stairs. Kai’s eyes grew wide as you walked down the stairs quickly, letting tears flow freely from your eyes,“woah woah, what’s the matter?”

 He shoved the laptop off of him and walked briskly to meet you in the middle of the room, grabbing you in a secure hug. He rubbed your back as you cried into his chest. 

“Are your parents okay, what’s happening?” He pulled your shoulders away from him, concern wrecked his face as he watched you shake your head. 

“My parents are drinking fucking mojitos on the beach right now,” You sniffled, gaining some composure and looking at Kai for the first time since you barged into the basement. 

He looked terrified, but you knew he would look even more terrified when you told him why you were upset in the first place. 

“Okay good, that’s a start. What’s going on then?” He questioned you, but all you could focus on was the sweet tenderness of his warm hands moving up and down your arms to comfort you. You wanted to soak every inch of him in before you ruined your relationship forever.

“I need to sit down, I need to sit,” Kai moved you slowly over to the couch and you plopped down on the old sofa that harbored so many memories. It was probably where you got yourself into this mess anyway. The thought made your skin grow goosebumps. 

“You’re freaking me out, y/n. What’s going on?” Kai’s eyes were wide, and he looked you over for a sign of an injury. Everything in you wanted to just cling to him and feel his body close to yours. If only you could close your eyes hard enough that when you opened them you’d be awake from this terrible nightmare. 

“I feel like I can’t breathe.” Nobody told you what an anxiety attack felt like, but you were pretty sure that you were experiencing one.

“Okay listen to me, whatever is going on I’ll help you, just talk to me.” 

You shook your head, feeling the heaviness overtaking your chest and you continued to cry. Kai ran his hands through his hair before pulling you to his chest and gently shh-ing you until he felt your body let go of the tenseness.

Moments passed until you felt strong enough to leave the comfort of his hold on you. Kai’s eyes searched you more for answers, and you couldn’t stop repeating yourself. “I’m sorry Kai, Im so sorry.”

“Woah chill, y/n. What is fucking happening here?” He was drained of color seeing you this way, and you just had to rip the band aid off.

“I’m pregnant, Kai.” 

[elektroyu]

Hey look an art related thing!

I recently figured out that I CAN hang artwork IF they're small and/ or lightweight. Turns out small and medium sized canvases tend to be light enough to put them on small nails, which are the only things that can penetrate those walls (many thanks to my neighbor for telling me this!), so that's what I'm gonna do :D

These are technically not finished yet. I can't decide if I want to varnish the two fluid paintings or not, because I'm really scared to mess them up 🙈 And they do have a very nice texture even unvarnished. Maybe it doesn't matter if I keep them unvarnished, since I'm probably keeping them for myself anyway (originally I wanted to sell them because they did turn out better than most of my other fluid paintings, but I think I like them too much together on my own wall haha). The title of the middle one is "Sea Dragon Monochrome" and the one on the right is "Cosmic Mamba".

The painting part of the freesia piece is definitely unfinished. This one is part of a triptych that I painted with my sisters a few years back for our mother's bday; each of us painted a freesia flower on a canvas like this and all of them have the same background color. I think we took ref pictures of the flowers and then painted them from the pics. They look really great together! So, our mother used to display all 3 on a dresser in her bedroom where she used to stay most often, but since she passed away last year and my siblings sorted out her stuff I got reminded that I never actually finished this painting (I think it was due to time constraints at the time and then... life happened). I now took it home in hopes I can finish it some time, and until I can get to it it's hanging out with the others in my entry. :) Maybe we can get prints of all of them once mine is done, so each of us can display the complete set, that would be cool!