#tracing and automatic art

[theatreofthelivingmind]

Tonite was hooking up the acrylic neon markers and the spirograph.

[naraposting]

he's being sleepy and shy and adorable. and she wants to eat him I think 💗

[allcirclesvanish]

artists curating the details of ai assisted rendering are definitely still making conscious choices about their own art...? like how is that even an argument lol. do people who think like this have any such arguments about blending brushes? or photographs? every day i see people making the same arguments about what constitutes "real" art and every day i swear they are inching closer to outright saying that real art can't be created using computers at all. it's silly.

[gladiatorcunt]

hey ryn!!!!! sooo i saw this (nsfw link incoming)

https://x.com/sexarchiv/status/1736871466501648453

and was desperate to hear your thoughts on this w patrick +++ art watching

love you love you🎖️💕

hi!!!!! i’m sorry this is so late but i went crazy over the link and art does a lil more than watch but i hope you like it 💘💘💘

cw: 18+ mdni, art and patrick make out during this (nsfw twt link), implied sub reader / switch patrick / dom art, one use of daddy, gross patrick who whines a lot, art being lowkey possessed by tashi (he’s on something in this one), nipple play (?), teasing, unedited

It’s a quiet night in with your boyfriends, there’s left over pizza in the fridge and the roku city background on the tv casts a soft purple glow over your shared bedroom. You’re too tired to get changed, the three of you lounge on the king sized bed in various states of undress. It’s supposed to snow during the night, so there’s just a sort of cozy vibe in the air. You really weren’t intending on being intimate with your boyfriends for the rest of the day, but absentminded strokes up Patrick’s sweaty torso quickly turn into palming his thick bulge in his boxers. Patrick softly groans, squirming and spreading his legs to give you better access.

Art slips his hand into his matching set of briefs and pumps his dick to hardness, synching his strokes up with yours. He shuffles up the bed to lie down right next to Patrick, using one arm to move Patrick to lay back against him. Art leans his head on Patrick’s, ready to tease and whisper whenever he sees him getting sensitive. Patrick automatically puckers his lips for a kis but Art cruelly denies him, not wanting to distract the other man from your touches. Somehow your hand manages to look small in comparison to Patrick’s girth, and Art squeezes his balls as he imagines it around his own length.

“He’s gonna cum too fast.” Art says, knowing that you don’t take control with Patrick like he does, but goading you on regardless.

“You just feel so good, ‘s not my fault.” Patrick moans as your thumb circles around his pinkish red cock head.

You dip your nail into the slit and lean down to let some of your saliva slowly drip down onto his aching cock. With the added lube, you pump your hand a few more times and put your wrist into it. You’re so lost in the deep groans coming from above you and seeing his pretty cock somehow pull off looking like it’s on the verge of tears that you almost forget that there’s an end goal to all of this. You’re just so in love and in actual awe of how gorgeous a dick can be, Patrick’s nastier overall but it only makes his cock look even better.

The tip is glistening and you peck it a couple times, grinning at the tiny beads of precum that trickle out of his slit. Art reflexively licks his lips and thumbs his own head, just enoying his partners playing with each other and being more than very appreciative of his favorite show. The atmosphere is so sleepy and relaxed that not many words are being spoken. It’s most a flurry of soft grunts, whines, and sweet nothings that are lost to the white noise from different sources around you.

“Go ahead and make daddy cum while I give him kisses, ‘kay?” Art coos, more at Patrick than you as he tilts his chin up with one finger and softly presses their lips together.

The kiss soon turns into a frenzied slide of their lips, swapping so much spit that their tongues actually hardly touch. You squeeze your thighs together before going back to what you were doing, trying your hardest to not cum on the spot because of them. You push your shirt down just under your tits, hissing as a rush of cold air hits your already hard and sensitive nipples. Patrick jumps like he’s been shot when you lower your full tits to brush against his weeping cock, circling your thumb around the head and tracing a vein or two.

He whines into his kiss with Art as you lower yourself even further to press your nipple into his tip. He stops being an active participation in the makeout session, too preoccupied with the teasing touch of your nipple gliding up and down his cock head. Something about your nipples being so small but so soft to the touch, getting him so worked up over the tiniest bit of flesh. It’s a feeling that’s akin to circling a vibrator around his length, but your nipples ghosting along his dick make him want to sob. He relases a symphony of broken sounds into Art’s lips, softly spoken and inhuman.

You grip the base of Patrick’s cock, holding it steady as you gingerly move your nipple up and down the tip. You take your time to really press it in deep, squishing it a bit as you force it all around him. This has you ready to cum too, the chilly air combined with how wet Patrick’s cock is sets your brain on fire, but you’re not about to have to clean your panties and be embarrassed. Art’s right, it doesn’t take much of you dragging your nipples over his slit and around his puffy tip before he’s oozing all over your hand and tits. You work him through his quick orgasm, slowing down the speed of your nipple and moving to drag it along his entire length now.

You even circle it around his balls, heartbreakingly slow but you’re not trying to make him blow his load again. Art soothes Patrick through his twitching, if the wet smacks of lazy french kisses are anything to go by.

You look up to see Art give you a two finger ‘come here’ gesture, and when you’ve crawled back up the bed to join them, you notice how damp his underwear is. Art pulls you into their kiss and drags your sticky hand to cover his soaked bulge, keeping it there as you spend no time rushing this languid embrace with your boyfriends. Before you know it they’ll be back on the court and all they’ll have time for is near bloody quickies in your shower until they head back out to practise.

Art hums, lifting his hand to pet you and Patrick, sucking both of your tongues and giggling at the whimpers you let out.

“It’s my turn now, hm?”

[sugurouge]

── a gentle touch. sylus x f!reader

fluff. sfw. suggestive content. mdni. ༚༅༚˳ . ♱ . ˳༚༅༚ pet names (sweetie, kitten, sweet girl, darling), teasing, sylus carries you around. synopsis: pampering sylus | 700 words

Self-care nights have always been your little sanctuary, a time to unwind and reset before the chaos of the next week takes hold. But ever since Sylus stepped into your life, these nights have transformed into something far more indulgent.

It’s not just about pampering yourself anymore—it’s about watching the ever-composed, ever-calculating man at your side slowly surrender to your touch. For someone so used to power and control, Sylus makes an art of pretending he’s unaffected.

But you see through him. You always do.

“You look real focused, sweetie,” he muses, his voice deep and lazy. “What, am I that mesmerising?”

You roll your eyes and distract yourself with putting on more layers of the mask. Your fingers delicately smooth the clay over his face.

“You don’t have to fish for compliments, Sylus. You already know you’re unfairly handsome.”

He’d smirk if it wasn’t for the slowly drying layer to tighten against his skin, but you can feel the amusement radiating from him nonetheless. A low chuckle vibrates from his chest. “Flatter me more, kitten.”

However, you pretend to ignore him, but as your fingers drift over his cheekbones, your gaze softens. Even with the mask obscuring his features, his beauty is undeniable. From his aquiline nose to the sharp line of his jaw, and the quirk of his lips as if he’s constantly thinking of something devious—it’s all too much.

Your thumb absentmindedly traces over the bridge of his nose, and he hums at your touch, his eyes seem to zero in on you. “Adoring me now, are we?”

You huff in response, and attempt your best to fight off the allegations about the affect Sylus has on you. “I just think it’s unfair how good you look even with this stuff on your face.”

His fingers curl around your wrist, stopping your movements as his thumb brushes over your pulse point. “You’re the unfair one, darling. Sitting so pretty on my lap, touching me so sweetly.” His grip tightens just enough to make your pulse flutter.

“Sylus,” you warn, but it comes out softer than intended.

“Mhm?” He tilts his head, a wolfish grin forms on his lips which causes the clay mask to crack while Sylus suddenly sits up to close the distance between your lips.

Your hands fly up automatically to cup Sylus’ cheeks in a valiant attempt to stop the mask from falling all over his bedsheets, to keep your yearning mess of a boyfriend away from you.

“Sylus!” You repeat louder, though you try to keep the giggles at bay. “I think we’re making a mess!”

At that, Sylus glances down—his neck and bare chest now dusted with flecks of half-dried clay from where you’ve touched him. You can't help but glare at him a little. “That’s your fault.”

“Oh? And what do you plan to do about it, kitten? Are you going to punish me?” His hands slide down to your waist, his touch firm to pull close and rub the mask along your neck and cheek.

Before you can react, he shifts, effortlessly lifting you into his arms and with him off the bed. Abandoning all the tubs and containers, the cucumbers and damp towels.

The squeak of yours is an embarrassing sound, though who could blame you? Your arms already wrap around his neck as he stands, carrying you with one goal in mind.

“What? Where are we going?” You demand to know, the tone of your voice telling Sylus that you are getting fed up with his antics. Though he chuckles, a tone so light-hearted and tender you have no chance to truly be mad with him.

“The bathroom,” he answers smoothly, “considering the mess that I have made...” Sylus leaves the implication hanging and rather focuses his attention on your body, how you feel against him, in his hold. His hands smooth along your ass, firmly encasing the globes to apply the slightest amount of pressure.

The moment you’re inside, he presses you against the cold tile wall, caging you in with his frame while one hand moves to rest beside your head. His smirk is lethal now, his lids hooded as he watches you swallow under his scrutiny.

“You know,” he murmurs with a voice like velvet, “we could take this whole ‘self-care’ thing a little further... since you already keep groaning my name, I might as well hear it bounce off the bathroom tiles.”

With that, his lips ghost over your jaw, teasing, taunting, nipping until you reward him with everything Sylus craves. You exhale a shaky breath while your fingers card through silver strands for leverage.

“W-we should clean up,” you manage to hold your ground, though your defenses are crumbling fast.

Sylus only hums, his hands gliding down your sides for his thumbs to press into your hips just enough to make you squirm. “Mhm, why not both all at once?”

You nod, and that’s all he needs before leaning in to capture your lips in a slow, intoxicating kiss while already, and ever so eagerly, discarding your top.

divider by @/cafekitsune

[st4rfckerz]

i’ve been thinking about this tooo much.

MDNI 18+

The tall glass building loomed in front of you, reflecting the sunlight in a shimmering display of modern architecture. You grab Sam's hand, feeling the callouses on his fingers as you ascend the steps towards the entrance. The automatic doors slide open, revealing a sleek lobby lined with marble floors and contemporary art installations.

"So this is where your old man works, huh?" Sam glances around the lavish lobby, looking up at the high ceiling, his gaze occasionally catching sight of the impressive artwork adorning the walls. You nod, leading him towards the elevator bank. "Yeah, he’s worked here since I was a baby. They're usually pretty cool about me bringing people in. Just don't touch anything too expensive, alright?" You smirk, trying to lighten the mood before stepping into the elevator, pushing the button for the floor where your dad's office is located.

As the elevator doors slide shut behind you both, sealing you inside the small metallic box, Sam’s hand creeps up, brushing your ass gently.

“Sam, no.” you drag your words, warning Sam to not go any further. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself leaning into him even more. "Come on, you scared?" he whispers softly, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your skin. The closeness between you two intensifies, making it difficult to concentrate on anything other than the rising tension. Sam tries to plant a kiss to your lips but you turn your head and push him away, laughing at his sudden neediness.

“No quit it! Not here-” You turn your head away again just to have Sam grab your jaw to make you face him again. His lips press firmly against yours, the urgency of his kiss leaving no room for doubt. As he pulls you closer, your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, holding onto him tightly. His lean body supports yours effortlessly, enveloped by the confined space of the elevator. The faint sound of the creaky gears echo in the background, reminding you of the steady ascent to your father's office, but all you can think about is the man whose tongue now caresses yours.

His hands trace down your back, finding purchase on your hips, pulling you closer still. The passion and desperation in his kiss leave you weak in the knees, making it hard to catch your breath. Sam’s hand glides down your waist, slowly making its way under the hem of your pants. His fingers finally slip beneath your underwear, feeling the damp fabric against your arousal. A satisfied smile spreads across his face, and he lets out a low growl, the vibrations of which you feel all over. "Too easy," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Sam’s fingers slide easily inside you, his thumb rubbing your clit in circular motions, adding to the already intense sensations. “F-fuck Sam…” Your eyes flutter, reacting to his skilled touch as your body responds eagerly. The elevator inches towards your floor, but at this moment, it feels like time stands still.

"Shhh, baby, let it happen," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. His words serve as permission, and soon enough, your body trembles as an orgasm courses through you. Sam holds you tighter, letting you ride out the most unexpected and exhilarating climax inside the elevator.

Finally, the elevator comes to a halt, the familiar ding breaking the spell of intimate pleasure. As the doors open, Sam releases you and sticks his fingers in his mouth, his face plastered with cockiness and pride knowing he just took you to new heights.

[amultitideofdrops]

Thinking Julian and art...

Thinking about how drawing was his favourite activity as a young child. Going through reams of paper, the feel of letting his hand swirl around the page and making colours and lines, delighting in showing his parents and having them smile and laugh over the scrawls that are meant to represent their family. Because it's all very in line with how a 2 year old should draw.

Julian gets older, and his classmates start to make circles for heads, with dots and a wonky smile and long sticks that are meant to be legs. They start holding pencils with their fingers where he still fists a crayon. But it's okay his hands don't seem to move with the same control they do, because Julian still loves drawing. He particularly loves colour because it shows how everything feels even if it doesn't show how it looks to everyone else. His teacher asks them to draw themselves and he rushes to get every blue and purple he can and melds them together in a jumping spiral. His teacher tells him it's nice, but not in the same way she points to the other children's and says how good their ears are, or that the hair colour looks just the same.

His Mum starts to sit by him when he draws, pushing him to copy the squares and triangles from the sheet brought home from school.

Kukalaka rips, and Julian finds the best warm yellow to fix his hurt, even as Mum purses her lips and says it's supposed to match.

His teacher calls his parents in, talking to them gravely and pointing to a curling painted paper, explaining how Julian didn't listen to the assignment, and instead of pets in the garden at home, he hadn't tried and kept drawing the same blobs. Julian stares out the window, the defense that they weren't the same because the dog waved into a brown spiral, and the cat was a smooth dash of it, sticks in his throat.

His parents won't look at his drawings anymore, only telling him he needs to try. And Julian feels the shape of it change and press down on him.

The next meeting with his teacher follows, this time sweet and concerned as she points to the new self portrait, with Julian this time all Sharp edges in black and red.

Adigeon prime happens. Amsha excitedly brings some supplies to the hospital room--a real sketchbook and nicer artists pens then he was ever allowed - and asks him to draw something.

Kukalaka, observing from a shelf too high for him to reach, becomes his subject. And Julian can see every important detail to his shape and his hands follows it on pattern. On the paper becomes a perfect replication of exactly how Kukalaka sits in this moment. His parents are delighted, saying how talented he is. How wonderful his art is now. Julian stares at it well into the night, each pencil stroke, trying to understand where the flaw is because the Kukalaka in the drawing is wrong.

He tries again, usually by an adults prompting, to draw. But now it's a chore, a party trick like he's a machine taking a photograph. The thrill of pulling out something that only existed in his head and putting it to paper is gone, and there's a loss he can't verbalise until he runs his fingers over the yellow thread in Kukalaka.

Years later on Ds9 he Garak and Ziyal discuss art. Or rather, they listen to Ziyal excitedly talk about expressing herself in every medium she can get her hands on. Garak admits a modest ability, demonstrating a cartoon like style on the PADD between them. When they ask Julian he finds himself pausing, pen almost going to automatically trace Ds9 on the PADD, before letting it idly doodle across the screen in a soothing way.

"Ah, I've never had the talent for art you see."

[neckromantics]

I don't think enough of you are seeing the potential in letting Astarion drink from your wrist??

(Brief warning: this got a little more sensual than I'd intended? I think I am possessed.)

The way you could still sit as close as you want, plastered to his side even– one leg thrown over his lap while the other is outstretched behind him. It would take a little bit of maneuvering to get the angle just right, but once you do it, it quickly becomes one of your favorite ways to feed him.

You'd have a better view from this angle as well. Would be able to see the glint of bared fangs just before they sink deep into the tender skin of your wrist with a soft pop. To watch the shiver that rolls through him as the taste of you finally meets his prodding tongue– his throat working as he takes that first, careful swallow.

You trace up the curve of his spine as base instinct takes over. His body forms a shield as he hunches, pale digits digging into your outstretched arm as if you'd ever have the heart to take his meal away from him before he's anything less than sated. Happy.

Your fingers comb through the sweet little, silver curls at the nape of his neck, nails scrubbing at his scalp as a form of encouragement so gentle he practically purrs.

Gods, the noises he makes when he's enjoying himself. You can't help but squirm in anticipation when his breathing begins to pick up. Each quick inhale becomes choked off with a little moan of satisfaction– or a whine so high and strained, as if he's hurting in the best possible way. It's as if you taste so good that he doesn't know what to do with himself. His legs kick up a bit. The heels of his boots drag the ground before he settles back down. He jerks away and then towards you once more. Practically writhes in ecstasy. You have to turn your head away just to stare at something far off in the distance. A pathetic attempt to focus on anything else before you lose your mind.

Eventually, you feel your offered arm begin to grow colder. A slight tingle at the tips of your fingers slowly creeps its way up and prompts you to wiggle in an effort to lessen any discomfort. The movement pulls him out of his trance just a bit, and you can feel it.

The length of pause between each swallow starts to become longer. Every pull of your blood becomes a little more shallow, a little less desperate as he braces himself for the moment you say you've had enough.

Admittedly, you always wait a bit too long than is comfortable. It's really hard to ask him to stop when you can physically feel the satisfaction radiating off of him in waves, but you know you have to say something the second you feel that all too familiar floaty sensation begin to sneak up on you.

The moment your temple hits his shoulder, he's pulling away with a sharp gasp of unneeded air, a sad, little whimper escaping his open mouth before he has the chance to muffle it. It's only now that his eyes flutter open. A more vibrant crimson now that he's properly fed, all hazy and soft with a wonder that you'll never grow tired of seeing. He turns to meet your half-lidded gaze from where you're slouched against him.

It'd be so easy for him to slip, to give into the urge to clamp down and drink and consume until you've got nothing left to offer. Especially when you're hanging off of him this way, eyes filled with warm adoration and body so willing to let him take and take and take.

Oh, how he must be careful, now.

The vampire's eyes get a certain headiness that you know all too well, locked onto your own as he allows himself one last taste. You can only watch as he chases a rivulet of blood all the way down the length of your forearm, petal soft lips creating artful smears of crimson with each sloppy press, only to be cleaned away a moment later by the gentle swipe of his tongue.

Your thighs clench automatically around his waist in response, and if he notices, he thankfully doesn't tease you for it. Yet.

After so many feedings, he's really got the hang of biting you in a way that doesn't do any lasting damage. So, it isn't very long before the marks his teeth have left behind no longer weep openly. The familiar, dull throbbing that resonates from the twin punctures is soothed by the soft press of his mouth. Then, the cheeky bastard makes it worse by giving a harsh, cheek-hollowing suck.

It's your turn to whimper.

He pulls away with such a smug smirk. It'd have your eyes rolling if you had any sort of brain function left.

His fingers are now warm as they knead against the numb skin of your drained arm, wiggling it about for you, and bending it the elbow a few times in an effort to get the blood flowing. It's a small act of kindness that you find ever so endearing, and you thank him with a tiny smooch to the very corner of his jaw.

He thanks you right back for the nice meal, with a loving stroke of his knuckles against the side of your face. Gives you a kiss so eager that you're left in shock.

You can taste the copper you've left on his tongue as it swirls against your own, and can't stop yourself from deepening the kiss a moment later. You swallow down his responding groan like he swallowed down all those mouthfuls of your blood. Eager. Just a little desperate. Happy.

Anyway, what was the point of this post again?

[emilys-bangs]

the end of beginning | e.p

Tags: bau!reader, fluff, no use of yn, s2 baby emily, a whole lotta yearning

Summary: In which Emily is new to the team and finds a friend in you. Requested here.

Word count: 1.2k

Emily has always felt out of place. 

In high school, in her mother’s lavish gatherings, in the sprawling estate that she’d eventually learned to call home. It’s never something she can help, though with gritted teeth she developed the art of blending in with fake smiles and perfectly crafted words. It’s a habit that stuck with her, one she’s never quite learned how to shake off even after all these years.

So it makes sense that she doesn’t fit in at her new job.

It works just fine with her. Emily has had a lifetime to get used to it; isolation had become her friend, the liquid movement of her following shadow more than often her only, constant, companion. Despite that, she had a small, lingering hope. That maybe coming back to DC would mean making herself a home, finding—if not friends—companions that she could be casual with, invite out for a round of drinks when the thick silence of her apartment was too much.

Hope was quickly snuffed out. Her boss only thinly veils his distrust, and the youngest—Reid—stares at her with accusing eyes. The rest of her coworkers are lukewarm, not quite yet interested in getting to know her; their gazes are more often than not tinged with condescension, as if they’re not sure she’s earned her place. It seems like everyone’s waiting for her to slip up, for Hotch to chew her out and pluck her from the neatly rounded group they’ve found themselves being, a well oiled machine that works perfectly in order without her.

Everyone, apparently, except you.

You and Garcia, that is, but the tech analyst’s influence is a lot less reassuring given that it’s behind phone calls and computer screens most of the time. But with you there with her—in the field, at your joint desks in the bullpen—things are more bearable. 

“Hey.” 

You’re whispering slightly as you slip into the vacant seat in front of her, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug.

Emily looks up at you. The dimmed lights of the jet reflect in your eyes, painting you in softer edges as you sit down across from her without waiting for an invitation. There’s an easiness to your movements, one that she would say is out of place considering how long you’ve known her. Still, warmth spreads to her icy fingertips, and she can’t help the small smile that pulls at her lips.

“Hi,” she says back, matching your tone. Other than the hum of the jet itself—and the rumble of distant snores she’s too far away to be bothered by—a soothing silence has settled across the cabin, and her voice doesn’t carry much farther than your seat. The smile that you return is friendly, a sight that she’s been slowly getting accustomed to these past few weeks.

She’s a little surprised when you don’t offer anything more to say. You simply lean back in your seat and take a sip from your mug, her eyes tracing the bop of your throat as you swallow and look down at the sudoku in your hand. Emily’s finger is still slotted inside her book; she’d automatically marked the page and shut the cover closed when you appeared, some subconscious mechanism turning in her head so that you get her full attention.

The revelation that you might simply want her company comes too late. 

You’re looking back up at her, your eyes meeting hers as a slow warmth runs beneath her icy skin. Emily should look back down; she has nothing to say, other than the blunt but genuine question of why are you here, but you give a small shrug and she’s enraptured, tracing the sheepish line of your pressed lips.

“Gideon’s snores get a little loud.” You say.

Emily’s surprised to hear her own laugh. It seems you are, too. A small movement draws your brows upward, but the curve of your mouth is distinctly pleased, your eyes brightening beneath the dim lights of the jet. The sound doesn’t last long—it’s low, soft, joined by your own laugh for a few brief seconds—but its effect carries tension from Emily’s shoulders, makes her slip her finger out of her book with a genuine smile.

“That they do,” she murmurs back, already familiar with the loud rumbles that have made their way through thin motel walls, occasionally piercing her already irregular sleep. The sleeves of her cardigan are pulled over her knuckles; she tugs them higher, seeking to cover the ice in her fingertips. 

“Are you cold?”

Maybe she is. Maybe the sound of your voice spills warmth down her veins. Emily doesn’t like admitting things, but her smile gives her away. It borders on shy, barely wide enough for her dimples to curve in her cheeks; she wishes she had a mug of her own to hide behind, but she has an inkling that hiding from you would be pointless.

In the end she shrugs.

You set your mug and sudoku down. “I’ll be right back.” 

She’s left staring at your empty seat, brows furrowing slightly as goosebumps break out on her skin. The jet really is ridiculously cold. And yet when you come back less than a minute later holding out a fuzzy blanket for her to take, she shakes her head.

“Oh, I can’t—”

“Please,” you insist. “I remember I forgot to layer up the first few times on here and I was miserable. Makes you stiff,” your lips twist into a smile, and you’re looking at her so earnestly that she submits.

“It does,” Emily says, this time accepting the blanket. You beam at her and she goes warm, though it has nothing to do with the fuzzy, light gray wool now draping over her lap. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Emily places her book on the table before effectively burying herself in your blanket. It’s warm and soft; when she brings it up over her shoulders, a faint scent of perfume nuzzles against her nose. Yours. In seconds, her hands grow warm. She chances a glance at you, a thank you almost tipping from her lips again—just to continue the conversation, hear your voice, when you do it for her.

“What does that say?” You’re peering at the worn cover of her book. The edges are curled, the spine broken. The margins are full of her loopy scrawl and unsteady underlines, more than a few pages dog eared.

Emily bites back a smile at the curious draw of your brows. “Les Liaisons Dangereuses.” The French slips effortlessly from her lips, smooth and curling. “The Dangerous Liaisons. It’s a French classic, one of my favorites. I could tell you about it,” her hand peeks out from the edge of the blanket and she fidgets with her hair, tucks it behind her ear, “if you’d like.”

You lean your elbows on the table, sudoku very much ignored as you peer at her with something like astonishment. A grin pulls at your lips and she’s suddenly overheating.

“I very much would, Agent Prentiss.”

“Emily.” 

“Emily.” You agree, tilting your head in a nod. “Tell me about Les Liaisons Dangereuses.” You butcher the title beyond belief. The displeased wrinkle of your nose says you know it, and butterflies erupt along Emily’s lungs.

She laughs, the beginnings of a blush staining her cheeks.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @moonlight-simp 

[yoonmoonn]

the secret he keeps │myg

02 │the secret he keeps

warnings: none (just yoongi being an asshole 🫢)

At first, you don’t see it.

Because in private, Yoongi is perfect.

He’s the type of boyfriend who pulls you into his chest when you're tired, arms wrapped around you like a shield from the world. The kind who memorizes your coffee order and shows up outside your class with it, acting like it’s no big deal. The kind who listens when you rant about a difficult art professor, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles as he murmurs, “Want me to handle it?” in that lazy, half-teasing way of his.

In his dorm, in your dorm, in the small, quiet corners where it’s just you two—he loves you.

And you know he loves you.

It’s in the way he tugs you closer when you're curled up in his lap, his chin resting on your shoulder. The way he lets you steal his hoodies, even when he complains about having “nothing left to wear.” The way he texts you 'good morning, sleepyhead' before he even brushes his teeth.

When he kisses you, he means it.

When he says he loves you, it feels undeniable.

But in public?

In public, it’s like you don’t exist.

You’re walking to class together, side by side. The late afternoon sun casts golden streaks through the campus trees, the air warm with the last traces of summer.

Your hands swing at your sides. Close, but not touching.

You hesitate, then reach out. Just a small thing—your fingers brushing against his, an unspoken invitation.

Yoongi pulls away.

The motion is so quick—so effortless—that you almost don’t register it. Like he didn’t even think about it. Like pulling away from you is automatic.

Your stomach tightens.

He doesn’t look at you, just keeps walking, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets.

You don’t say anything.

And maybe that’s your first mistake.

It happens at a party.

You’re standing with him in the kitchen, a red Solo cup in your hand, laughter spilling from the living room where Jimin is attempting to dance on the coffee table. Yoongi stands beside you, his fingers grazing the small of your back, his touch so familiar, so natural that it melts something inside you.

But then Jungkook walks in.

And just like that, Yoongi steps away.

It’s subtle, but you feel it—the way the warmth of his touch vanishes, the way he suddenly puts an inch, then two, then three, between you.

Jungkook’s gaze flicks between you both. “Yoongi, you playing beer pong or what?”

Yoongi rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Be there in a sec.”

Jungkook looks at you. “You coming too?”

And before you can even answer—before you can even think, Yoongi says, “She’s probably got better things to do.”

Your heart stops.

Jungkook laughs, completely unaware of the way your stomach drops. “Damn, that was cold.”

Yoongi doesn’t even look at you.

You force a smile, but your fingers tighten around your cup.

And for the first time, you wonder if you’re imagining it. If you're crazy for thinking something’s wrong.

But deep down, you already know.

You’re lying in his bed, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

“Yoongi,” you murmur, tracing absentminded circles on his forearm. “Why don’t you ever post me?”

He stiffens.

It’s quick—a second, maybe less—but you feel it.

Then he exhales, his grip on you tightening slightly. “What do you mean?”

You swallow. “Like… I don’t need a big declaration or anything. But you post the guys all the time. Jungkook’s dumb gym selfies. Taehyung’s stupid cat pictures. But not me.”

Silence.

Then, “You don’t post me either.”

“That’s not true,” you say softly. “I posted your stupid Crocs last week.”

He huffs a quiet laugh against your shoulder. “That doesn’t count.”

“It does.” You shift, turning in his arms so you can see his face. His eyes are half-lidded, unreadable. “Why won’t you?”

Yoongi looks at you for a long time.

Then he kisses your forehead. “I don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” he murmurs. “You know how I feel about you.”

And the thing is?

You do.

So you let it go.

It’s a normal day.

You’re sitting outside the art building, sketchbook balanced on your lap. The sun is warm, the campus buzzing with life. Across the quad, Yoongi is laughing with his teammates, his bag slung over his shoulder.

He hasn’t seen you yet.

And you watch.

Watch the way he fits there—so effortless, so easy. Watch the way he claps Jungkook on the back, nudges Taehyung’s shoulder.

Watch the way he moves like he belongs.

And suddenly—it hits you.

This world—this part of his life—doesn’t include you.

Not in the way it should.

Not in the way he lets you include him in yours.

Something inside you fractures.

And before you can think—before you can stop yourself—you stand up. Walk across the quad. Straight to him.

The moment he sees you, his smile falters.

Not completely. But enough.

“Hey,” you say, forcing a small smile. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

His teammates glance between you both, but you don’t care.

Yoongi rubs the back of his neck. “Uh. Can it wait?”

Your heart drops.

Jungkook frowns. “Wait, why—”

But Yoongi doesn’t let him finish.

“I’ll find you later, okay?” His voice is quiet, just for you.

Like he’s asking you to understand.

Like he’s asking you to wait.

But this time?

You won’t.

Your breath catches. “Yoongi.”

Something sharp flashes across his face—panic, frustration, something you can’t quite name. “Not now, ___. Please.”

And that’s when you know.

He won’t hold your hand in public.

He won’t post you.

He won’t stand beside you when people are watching.

Because he doesn’t want to be seen with you.

Your stomach twists.

And then, for the first time—you stop ignoring it.

You swallow hard, eyes burning.

Then you step back.

Yoongi’s expression shifts. “Wait—”

But you just shake your head. “Forget it.”

And this time, when you walk away—

You don’t look back.

And neither does he follow you.

please don't claim or copy any of my work !!

[hitomisuzuya]

Omg omg requests are open! I love your writing so so much, it always makes me happy reading your fics 🔥

I would like to request some more fatui!scara but maybe with him using his electro powers to make reader feel good.. if you know what I mean heh. Bonus points if there’s some bondage or some chocking 👀

fatui!scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. delusion play. fingering. degradation. squirting. bondage. choking. dom!scara

bonus points i am more than happy to score😳

"know your place, and keep your legs spread," scaramouche commanded in a tone that sent a shiver down your spine, and straight to your clit. he smirked seeing you do as you were told, spreading them a little wider.

he didn't think his cock could throb any harder seeing your display of submission, your cheeks flushed with adoration for him. with your wrists bound together and tied above your head to the headboard, your creamy cunt on display to him, you are working of delicate art for him to break.

the utter control you surrender to him, relying on him for every modicum of pleasure made him dizzy with love. it was a jarring feeling for him.

his fingertips brushed featherlight along your jaw. your cheek automatically turned to nuzzle into his palm. he sighed shakily seeing your display of submissive affection, moving his hand down down to your chest.

you let out a soft moan feeling the subtle hum of electro on your nipple as he teased it with his elegant fingers. he pinched your nipple, stimulating it to harden quickly between the pads of his fingers. his cock leaked precum hearing your moans rise in octave, your pussy starting to clench around nothing.

"it's amusing to hear how good it makes you feel when i toy with you," he turned his attention to your neglected nipple, which was already hardening in response to him using his electro.

scaramouche knows your body so well. he knows exactly how to use his electro to make you writhe and twitch in pleasure. make you beg in a way that would make him cum untouched.

the hum increased as he stroked your other nipple to harden, slowly stimulating it until you let out a soft whine. he groans seeing the look in your eyes, the desperation for him to work your pussy over pooling deep in them.

such submission, he felt should be rewarded. your breath hitched in your throat with anticipation as he moved his hand down between your legs. your hips jerked up to grind on his fingers as they dipped between your now drooling folds.

he concentrated electro into the tips of his fingers, tracing slow stripes up and down your pussy, licking his lips at how fast you soaked his fingers. "such needy obedience," he marvels, pressing slow circles on your throbbing clit, "what a slut."

your lewd moan as pushed his finger inside of you sounded so fucking divine to him. electro hummed along your sensitive walls, zapping into your sweet spot. your walls clenched tighter than they had when he was teasing your nipples.

he launched a slow assault on your pussy, increasing and decreasing the amplification of his electro as he flicked and curled his finger into your sweet spot. your body was already twitching from the aching pleasure of your orgasm tightening in your core. "a second finger," you moan, shamelessly rubbing your clit on his fingers.

"a second finger what, slut," he concentrated electro into the pads of his fingers as he tapped your clit. your legs shook as your back aches off the bed.

"please," you whimper, your eyes watering in desperation as your clit throbbed harder.

"good girl," scaramouche praises, rewarding you by stretching you open with two fingers. electro zapped against your sensitive walls before he hooked them generously into your sweet spot. you let out a gasp of pleasure, twitching as your orgasm coiled tighter.

he relentlessly teased your sweet spot with different levels of electro. your fingernails dug into the palms of your bound hands as pleasure jolted through you. he relishes in the embarrassed flush dusting your cheeks. he chuckled.

"i see you just now heard yourself, and what a slut you sound like," he increased the electro humming on his fingers, bullying your sweet spot, "listen to your pussy sucking my fingers in," he laughed shakily as his cock pulsed harder. "you can't get enough of me."

"a third finger, please. please, scara, please," you plead. you could taste your orgasm it was so close, the building intensity nearly overwhelming you. your walls clutched tighter still hearing his degradation.

your sopping pussy sucked a third finger inside of you. your back arches off the bed, a moan of bliss that sounded like you'd just gotten something you'd deprived of for so long tore from your throat. "that's right, beg like the pretty slut you are," he increased his electro and pace of his fingers.

his hand suddenly snapped to your throat, electro zapping across your windpipe for a moment to remind you of your place. the embarrassed blush on your cheeks darkens with further adoration for him. he smirked as his fingers gradually tightened around your throat.

pleasure burst through you in overwhelming waves as you tilted your head back a little for him to squeeze more. giving him such control, trusting him so completely made him dizzier with love.

you struggle to moan for him as he continued to bully your sweet spot with his electro. you writhed as the knot of your orgasm snapped apart suddenly. scaramouche's fingers tightened on your throat at just the right moment, increasing the intensity of your orgasm as you squirted on his fingers.

"that's it, just take it like a good girl," scaramouche groaned with approval, taking his hand off your throat to concentrate electro on your swollen clit.

[kaleldobrev]

Lavender & Honey

Pairing: Felix Catton x F. Reader

Feat. Character(s): Reader & Felix Catton

Summary: Taking a bath with Felix

Word Count: 760

Warnings: Just pure fluff & Implied nudity (takes place in the bath)

Authors Note: Obsessed with the idea of taking a nice relaxing bath with this man | If you liked this, don’t forget to like & reblog. I really appreciate it! Feedback is always welcome ♡

It was late, but you were nowhere close to being remotely tired as the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed at 11:00pm.

Your boyfriend lie next to you, entirely focused on the newest and final Harry Potter book that was being passed around to the group. Tonight, was his night to read at least two chapters before handing it off to Venetia. With his free hand, he gently had it resting on your bare thigh, tracing small circles on your skin with his thumb. It was such a simple gesture, but yet it was one that you craved at all hours of the day and night.

Since it wasn't your turn with the book (as you had just given the book for Felix to read); you opted to doodle in your sketchbook that Elspeth had given you for your birthday this past year. You weren't a particularly good artist, but drawing and painting and going to art museums was something that you had enjoyed doing for as long as you could remember; part of the reason as to why you were studying History of Art at Oxford.

You let out a small yawn and closed your sketchbook, placing it onto the side table on your side of the bed. Out of your peripheral, you could see Felix had a soft smile on his face. "Getting tired?" He asked, turning to look at you.

"Not really but, I think my body is giving up on doing anything remotely productive the rest of the evening," you stated. "Would you want to join me for a bath or are you too focused on the prospect of The Golden Trio having a threesome?" You said teasing.

Felix let out a small chuckle, placing a bookmark between the pages before closing the book completely, placing it on his side table. "As much as I am interested in the prospect of them having a threesome, I much rather take a bath with you because it could lead to other things," he smirked, slightly leaning in close to you.

"It always does," you smirked back.

Walking into the bathroom, Felix automatically made his way to the tub, turning the water on as you went into the cabinets. As you knelt down in front of the cabinets, he looked over at you and couldn't help but admire you. You were wearing one of his rugby shirts, and it looked like a short dress on you given his height; and your hair was in slight disarray — still managing to look like a model in his eyes.

"Find what you're looking for love?" He asked, his eyes solely fixated on you.

You turned around, a slight grin on your face as you stood up with a bag of what appeared to be bath salts. "I did!" You beamed, and walked over to him, pressing the full bag into his hands. "I found this at a shop with V and Farleigh when you were spending the day with Ollie yesterday."

Felix looked down at the bag, and it was a large bag of lavender and honey bath salts — your scent. "You know if we put this in the bath, I won't be able to keep my hands off of you."

You wrapped your arms around his waist; and he did the same. Looking up at him, you grinned. "That's the idea love," you slightly whispered, standing up on your tippy toes as he leaned down and met your lips, giving you a quick peck.

The entire bathroom was filled with the strong smells of lavender and honey; the only light emitting from the room came from the assortment of candles that you and Felix had lit which added a rather cozy ambiance.

Felix got into the bath first, and laid back into the tub, his arms slightly hanging off the sides of it. He spread his legs a bit, just enough for you to fit yourself perfectly between them.

Getting into the tub, you settled yourself perfectly between his legs, and laid your back against his chest as you nestled your face into the crook of his neck slightly. His arms found themselves wrapping instantly around your frame as he placed a kiss on the top of your head before resting his chin in the exact same place.

It was simple moments like these that the both of you truly cherished, and couldn’t imagine doing it with any other.

“I love you,” you said softly, peering up at him.

“I love you too,” he replied, placing a kiss on your temple.

Taglist:

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[witless-winion1]

Modeling

inspired by this by @starsintheendlessnight! Specifically the shot at 0:54 :)

“Penelope likes to weave…Odysseus carves like a madman…”

Eurylochus adjusted the fancy robes of silk that Ctimene had laid out for him to put on, listening to her talk from the other room while he dressed. 

“And they’re both brilliant. Their gifts are famous, legendary even. And this piece, I intend to be…our version of the olive tree wedding bed. My brother is a damn overachiever, and I will not be outdone.”

“Mene,” Eurylochus said, emerging from the bedroom. “You don’t need to compete with your brother for grandest, most romantic art piece.” 

His wife turned around, holding little bowls of paint. “Well, what am I supposed to do, just settle for less romantic sibling? Besides-“ she stopped short and gave a little gasp as her eyes locked on Eurylochus. He felt his face grow warm. 

“What? Does it look all right?” Eurylochus spread his arms hesitantly, showing off a little more of his clothing. Ctimene had stolen a bit of Odysseus’ jewelry and fine clothing, and it was mostly small on him- his thighs were almost visible, the normally loose fabric stretched slightly over his chest. “Ctimene?”

Ctimene set the bowls down and hurried over to him, grabbing his hand with a wide smile. “You look amazing, don’t worry about that.” Her eyes traced appreciatively over his exposed skin, before tearing her eyes away to usher him over to the setup she’d created. She sat him down on the stool, adjusted the small wreath in his hair, and stepped back, beaming. 

Eurylochus sat up straight, tilting his chin up and looking at her. “Like this?”

“Mmmm…” Ctimene hummed, touching his jaw and lowering his chin, guiding it away from where she would be painting, towards the corner of the room. “Perfect!” 

She kissed the crown of his head and hurried to sit down and start painting. 

They sat in moderate silence for a while, the only noise being the strokes on the surface, and a few subtle hums. 

Her tongue was poking out, pushing against her upper lip in the way that it did when she was concentrating. 

Eurylochus felt his eyes softening. She really is stubborn…to get so worked up over competing with Odysseus, and to rope me into it as well…

But he couldn’t bring himself to mind it. Gods knew he would do anything for her. Sitting on an uncomfortably small stool for a few hours was nothing. 

“Eury!”

Eurylochus blinked out of his thoughts. “Yes?”

“You’re supposed to be looking over there!” Ctimene pointed over at the corner again with a raised eyebrow and grin. 

“Sorry,” he responded, fighting his twitching lips and he fixed his head angle. “Just…found myself looking at you.” 

Ctimene chuckled. “Why? Can’t keep your eyes off me?”

Apparently not, because merely ten minutes later, she was correcting him for the same mistake. 

“You’re gonna mess me up with the head and neck angle if you keep moving!” She trilled, getting up and tilting his chin to look back towards the corner. Eurylochus’ eyes gazed at the sparkle in her eye as she touched his face, his head following her almost automatically, as she stepped to go back to her setup. “And you’re still doing it!”

“Sorry, Mene,” he chuckled, tilting his head again, though his eyes still seemed to wander, almost straining to look at his lovely wife absorbed in her creation. 

Ctimene painted for a few more moments, and then just paused and sighed. “Would you rather I just paint you staring straight at me?”

“…sure,” Eurylochus responded, the smile on his lips growing again as he rested his gaze on her. 

She just shook her head with a smile, and soon her tongue was pressing against her upper lip once more. 

“…mmm…I dunno.” Odysseus grinned at the displayed portrait, his hand on his chin. “It’s a bit creepy, isn’t it? Feels like he’s staring right at me.” 

Eurylochus snorted, and Ctimene laughed and socked his arm. “But it’s good, isn’t it? And he’s so handsome.” 

“Ow, yes, fine, it’s good! It’s great!”

Penelope laughed, reaching out to touch her sister-in-law’s shoulder. “It’s wonderful, Ctimene. Maybe I should have you do a portrait of me and Odysseus.”

Odysseus chortled. “Yeah, but we won’t be staring at you the entire time. Seriously, what’s with that? A bit of an uncommon choice, isn’t it?”

“Oh, we…just wanted to do that,” Ctimene waved off. Beside her, Eurylochus nodded. 

“Hmm. Artistic preferences, I suppose…hey, are those my clothes?!” 

[martiansodas-blog]

hi I’ve been obsessed of your work, so can I request a fanfic where reader is heavily pregnant (8-9 months) and needy and art helps her.

if that’s too uncomfortable or out of your confort zone I apologise

you’re so kind ! this sat in my drafts for so long it grew roots, i’m sorry :( i do appreciate every ask i get, i just work nearly everyday.

🎾 🤍💐✨🎀

art is a family man.

he always wanted the americana, white picket fence, nuclear family.

to make it even more cliche, he wanted two kids; a boy and a girl.

and you were about to make his dreams come true.

when art saw you interact with lily he knew he had to make you a mommy as soon as possible.

the need to give his daughter a sibling clawed his way into his chest and never left..

“he’s very active today.” you said happily

arts head is rested in your lap as you lounged on the couch. your hand in his soft blonde locks, his resting over your rounded stomach.

“wants to get out of there, i bet.”

you scoffed, “he’s not the only one.”

he loved quiet moments like this, times when it was just the two of you—or three now.

your son kicked against his hand.

“can’t wait to meet him.” you murmured

his fingers traced hearts all over your belly. ever the loverboy.

“me neither. just a couple more weeks.”

it was unbelievable how much his life had changed.

“you’re gonna be such a good daddy. again.”

a small huff left his nose. he leaned a little closer, leaving a soft kiss.

“you hear that, little man? ive got big expectations to live up to here.”

you chuckled “you nervous?”

he let out a low sigh, moving so he could see you clearly. a lazy smile painted his face as he nodded.

“very.”

“me too, but there’s no one else i’d rather have a baby with.”

he intertwined your fingers and kissed them.

“feeling is mutual.”

art loved you pregnant. it awakened something primal in him. knowing he did that. knowing it’s his kid you’re carrying.

you had a glow to you. not just on your face, but your whole body. beyond that- your essence.

he watched you do your evening skincare from the king sized bed. you looked beautiful—he had always thought you were beautiful, of course… but there was something about the way you looked in this moment. how your curves seemed more pronounced. how there was more of you to love. how you were barefaced and smelling good straight out of the shower.

“you coming to bed soon?”

“why, can’t sleep without me?” you teased

“of course not.”

you padded over to him as he pulls back the covers for you.

you lay on your side, facing art. he grazed his hand over your arm, admiring you.

even this slightest touch from his calloused fingertips gave you goosebumps, made your nipples perk up. like an automatic response.

“how’s your back?”

“eh,” you rolled your eyes, “closer i get to the due date the more it hurts.”

the look on arts face told you that’s unacceptable.

“turn around, i’ll massage you.”

“not gonna say no to that.”

arts warm, big hands acted as a soothing balm.

“you have so much tension, baby. should’ve let me know, i’d have done this a lot sooner.”

his words were barely comprehensible to you, your body finally being relaxed allowed your mind to do the same. for once.

“mmm,”

art bit back a laugh, not wanting to seem like he was making fun. you were just too cute is all!

this was an easy way for him to express his love language.

after merely a few minutes you had to press your legs together. just a little pressure. that’s better.

you figured since you were under the blankets he wouldn’t be about to tell. but this is your husband we’re talking about. nothing goes unnoticed by him.

he brings his mouth right behind your ear. warm breath tickling you.

“is there tension somewhere else i need to get out?”

you let out a pitiful whimper. you can’t help it. you just leaned you head back on his chest.

“aww,” he chuckles, “it’s ok , sweetheart. your hormones are all out of wack, aren’t they? needing me to keep you stuffed all the time. you poor thing.”

“yes,” you whine, trying to press your body back into his as much as you could. it was pretty hard, considering the extra weight you’re hosting.

he smirks and moves you on your back, hovering over you. you don’t have to lift a finger. art will do it all for you. that’s precisely how he liked it.

“well what kind of husband would i be if i couldn’t keep you satisfied?”

art wastes no time. having only wore his little underwear to bed, he quickly removes those. he lifts up your oversized shirt to reveal you didn’t bother with putting any on anything underneath.

he’s not going to waste time. he knows don’t need foreplay. you haven’t in weeks. wanting to fuck just as much as when you were trying to get pregnant.

he doesn’t mind, of course.

the best part about being pregnant? no need to worry about protection.

you couldn’t get enough of arts rigid cock sliding inside you. your walls practically molded to him.

“ohh, that’s it.”

he sank into you, slowly, lovingly. resting his head in the crook of your neck. that’s it’s home. all his moans amplified there. he had to maneuver a bit to not put too much pressure on your belly. always so careful. but hes 6 foot, it’s hardly an issue.

“god, i want to get you pregnant again and again.”

he moaned as he forced cock in all the way. the whole room echoed with the sound of his balls slapping against your ass.

you whimpered as your nails took residence on his back.

“god, your so beautiful carrying my baby. so sexy. all filled up.”

your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he brought his fingers to your puffy clit.

sex during pregnancy was always slow and soft. he’s terrified of hurting you.

sometimes you’ll simply cockwarm him. you’ve both grown to love it. being that close. feeling love from the inside out.

art stuck two fingers in his mouth then brought that down to your clit. keeping eye contact with you the entire time.

“hnnnh! art!” you gasped

“what, close already darlin?” he cooed

you nodded. you felt like you could cry. which wouldn’t be saying much, you cried a lot these days. to be expected. but this time it’s welcomed.

“please, art, fill me up again.” you begged

it was the again that got him.

everyone already knew you’ve been filled with his cum. strangers in the grocery store, your wholesome religious mother, the other fucking guys in the neighborhood who’s eyes always lingered too long.

art has always had a somewhat high sex drive. so when your third trimester hit and you couldn’t go more than a day without being pumped full? it was like heaven to him.

“yeah? want me to remind you how we made our baby?”

you nodded your head furiously as filthy noises escaped you.

“comon baby, i know you’re almost there. i want you to cum with me and then i want you to taste it.”

you came and came and came around art. time seemed to stop and drag on at the same time. you had to tap him so you could catch your breath. otherwise he would’ve kept fucking you until well after his dick chaffed.

he stilled, remaining inside of you.

“atta girl.”

he gifts your feather light kisses on your forehead.

“did so well for me. always do.”

on your cheek.

“my perfect wife, how lucky am i, huh?”

on the tip of your nose.

you can hear the smile in his voice.

when you come back to earth, he’s there waiting. you opened your eyes you saw those roses cheeks you fell for so long ago.

“hey”

he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“hey”

“thank you.” you whisper

“dont need to thank me, love. it’s an honor to experience your body, and to see you.”

the tenderness you got to experience with art is something you’d never grow tired of. truthfully you thought men only said stuff like this in movies. his actions only doubled when you showed him that pregnancy test.

“i can’t wait to give you a baby.”

[queensunshinee]

Time Of Our Lives || Part 16

Part 16:

Patrick heard Liana vomiting faintly and it made him jump out of bed. "Li, is everything okay?" he asked from outside the bathroom. "Everything's great, go back to sleep," she stammered, and he sighed. He went to the kitchen and filled a glass of water, entered the bathroom, and saw her sitting on the floor, holding her hair with one hand and gripping the edge of the toilet with the other, trying to steady herself.

"Hey, baby, it's okay. I got you," he mumbled, placing the glass on the sink and sitting down next to Liana, holding her hair in place and tracing gentle shapes on her shoulder. She was shaking from the effort as her free hand also moved to hold onto the toilet.

"Sorry I woke you," she mumbled after a few minutes, not moving her head out of fear of vomiting again. "Don't be silly, is it something you ate?" he asked. His eyebrows furrowed as he handed her the water. "There was only regular milk at work, I probably drank one cup of coffee too many yesterday," she mumbled, and as soon as she finished speaking, she vomited again, and they found themselves in the same position.

"Come on," after a few minutes of this, he helped her get up from the floor. Patrick spread toothpaste on her toothbrush and put it in her mouth, starting to move it side to side. Liana could cry. She felt the tears gathering at the back of her eyes, in moments like these she remembers how gentle and sensitive Patrick can be. If he only wants to, if he cares enough.

He stood in the bathroom while she showered and didn't take his eyes off her, not in a sexual way but out of genuine concern. Because at the end of the day, Patrick loves her, even if sometimes he doesn't know how to show it.

"Shall we go back to sleep?" he asked hopefully. "There's no point, I feel better and in half an hour, I would've had to get up anyway," she shrugged as he handed her a towel. "Li, maybe you should stay home today?" he asked, even though he knew the answer. "I'm on a schedule and in a few days, the construction starts, I need to get there to fix some drawings. If I'm lucky, I might be able to leave earlier," she smiled at him. "I don't know..." he tried to protest. Just ten minutes ago, she was shaking in his hands, and now he has to let her get dressed and leave the house. "I'm fine Pat, really. I'll drink tea today, and I'll be okay," she gave him a small kiss on the lips and left the bathroom, concluding the conversation.

"Then there must be a pillar here, otherwise the whole thing will collapse, and we didn't draw it in the sketch." Art heard Liana's voice from afar, like an echo. He automatically found himself walking towards her, because that's why Art came. He didn't really care about the construction schedule; as far as he was concerned, the longer this thing took, the more time he had to come and see her work. An excuse to be close without being creepy.

"Hey," he gave a small wave, keeping his distance from her conversation but letting her know he was there. "Mr. Donaldson," she mumbled, and so did the guy working with her. Art could say that nothing happens in his body when she calls him 'Mr. Donaldson'. That formality in front of people doesn't affect him at all. It doesn't send a little shiver through him. No memories surface, and he certainly doesn't imagine that one day she might be 'Mrs. Donaldson'. He could say all that, but he tries not to lie too much.

"Miss Levy," he returned a toothy smile, and she walked towards him. "Why are you here?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Where? On the land I bought?" he was amused. Now that she was closer, he could examine her. He wondered if he would ever get used to the fact that she needed glasses now when she worked. Or the small wrinkle that formed on the side of her mouth from the number of times she smiled and laughed. He wished it was because of him. Too many times he thinks about the number of things he could tell her that would make her laugh enough to deepen that wrinkle.

"You look... green." he mumbled after a few seconds. She was pale, even for her. "It's January, I turn green in January." she retorted. "Liana." he tried a more official tone, a bit more concerned. "I'm fine, Arthur, let it go. Can I ask a favor?" she asked, looking at him with big eyes. Making him raise an eyebrow. There are very few things Liana could ask of him that he wouldn't agree to do. She must know that by now. "Always." he said quicker than his ego was happy to hear. "Can you give me Tashi's number?" she asked and saw his surprised look. "Why? Are you trying to steal my coach for your lazy boyfriend?" he asked, feigning amusement. He didn't understand the endgame of this move. Overall, he didn't understand what Liana had to talk about with Tashi; Liana hates tennis, and from what Art knows, Tashi enjoys talking mostly about tennis. "don't call Patrick lazy, can you give it to me or not?" she didn't answer him. "Will it hurt my interests?" he asked, pulling out his phone. "I would never do that, Art." she sighed, and he sent her the number. There are very few things Art Donaldson wouldn't give to Liana Levy.

Liana waved for a second when she saw Tashi entering the café where they had agreed to meet. She couldn't help but feel tense and wondered how to calm her jittery leg. Why couldn't she just act like a normal person and be more…cool.

"Hey, Liana, what's up? Sorry if I'm late." Tashi was a bit confused. A bit was an understatement. Tashi was very confused. 'Hey, it's Liana, if you have free time, I'd really appreciate it if we could meet' was the message she received yesterday, and that's how she found herself in a café, sitting in front of the girl Art has been trying to fuck without success for God knows how long. Tashi couldn't help but wonder what Art's tennis would look like if he succeeded.

"All good. I'm early." Liana smiled. "Do you want to order something to eat?" she asked, and Tashi waved at the waiter, asking for coffee. Her energy was businesslike. Always in a hurry. Always busy. It didn't matter that she came from the rain. It didn't matter if she was cold or hot. She had no time to waste. "What's up, Liana?" Tashi asked after a few more minutes of awkward silence. "Is this about Art?" she added. "No... Art's not involved." she answered too quickly. Why did she answer so quickly? "So how can I help you?" she asked, taking a sip of the coffee that had just arrived.

"I don't have many friends here." Liana took a deep breath. She knew how it sounded. Desperate and pathetic. But she had no choice. She really didn't know who to talk to. "So... you want me to?" Tashi looked horrified for a moment. Not understanding what situation she had gotten into. "God, no." Liana's eyes widened. "Can you stop with the leg? It's driving me crazy." Tashi said. All the chaotic energy Liana was emitting didn't suit her. It almost threw her off balance.

"I'm pregnant." Liana said quietly right after she took a sip of her tea. She examined Tashi, who looked back at her. "Patrick?" Tashi asked, and Liana looked at her horrified. "Of course it's Patrick's. Whose else?!" she defended herself. "So, congratulations, I guess?" Tashi still didn't understand why she was there. Why her time was being wasted with news about her ex from years ago. If it's not Art's child, if it doesn't become Tashi's problem, why bother filling her brain with this unnecessary information.

"No. I don't want this." Liana said, and Tashi couldn't hide her surprise. "I'm Sorry, what?" she couldn't stop herself. "It was a mistake. I'm on the pill, and I really don't know how it happened. I need to stop this..." Liana mumbled. It wasn't coherent, but Tashi understood every word. "You've been together for years, Liana, I don't understand..." Tashi tried to be more sensitive. "It's just not the right time. We need more stability, and bringing a child into something like this is just not fair." she said, looking at her for a change.

"I would go alone, but I need someone to be listed as an escort," she averted her gaze as she said it. Ashamed of what she was asking from the girl in front of her, a complete stranger in her life, yet the only one she could think of. "Patrick?" Tashi asked quietly. "He doesn't know." Liana's eyes filled with tears. "Please-" she had been thinking about this monologue from the moment she found out, three days ago. "Okay" there was no need. Tashi answered immediately. "Okay, I'll go with you." she smiled the most genuine smile she had to offer.  "Thank you." they both took a sip of their drinks.  The rain outside intensified.

When Liana entered the house, Patrick was in the kitchen, and she quietly leaned on the doorframe, watching him while he wasn't looking. Thinking about what she was going to do tomorrow. Knowing it's for their own good. He wouldn't understand if she told him. He wouldn't understand, and he would want to keep it, and neither of them could raise a child right now. She knows that. She knows he will hate her no matter what she decides tomorrow. If he finds out, he will feel trapped. He will feel like she has ruined his life. Again. Little by little. Each time draining him of the last drop of joy left in him. The last drop of youth.

"Are you just staring now? Not saying hello?" he asked, amused. He had felt her gaze on him for a few minutes. "Hey," she approached him and hugged him from behind. Leaning on his shoulder and closing her eyes. "Hey, Lilo," he was confused. Not understanding the sudden closeness. The last few days had been strange, to say the least. Liana and Patrick hadn't fought even once. She hadn't been feeling well, and he mostly tried not to bother her with his presence. He was afraid of making her feel even worse than she already did, and the more he distanced himself, the closer she got. The more space he gave her, the more she sought touch.

"What are you making?" she asked quietly, not moving an inch, still with her eyes closed. "I'm pretty useless, but I called your mom, and she gave me a recipe for the soup you like," he said quietly. "You called my mom?" she asked in a half-broken voice. "You haven't been well for a few days, Lilo. I wanted to make something that would make you feel good," their gazes met.

Liana started crying, and Patrick panicked. These weren't just tears welling up in her eyes but real crying with her hands on her face. "Hey, hey, Liana. What's going on?" he gently took her hands off her face, revealing how red she had become in those seconds, how sad she was. His hug was comforting. More comforting than anything she had felt recently. "I'm such a bitch. Really," she mumbled. "Lilo, you're the kindest person I know," he chuckled above her head, tracing small shapes on her shoulder while gently rocking her, trying to soothe her in any way he could.

"I really love you. You know that, right?" she pulled away from him for a second and studied him. "Of course, I know," he replied, "I don't understand what's going on, Lil. I need you to talk to me." He was half-lost, not understanding what he did or what she did that led to this situation. "I don't say it enough, but I really love you, Patrick. More than I love most people in the world," she said again, unable to stop the tears. "I know. I really know," he replied, hugging her once more, not letting her slip away from him. "You're okay. Whatever it is, we're okay," he said, and she nodded into him.

Liana also thinks that most of the time, they are okay.

The months that passed were more of the same. Liana worked on Art's house, meeting with him once or twice a week to show him the project's progress. Every time he tried to have a conversation beyond professional matters, Liana cut him off. She owed that to Patrick. She owed it to herself and Patrick to be okay. She couldn't let herself betray him emotionally with someone who, the moment he had a hold on her emotions, her entire system would recalibrate around him again.

The calm dynamic between Liana and Patrick lasted exactly two weeks. Liana was quite sure they didn’t know how to manage without fighting to the point where she wanted to smash a plate against the wall. Sometimes they went to bed without exchanging a single word, and those were the days it was hardest for her to be near him. Those were the days she also canceled meetings with Art because Patrick made her so angry she became indifferent. And indifference leads to mistakes. She knew that. She had seen it up close.

Now, with both Art and Patrick participating in the tournament in Atlanta, Liana found herself ordering coffee and soda at the hotel bar while opening her laptop, hoping to tie up some loose ends before sitting down with Art for a few minutes tomorrow. "Hey, Liana," she heard Tashi’s voice from behind. They hadn’t been in touch since that time, when Tashi went with her. But Liana had a soft spot for the woman in front of her. She used to be so afraid of her once, trembling when exchanging more than a word with her. Today she thought she and Tashi saw each other with flaws and strengths. Sometimes Liana didn’t know what her strengths were, but she always knew Tashi’s.

"Hey," she smiled at her. "Mind if I sit for a bit while I wait for my order for Art and me?" she asked. "Is he sending you to fetch orders now?" Liana raised an eyebrow. It was uncharacteristic. "Actually, no, I saw you from afar and didn’t want his mind to be distracted." Tashi said, and Liana rolled her eyes, wanting to say something. "There’s no way I could distract him right now. Not before I finish working, nothing to talk to him about" she said, and Tashi rolled her eyes and chuckled. Liana wasn’t entirely sure if something was happening between Tashi and Art. It wasn’t her place to ask him, she wasn’t in contact with Tashi, and her parents hadn’t told her anything special as gossip as they usually did about his life. Maybe it was just friendly, and she was purely his coach, but Liana didn’t want to be in the middle of it. She wasn’t going to disrupt Art’s happiness. She was with Patrick. Most of the time, she was happy with Patrick.

"Has he ever shown you his necklace?" Tashi asked. "Excuse me?" Liana was confused. "Art, has he ever shown you his necklace?" she asked again, slower, like speaking to a child. "No, I never asked, and it’s always under his shirt," Liana shrugged as Tashi took her order. "He’s such a pussy," she shook her head from side to side, chuckling. "So dominant on the court and yet, such a coward. Unbelievable. Good to see you, send my regards to Patrick," she smiled and walked toward the exit, not giving Liana a chance to respond.

Art was terrified. He was bored, so he went down to the lobby half an hour before the time he had arranged with Liana. He was so happy he could see her in person and knowing she was also in Atlanta, that he didn’t care the only reason they were meeting was to talk about the house. But now he felt the air leave his lungs. He saw Tashi and Patrick. Holding hands. Like that. In the fucking lobby. And while Tashi didn’t owe anyone anything, Patrick owed Liana. And Art was supposed to be happy because he understood what was happening. It was Patrick. No matter how much time passed, he knew Patrick.

When he returned his gaze to where they had been sitting, after giving someone an autograph, they were gone. His heart was beating faster than usual. He felt like crying. He was supposed to be happy, but all he could think about was Liana’s face and that he was about to be someone who told her something that would make her cry. Again. He swore to himself he'd never make her cry again, but he was about to. And he hated it.

"Donaldson," she smiled at him, causing him to jump in his chair. "How did you get so startled, you were practically looking at me," she rolled her eyes, and he smiled at her. "What’s wrong?" she asked. His smile was fake. Liana hated that she could still tell if his smile was fake. "Nothing, just thoughts about the tournament." he said. "You crushed your competitor today, you’ll be fine." she rolled her eyes. "Mind if I order some wine? It’ll help me sleep." she added. He didn’t know she liked to drink wine. "Of course. I would order some too, but, you know." he replied, somewhat pleased she was allowing herself to relax a bit around him. It took her only a year.

"So, I’ll show you a few things and then let you go." she said, sipping her wine, and he nodded. "Hit me." "Question, while the computer loads." she said, and he looked at her. Liana hated how his green hoodie made the bright blue of his eyes stand out. She had never seen so many shades of blue as when she looked closely at Art Donaldson’s eyes.

"Talk to me." he leaned on his elbow, not taking his eyes off her. A little reveling in the moment. A little afraid to ruin it. A little wanting to ruin it. Because the voice in his head told him he had to tell her. Liana had to know. She deserved to know. Art deserved a chance. He would never do this to her.

"What’s the story with your necklace?" she asked, and he raised an eyebrow, quickly running a hand over the back of his neck. "There’s no story." he answered too quickly. He wanted to punch himself for it. "Arthur. Come on, what’s the deal, you didn’t wear a necklace when we were kids. Is it a gift from someone?" she asked. "Are you keeping track of my jewelry, Liana? Be careful, I might think you care about me more than you let on." he knew it would make her change the subject. He wouldn’t tell, but the blush on her cheeks and the big sip she took from her wine only made the conversation better.

"This is the final plan. They started the interior construction two days ago." she showed him a diagram on the computer, moving a bit closer to him. Close enough for her scent to hit him like a slap in the face. He wanted to dive into that closeness. To reach out. To tell her and immediately promise everything would be okay. That he would be there to pick up the pieces. He knew he could.

"I saw Patrick and Tashi earlier." he said quietly, almost in a whisper. Not taking his eyes off her. "Oh, I didn’t know they were in touch..." Liana said, not moving her eyes from the computer. "Liana," he sighed. He hoped she would understand from the previous sentence. That he wouldn’t have to say it. "What?" she looked at him and chuckled, but her smile quickly faded when she saw his expression, "Just say what you have to say, Donaldson." she said with an uncharacteristic coldness.

She knew Art too well. Every time she tried to deny it, she could precisely recognize a look he gave or a joke that no one around understood. She knew how to tell by his walking pace to a construction site if he had a good practice or if he was tired. She knew who he was at his core. And more than anything, she knew how he looked when he was about to break her heart.

"They were holding hands and then disappeared from my sight," he sighed, breathing heavily. He said it in a whisper, almost not wanting to say what had been weighing on him. "Oh." she drank all that was left of her wine in one gulp and signaled the waiter she wanted another glass, returning her gaze to the computer. "I need to finish a few things, and I believe we can wrap everything up in two months. After that, you’ll need to work with an interior designer-" "Liana." Art interrupted her and placed his hand on hers, giving it a slight squeeze. This made her move her hand to her leg.

Without realizing it, tears welled up in her eyes, and the waiter who brought her wine hurried away from the table as fast as he arrived. "Talk to me, please." he was desperate to know what was going through her mind. "It’s okay, it’s whatever," she shrugged and looked at him indifferently, letting one of her tears fall.

"Liana." he sighed. "How is it okay? He’s cheating on you." Art wanted to raise his voice. He wasn’t mad at her. He was mad at Patrick. He was mad at the circumstances. He was mad at himself. "I know what holding hands and disappearing with Tashi Duncan means for someone like Patrick, Art. Contrary to what you think, I’m not stupid." her words were almost venomous, but he knew she wasn’t lashing out at him. He knew he was the closest person right now. He was ready to take it.

"What do you think is happening here?" she asked, taking another big sip of wine. "That I’ll hear about Tashi and Patrick and go up to your room so you can fuck me until I forget all my problems?" she asked, and he almost choked on his own spit. He didn’t expect her to be so blunt. That sentence showed how long she’d been in a relationship with Patrick. He spoke through her.

"No, Liana." he sighed again. Running his hand over the back of his neck once more but this time leaving it there a little longer. "I’m content in my relationship. Shit happens." she finished the second glass in one go and closed the laptop, ready to leave. "Shit happens? How many times has it already happened, Liana?" he couldn’t believe the level of indifference. He wanted to shake her so hard that her brain would reset and go back to the beginning. To reboot her self-respect that had clearly been trampled on more than once.

"Bye Art, good luck tomorrow." she muttered and turned. This time his grip on her hand was firm above the table. She wouldn’t be able to move him. Not now. "You’re making a scene." she whispered. He couldn’t help but think about the power dynamics between them now that she was standing and he was sitting, but he was holding her. She couldn’t move as long as he was holding her. And if it were up to him, he would hold her forever.

"Look. Here." he did the only thing he could think of and pulled the pendant of the necklace over his shirt. Seeing her breath catch for a moment. "Is that...?" She couldn't find the words and automatically moved her free hand over the metal. "Yes." He whispered. His grip loosened, and he let his fingers intertwine with hers over the table without her pulling away. "Why?" She murmured, not stopping her hand from moving over the pendant, her dorm key. The key he refused to return to her time and again. Hanging around his neck. "You know why." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Why?" She asked again. Not letting go. She had to hold on to something, and he knew that if he wanted to give her a moment of peace, even if not for himself—because for himself, he would have chosen another way to tell her, to show her—that all these years, she had been his good luck charm, even from afar. Right now, she was the only one who mattered. Only succeeding in changing the way she looked at herself and what she thought she deserved. "Because I’m yours. I’ve always been only yours."

Oh my god!!! I hope it wasn't too long. I feel like so much has happened in this part, but we are finally in Atlanta. What are you thinking guys? We've got a bit more Tashi on this one. I love hearing from you, so talk to me. Thanks for still reading and commenting. It means the actual world. 

taglist: @soberbabes @nina357 @lamoursansfin @marley1773 @ruyaas-world @apolloscastellan @primlovesdilfs @fangirl-kimora @serenadingtigers @imbabycowboy @do-it-for-kicks @izzywags478 @4deline08 @igotmajordaddyissues @jackierose902109 @ganana @yoitsme-04 @swetearss

[eyesfullofsttars]

☆ obsessed with the idea of ellie & abby being mothers

synopsis: a few headcanons of abigail and ellie being mothers, from the way they raise the baby to the smallest details!!!

notes: hiii!!! i've just been thinking about these two being mothers for the past few days and this came up—sorry if it's simple or too dumb. (don't take it too seriously pls)

I'm still not sure whether they would prefer having a girl or a boy. It seems it wouldn't matter much to them, as they would raise the baby the same way regardless. However, these two are mothers of a boy!!!

They speak to their baby as though he were a responsible adult who understands everything perfectly and frown when someone uses a high-pitched voice or baby talk.

Abby is the one who always gets up in the middle of the night if the baby cries. She automatically wakes up and goes to see what's wrong with her son.

Meanwhile, Ellie doesn't wake up at night, but she reads a dinosaur book to the baby before bed, tucks him in, and gives him a goodnight kiss on the forehead.

Ellie is enthusiastic about her baby, playing energetically and carefree, tickling him, putting him on her shoulders, and playing with his hands. She's proud of her baby and believes he's the best.

Abby is not so calm, paying attention to her son's safety. She comes from a family of doctors —she's a doctor herself— and watches Ellie carefully whenever she holds the baby. Abby feels the need to keep her son close at all times, either in her strong arms or on her lap, playfully touching his nose or gently stroking his hair.

Ellie can spend hours watching Abby take a nap with their baby. She sees Abby sitting on the couch with the baby on her lap, cuddled against her chest and holding her shirt tightly with his small hand, afraid of losing contact. They breathe softly, calmly together, which Ellie finds adorable — making her feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

At first, Abby worried about seeing Ellie handle the baby so lightly, but she has become accustomed to Ellie's relaxed attitude. Abby watches carefully to avoid accidents, but one of her favorite things is listening to her baby and Els laugh together at something silly Ellie does, causing Abby to laugh too.

Abby "I want to name our son after a writer" Anderson versus Ellie "Let's name our son after a constellation" Williams — Els won!

Ellie helps her son learn to speak by playing her guitar, singing songs about letters, animals, and the names of family and friends.

Abby cheers and celebrates every time she sees the baby trying to stand, keeping his balance by holding onto the couch. She's proud of her little prodigy and also believes her baby is the best.

Ellie lets her son trace the lines of her tattoo and even color the spaces with markers. She accepts without complaint, extending her arm for her child to do his art.

Abby lets her son comb her hair. She loosens her blonde hair and trusts her baby's hands as he tries to comb her long hair, clumsily attempting a braid but failing.

Ellie can't help but swear in front of the baby, as she hasn't managed to change her language yet. She often ends up letting out a curse word, especially when the baby does something that excites her.

She might say something like, “Fuck yeah, you're so intelligent, kiddo!” Or, whenever the baby cries for no reason, Ellie will get completely flustered and not know what to do, like, “What the hell do you want from me, dude? I can't help you if you don't tell me!”

On the other hand, Abby doesn't see the appeal in swearing in front of their son. So, whenever a curse word slips out of Ellie's mouth, Abby quickly exclaims; “Language, Williams!”

No matter where she is in the house, she can always hear Ellie swearing, which ends with Ellie responding with something like, “Fuck, sorry, babe. Shit, right, sorry, buddy. It just comes out like verbal vomit; I can't control it.”

Every time a rock song plays, Ellie can't help but do headbanging, and her son joins her in the fun. Both end up in the kitchen, energetically moving their heads to the music and dancing around.

For every special occasion, such as Valentine's Day, birthdays, or even Easter, Abby doesn't hesitate to buy flowers for Ellie and her son.

Both understand their child perfectly. The child might babble something unintelligible, but they simply nod, comprehending every word.