#Raspberry writes

[raspberryandechinacea]

Thinking of Ghost who, despite having done a vasectomy, still uses a condom not only because of STDs but also because hitting it raw is something too personal and intimate for him.

Ok, i'll leave.

[ticklishraspberries]

Neck Kisses (Katniss/Peeta)

Summary: Peeta gives Katniss kisses over the years. (Week #4 of @august-anon's Tickletober prompts!! I've never written a Hunger Games fic before so let me know if y'all like it and/or want to see more!!)

The lights are blinding, and Katniss is struggling to keep that fake smile on her face. They’ve been standing, taking photos, being gawked at for what has felt like years.

Cinna has dressed her in gold. Peeta’s suit matches perfectly. He does look handsome, but she isn’t sure the color really does him any favors: The shimmer pops on her skin tone, compliments her dark hair and eyes, but Peeta’s pale and blonde and would probably suit silver more, she thinks. Not that she knows anything about fashion, nor does she care about how Peeta dresses. She only cares about how he’ll fight in the arena, and how his hand around her waist right now is really irritating. She wants nothing more than to shrug him off, to roll her eyes right at those cameras, to take all the stupid pins out of her hair.

Instead, she just stands and tries to look pretty.

Peeta’s head moves in her peripheral vision and she shoots him a confused glance, and then twitches when he presses a gentle kiss to her shoulder where the dress has left her skin exposed. No one has ever kissed her there, and goosebumps immediately spread over her skin. It doesn’t feel bad, but she still digs her elbow into his side in retaliation anyway, because he could have at least warned her that he and Haymitch were upping the affection quota.

When they’re finally free from the cameras and lights, and Katniss has shed most of her ridiculous outfit, Peeta comes and sits beside her, away from prying eyes.

“Sorry I kissed your shoulder,” he says, avoiding her eyes. “Haymitch and Effie have been trying to get me to…sell this whole love story thing. I should have asked you if that was okay first, I just had the idea in the moment and went for it.”

Katniss looks him up and down, the shyness in his body language and the genuinity in his tone, and her hard expression softens just a little. “It’s fine. Just…warn me next time.”

He nods, offering her a little smile. Then, after a moment of comfortable silence, he asks: “Did it tickle?”

“What?”

“When I kissed you. It seemed like it tickled.”

Katniss does roll her eyes now, ignoring the way her face feels suddenly warm under his scrutiny. “No, it just felt weird. And I wasn’t expecting it.”

Peeta has this stupid smile on his face that makes Katniss want to punch him. But, there are rules about tributes fighting, and she also doesn’t think she could really hurt him when he looks so innocent, so…She huffs and gets to her feet.

“So, you aren’t ticklish? I just think if we’re going to be allies, I should know your weaknesses, you know?” Peeta says, and he’s fully grinning now.

“Goodnight, Peeta,” she replies, refusing to turn back and let him see the way her lips have started to curl. Watching him try to find the light, the humor in this all, to get to know her even though it’s probable he will have to kill her…Well, those thoughts dampen her mood quite quickly.

The truth is, she is ticklish. Most of her experience with tickling has been her tickling Prim, and sometimes Gale tickling her, but she always fights him tooth and nail when he does it. He’s usually all rough hands squeezing her sides and scribbling behind her knees. What Peeta had done was different, it was gentle and made her stomach flutter…She supposes it would have felt nice, if they had been alone, and she had known he was going to do it, and could have prepared.

She falls asleep trying to ignore the little voice in her mind that wants him to do it again.

***

The sound of birds chirping outside the window is what wakes her.

Katniss blinks against the sunshine seeping into the room, and settles comfortably into Peeta’s arms that are wrapped around her waist. The morning is still, the children still sleeping instead of climbing into their bed with excited babbling as they do most mornings.

Peeta begins to stir beside her, and Katniss finds herself smiling as he nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck. “Morning,” he mumbles.

“Morning,” she replies softly.

Peeta’s lips press a soft kiss to the skin of her shoulder, and then continues to pepper those little kisses up to her jaw and back down again. She’s giggling in seconds, having been unprepared for such antics so early. She’s still stubborn as she was as a scrappy teenager in the Seam, and normally when Peeta tickles her, she holds her laughter in and fights back, turning the tables or running off into the grass. She doesn’t have that chance now, lovingly encased in his arms and still too sleepy to launch an escape plan.

She doesn’t even remember the first time he pressed his lips there, back before the first Games, on that stage with the blinding lights. That feels lifetimes away, has been buried under much worse memories, forgotten. They are making new memories now, better ones.

“Peeta, we’ll wake them,” she says, trying to keep her giggling to a low volume.

Peeta just grins. “They’ll be up soon anyway.”

And with that, he starts tickling her belly with ten fast fingers, and Katniss has no choice but to dissolve into laughter. It isn’t long until the children are roused by the sound, curious as to what their mama could be finding so funny.

Now, she starts her day with genuine smiles, laughter, and love.

[raspberrylover28]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: In Stars And Time (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Bonnie & Mirabelle (In Stars and Time), Mirabelle & Siffrin (In Stars And Time) Characters: Mirabelle (In Stars and Time), Bonnie (In Stars and Time), Siffrin (In Stars And Time), Isabeau (In Stars and Time), Tristesse (In Stars and Time), Odile (In Stars and Time) Additional Tags: Major Character Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, Concussions, Sadness Headcanons, no beta we die like Siffrin, does major character injury mean the character getting injured is major, or that the injury of the character is major, works either way i think Summary:

When a fight with a sadness gets out of hand, Mirabelle's whole party gets knocked out! Mirabelle has to defeat the sadness and take care of their injuries. Luckily, a certain preteen is there to help her out! _____ My gift for @onelonelyghost for the ISAT Secret Santa exchange of 2024!

@isat-secretsanta-2024

[whitegirljoshuamacheath]

some little facts about pete spankoffski (and story notes) for a fic im writing :]

basically all of canon npmd happens and pete is like,, transported back to the morning directly before the bathroom scene as if nothing happened

- he remembers all of canon npmd. too well, if you asked him

- he can vaguely hear HIS steph talking him through things if (when) they get tough :( not very clearly, though.

- he can also hear the lib (tinky mostly) taunting him in scenes like the waylon place

- his blood sugar is fucked up dude. its bad. like hes having a bit of a rough time balancing it with everything else. he is SO stressed guys

- on a similar note, he quickly gets on emmas good side so he can maybe get his hot chocolate faster (it works)

- he purposefully keeps max off the stairs and when hes questioned he grabs a rock or and throws it (hard) and the stairs collapse

- max shares his beer with steph, ruth, and richie, while pete and grace (of course) stay sober. this happens repeatedly until richie brings better booze and pete joins in lol

- pete hates beer, but he can handle teds rum in very small amounts. he hates the taste of most other alcohols

- pete starts working out and gets as ripped as he can without anyone noticing

- he also starts actively talking to ruth and richie about ANYTHING he can get them to talk about. starwars, anime, games, sex, theatre, he doesnt care.

- none of ruths comments bother him anymore, either. no matter how aggressively thirsty she gets, pete gets to hear one of his best friends talk again. he doesnt mind what shes saying

- petes grades slip a little at first. ok maybe more than a little. his highest grade for about three weeks is a b. 84%

- nobody knows about this until steph gets a higher grade on a test and he cries a little in the bathroom. she got an 89 in math. he got a 76.

- he never actually fully recovers from the grade dip, and his gpa drops permanently from a 4.+ to a steady 3.8

- he chops and dyes his hair three days after the waylon place

- he actually bleaches it and dyes the tips a light redish color

- on a similar red note, he has a bit of a freak out (its a trauma response lets be honest) every time he sees anyone in dark red. especially max with his favorite, blood colored t-shirt

- he has consistent nightmares about shooting steph, and they get worse as the two of them get closer. again.

- she drops about 12 pounds of hints to try to get him to ask her out, but he never reciprocated. she assumes he's oblivious, but in reality hes actually just stuck on the version of steph that helped him dismember a body. the one that held him while he cried over his only friends graves.

- on a happier note, pete isnt beat up anymore :D

yeah anyway ask me about these guys im shaking them in a little jar rn

(this is a draft from december of 2023 😭 im STILL writing this fic. felt it was fair to show this to the world

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ intoxication, sexual content, daddy kink, caretaking, blurry lines of consent.

You’re painfully unaware, though to you, he’s sure it's bliss. 

In your own little world, you stand at the long wooden table, fingers moving across the trackpad of a laptop, a pair of too big glasses sliding down your nose. The left lens is smudged, the smear only getting worse every time you push them up with the back of your hand. There’s a whirlwind of stuff around you, bowls and bags and measuring cups, cracked egg shells and sprinkles scattered across the wood, multi colored icing separated into different containers, and you're so into your work you don't even realize he's in the doorway. 

He almost feels bad for scaring you when he clears his throat. Almost. 

“Oh my god,” you whirl, hand pressed to your chest, half ready to bolt. “S-sorry, I didn’t- I didn’t know you were there.” 

Is that anyway to say hi to your daddy sweetheart?

“Good morning.” He eyes the twenty four ounce mason jar to your left. It’s one quarter full, coffee and cream swirling to the bottom. Too much caffeine. 

“Good morning, hi.” You smile, sweet and shy but more emboldened. It’s been a few days since he fed you bites of lemon meringue pie, a few days since he went home and stroked his cock to the memory of your mouth parting for him, eyes half lidded looking up through your lashes. 

Since then, you’ve a bit more brave, encouraged by his careful coaxing, text messages at night and throughout the day to check in, visits in the morning as he heads to base. 

He’s leading his little lamb right into her shepherd’s arms. 

“What’re you working on?” 

“Funfetti birthday cake.” You slide your glasses back up your face. They’re a mess and he can’t resist fixing it, pulling them off, wiping the lenses with bottom of his shirt. You freeze. Little deer in his headlights. 

“Didn’t know you wore glasses.” He places them back where they belong, righting them when they slip, and confirming what he already knew. They’re too big. You need new ones. 

“Th-thank you. I do for reading. And… er, screens. Reading on screens, mostly, though I need them for books too so I guess just… reading in general.” He understands the pause now, the moments when you’ve become self conscious, embarrassed, or you’re looking for the words you need, anxiously trying to piece it all together, step into a skin that doesn't quite fit. 

A rhythm the world doesn't understand. Too cruel, impatient, cold, it has no care for fragile things, too easily reflecting a mirror of his former self. 

He files the bit about you needing to wear glasses when you read, another notation in the long list he’s already memorized, organized, and moves onto his next inquiry. “Who’s the birthday cake for?” 

“Mara. It’s her birthday. They’re…” you make a face like you’ve sniffed spoiled milk, “we’re going out to a pub to celebrate.” He stiffens. On one hand, he’s proud of you. On the other, the idea of you in a pub raises the hair on the back of his neck, has him a bit out of his mind. 

He’s not interested in clipping your wings, but going out to a pub with no one to watch over you? Not bloody likely. “Tonight?” 

“Mhm.” You’re rubbing a stick of butter in a round pan. “Funfetti is the classic birthday cake. You know, the vanilla cake with the sprinkles?” He shakes his head. “Oh. Well, um, it is. It's mostly a kid thing now, but I think it's the ultimate birthday cake. Birthdays are supposed to be fun but you know... they kind of suck when you're an adult. Anyway... funfetti is fun so, that's why...” 

“Maybe you can save me a slice. Where are you going?” 

“Save you…" your brows crease as you try to process what he's said. "Doc’s.” You’ve dropped the stick of butter abruptly, greasy fingers gripping the edge of the pan. Doc’s. It’s a younger crowd, a bit posh, but still a bit dark. Has a bit of an edge. 

It’s been a few weeks since he’s gotten a pint with Kyle and Johnny anyway. 

He smiles, strokes the backs of his knuckles down your cheek, satisfied when you lean in for more, disappointed the few minutes he had to drop in are now over. “I’ve gotta go baby, be good for me.” Your mouth drops open so wide he thinks he might be able to fit his cock in it. 

“Oh, okay. I- I will.” 

What did you forget?

Daddy. I will, daddy.

“That ‘er?” Kyle motions with his beer bottle towards the table where you stand nervously at the edge, floral flecked dress swaying just above your knees. You've looped a white ribbon through your hair, the beacon of a gentle soul that seems to be calling out to every muppet in the building, every wandering eye fueling a fire burning in his blood. 

“Yeah.” His stomach is sour. Even a neat pour of whiskey and pint didn’t settle him. 

You’re trying so hard. Smiling and nodding and listening to everyone, clutching your drink like it’s a lifeline. Mara seems to understand the grace you need, but no one else in the group gets it, and some of them give you weird looks, or worse, look at each other when you’re not paying attention in annoyance. Your only friend at the table catches a few of them and shoots stern glares as she shakes her head, but it doesn’t change much. 

“She looks uncomfortable,” Johnny grunts, his scrupulous eye never missing a thing. Someone asks you a question, and you stumble over your answer, looking away to the wall when a girl to your left blatantly smirks, and then sneers directly in your face. Simon’s blood boils. 

“She’s different from them, it’s hard for her.” It's the easiest way to explain it. You’re one in a million. His one in a million. 

The table laughs at something, and you frantically flick over each person’s face, trying to pick up on a joke you clearly did not understand. Eventually, you just settle for another smile, resigned to watch it all from the outside as conversation flows from person to person, but never towards you. 

Sweet girl. He wants to take you home where you’re safe and happy and carefree, where you can be yourself and not have to worry about trying to keep up or facing everyone’s judgement. Where he can hold your perfect and precious heart in his hand and protect it. Where he can fuck the memory of this night right out of you, bounce you on his cock until the only thing you know how to do is come for him, over and over again. 

He misses the exact moment the cake appears among the stacks of shot glasses. Your anxiety ramps up as everyone starts to eat their slices, shoulders high beneath your ears, fingers knotted together too tight. It’s an eternity before the first person looks at you, mouth half full and thrilled, their enthusiasm alleviating some of the weight that's been sitting on his chest, and yours. Whatever they say seems to lessen the weight because you’re smiling again, excited, and as more people turn your way, the smile turns to a full on beam, your words from the other night echoing in his ears. 

I like feeding people. 

Another hour passes before he decides to call it, the group now spread across the pub, scattered around different tables, at the bar, outside smoking. You’re in a corner with your back to the room talking to Mara, and when he appears in her line of sight, she spots him immediately, grabbing your arm, mouthing something he doesn’t catch. 

You turn- 

And light up like a fucking Christmas tree. 

“Captain Riley!” The alcohol has made you bold, slow synapses firing less rapidly, providing a longer lead time, somewhat preventing you from second guessing or withholding yourself. 

“Hi baby.”

“I’m just gonna…” Mara tries to move away but you reach for her. 

“Happy Birthday Mar. Thanks for inviting,” you hiccup, “me.” She gives you a squeeze. 

“Thanks for coming, and for the cake, it was amazing. Made me feel like I was kid, ya know? When birthdays really mattered.” Sadness flickers in her eyes, and then disappears in a glaze of intoxication. “Anyway, see you Monday?” 

“Yep.” She gives you one more hug before slipping away, and you sigh. 

“She loved her cake.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You’ve got this dreamy look on your face, sleepy and sweet, a little kitten who’s ready to curl up for a nap. 

Cast a line. See if you’re biting. 

“How’re you gettin’ home?” 

“An uber?” You lick your lips. “Or… uh. A Lyft?” You lurch to the side and he darts forward to steady you, movement too fast for you to track, all of it ending up as a surprise, like you weren’t even in your body for a moment. “Th-thanks.” You study his hand, where it sits on your arm. “You know you’re so big?” His lips twitch to the side of his mouth. 

“Yeah sweetheart. I’m big.” You’re still staring at his hand. “D’you need a ride home?” 

“Huh?” He's held this in the back of his mind all night as a possibility, built a tentative plan for this opportunity too golden to pass up. No fucking way are you going home in a rideshare or with anyone else. 

“I’m taking you home.” You shrug at the declaration with little trepidation and take his hand. 

So sweet and full of trust. 

He never specified which home. 

When the gravel of his driveway crunches under the truck’s tires, you don’t stir, and you don’t wake up when he turns it off or opens the passenger side door, your head lolling against your shoulder. 

“Sweetheart,” He keeps his voice low, reaching across your lap to unbuckle your seatbelt, brushing against your breasts, soft exhales puffing little clouds across his skin. “We’re here.” 

“Hmm?” you crack an eye open and then shake your head, “no ‘m sleeping.” Your cheek is warm in his palm, and he kisses it, trying to rouse you, gauge your reaction. Your awareness. Your nose wrinkles. “Stop.” 

“C’mon, you'll be more comfortable inside.” You whimper when he jostles you, pinning a palm to your temple. 

“My head hurts.” Poor baby. 

“I know,” he pulls you up out of the seat and into his chest, carefully supporting your balance. He’s taking liberties now, wrapping an arm around your waist, curling his fingers along the nape of your neck, brushing his lips across your forehead when you whine, high pitched and crackled, broken under the weight of too much alcohol and need for more sleep. “I know baby, Let’s get you into bed.” You lay your cheek on his chest and sigh. 

“Okay.” 

“Spit.” He holds the cup under your lips and you do as he asks diligently, bubbly white toothpaste getting caught on the corner of your mouth. 

Getting you upstairs and into his room went just as he anticipated. A little anxiety, a little uncertainty, all of it gently soothed until you were sitting on his bed and he was taking off your shoes, reassuring you, promising everything was okay and you were right where you belonged. 

“You’re safe with me sweetheart. I’m going to take care of you.” 

Now, you’re perched on the closed toilet lid in his bathroom as he finishes brushing your teeth, sleepy and serene, naked thighs peeking out from beneath the hem of his t-shirt. 

You’re completely unguarded, vulnerable, another layer peeled back, another piece he lays claim to. 

His sweet little fawn. 

He knew all along this was underneath the weight you carried. That when you finally felt safe and cherished and cared for, you’d bloom, be yourself without the pressure of everything else. Deep down, beneath the expectations of how everyone thinks you should talk, or act, or behave, behind all the coping mechanisms you’ve taught yourself, buried under mountains of complexity, is his precious little girl who needs her hand held and her tears wiped. Who’s brilliant and beautiful and different, and has never had the space to just be. 

Now, you'll be able to do just that while he takes care of the rest. He'll decide. You’ll have boundaries. You’ll have rules. You’ll have daddy and he’ll take away the endless pressure that closes in on you from all sides, he'll ensure you get what you need. There will be less worry, less fear and unlimited opportunities to be. 

“My face.” You tilt your chin back with your eyes closed, and he chuckles. 

“What about it?” 

“My,” hiccup, “makeup.” He turns the tap on warm, testing the temp until he’s satisfied, and soaks a washcloth. 

“Keep your eyes closed.” You sit still as he works, dabbing away everything on your eyelids and lashes, wiping underneath to catch anything he missed. “There we go.” You sway in his grip and slur.

“Bed now?” 

“Last thing.” There’s a glass of water and naproxen on the counter, and you swallow them without question. He hides his grimace. That will need to be addressed in the morning. When you try to put the glass back on the counter, he shakes his head. “All of it,” you manage to get the rest of the water down, and he squeezes your hip. “That’s my girl.” 

“You’re warm.” Your arm is slung over his middle, a cold foot tucked between his knees, mouth half open on his pillow. Completely uninhibited, nearly asleep. 

His cock is hard against his stomach beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, aching with a fullness he can’t relieve. He’s been hard since he undressed you, peeled your bra off and held you to his chest as he unhooked it, felt your perfect, pretty breasts and nipples against him as he tugged his shirt over your head. You were bashful, buried your face into his neck with a trembling giggle, but refused to let go, sunk your fingernails into his biceps as your hands shook. His sweet, shy girl. 

He rubs your back, works his fingers in the knots between your shoulders, watching your lashes flutter as you try to fight sleep.  

“Tomorrow…” There’s a last minute flash of uncertainty, and he presses his lips to your forehead. 

“It’s okay, we’ll talk at breakfast sweetheart. It’s time for bed.” Tomorrow. You'll be fighting a battle tomorrow, a hangover, anxiety, an endless spiral of confusion and doubt, but he'll be here to guide you through it. 

The only way out is through. 

It will be a lot easier on both of you if you're able to get some sleep. 

“Yeah, ’s past my bedtime.” You whisper with a hazy, playful smile on the wisp of a giggle. "We should have pancakes for breakfast." Your easy, peaceful state encourages him to go a step further. Cast a line, see if you’re biting. 

"If you close your eyes and go to sleep, Daddy will make you pancakes in the morning." You nod with a yawn, tucking your face between the pillow and his shoulder. 

"Mmkay then. Night." It's not a protest, it's not a flinch, it's not a moment of disgust, and satisfaction roars, rips through him like bullet, this instinct and desire long honed finally settling in the place where it belongs. In you. 

"Goodnight baby." He stares at the ceiling as you disappear into dreams and plans his mission. Plots his checkpoints, sets his objectives. Lead, decide, control. 

Bring you home. Permanently. 

[talos-stims]

the computer blade | source

[kaechu1]

Pavlova cookie: hmm you might not show it, but you have deep feelings for.... hollyberry cookie!!

raspberry cookie: what??

wildberry: ...

y/n cookie: guys i don't know what he's talking about...

hollyberry cookie: you have feelings for me-

y/n cookie: OMG EVERY COOKIE LOOK ANOTHER WAVE OF MONSTERS IS COMING!!

*said y/n cookie before start running away when everyone turns around. Pavlova cookie going to crumble for this*

[essektheylyss]

baby, detonate for me

Rating: M Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast Characters: Essek Thelyss, Caleb Widogast, Jester Lavorre

Additional Tags: c3e121 spoilers, Panic Attacks, Attempted Self-Sabotage

Summary:

Essek goes home, and considers never coming home again.

[sinisterexaggerator]

I had to make some dividers for my boy Trevor Philips from GTA V.

If you use, please think about giving a like or a reblog. Thanks!

[becca-e-barnes]

I’m literally drooling over the thought of sensitive Bucky whimpering and whining while fucking your tits and thighs he’s so pathetic and needy all he wants is to make you feel good and to fill you with his cum even if it overstimulates him

Okay, tit fucking is great and all but thigh fucking is SO underrated in my humble opinion. Could just be the fact I've got a small chest though lmao

It's so fun when you're already really into it and the insides of your thighs are all slick. I feel like Bucky would lose it, getting to see your face and look in your eyes and enjoy your body.

It's a nice one to do while laid on your side, facing each other. Although the angle isn't quite right for him to slip inside you, it's fun to explore the other ways your bodies can steal pleasure from one another.

"This isn't going to work, sweetheart." You can't help but laugh, having already tried everything you can think of to make the height difference work. There's no way to keep this romantic and intimate in that position because there's just no chance of aligning your bodies properly to allow him to press inside you.

"Maybe not. But it feels nice anyway." His eyes flutter shut, gliding his dick over the smooth, soft, warm insides of your thighs, encouraged by how slick and easy your arousal makes the movement.

You adjust yourself to bring your other thigh on top of his length, closing him in on both sides.

You're wet enough that friction doesn't impede his movement too much and there's something oddly romantic about it. Maybe it's his hand smoothing the back of your head or his other hand up your back, pulling your body closer to his.

It's so intimate, watching his face as he whines your name, rutting senselessly against your thighs. The little flush to his cheeks is beautiful and you can't resist kissing the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. The thick duvet on top of you both, coupled with your combined body heat means the room is far hotter than you'd planned.

You take a second to reach between your bodies, spreading your wet folds and readjusting his length, letting him drag his cock against your neglected clit with each stroke and oh, that's pretty mind-blowing.

"O-oh my God." He whines, desperately fucking himself against your wet cunt, rather than into it. It's a different kind of pleasure to being inside you and while they're not comparable sensations, it doesn't stop this from feeling fantastic.

"Fuck, that's good." You groan, rolling your hips to meet his. Your fingers dip between you once more, gathering some of your slick arousal, using it to glide your fingertips over the underside of his shaft and over his balls.

"Holy shit, that's - fuck." Bucky's hardly got a coherent thought left in his head. He's closed in on both sides by your wet, soft thighs and now your fingers are giving him a different sensation underneath while pressing him against your soaked sex.

"I know, baby. Feels good, doesn't it?" Your fingertips trail lightly back and forth over the underside of his shaft, focusing on the inch or so beneath the tip.

"I can't... I need to cum." He groans, thrusting frantically, clinging to your body to keep you close. Within a few seconds, you feel his dick pulse under your fingertips, his cum coating the inside of your thighs in hot, thick, messy spurts.

He doesn't waste a second, kissing your forehead before kissing your neck and whispering "Good girl. Now let me watch you get yourself off with my cum on your fingertips."

[arctic-hands]

[Video Description: hands typing on a rainbow-lit clicky clacky keyboard, resting on the bottom half of an open black faux-leather clutch, the top half of which has a 4 inch-ish white e-paper screen and a Raspberry Pi module plugged into it. The keys clack and flash as they're typed, and the camera zooms in on the screen where it says "hello happy pi day!!! :D", as an excited and silly-deep voice offscreen says "It works!" End V.D]

I finally have q new-fangled typing machine! A ZeroWriter RasPi compiled together in a freebie handbag that one could say...came thru in a clutch...?

[raspberryandechinacea]

So, about that indulgent thing, it's 2am gonna wake up in around 6 hours so i'mma post it.

Imagine Ghost who doesn't want you to do things. Shave? No problem, he is gonna do it for you, and be extra gentle, holding your legs/your face as if they are made of glass. Dye your hair? Just give him the hairdye and he is gonna be so precise and not even skip a hair. (Except cutting your hair because he is to afraid to cut it wrong, but he'll pay for the hair stylist)

Make up? His hands are so steady, your eyeliner will always be even and on flick and no, you will never do it as precise as he does.

And that's it, I needed something fluffy and silly to cheer myself up. Byeeeee!

[ticklishraspberries]

Stubborn (Achilles/Patroclus)

Summary: Achilles has always been stubborn and prideful. Patroclus sees an opportunity to make the best of the Greeks give in, and takes it happily. (I just re-read this book the other day and was struck with the urge to write a fic for it. I know I haven't written in a while, and I haven't written for this fandom in years, so please be gentle, lmfao. I hope you enjoy!!)

Achilles is stubborn.

Patroclus knows this, has always known this, because he has never known Achilles to be anything but stubborn. For a child with such a weight on his shoulders, a prophecy on his head, the blood of the gods running through his veins — well, who can blame him?

If Achilles sets his mind to something, he will do it. Whether that be mastering the use of a spear, juggling figs, playing the lyre, or breaking through all of Patroclus’s walls, Achilles will do it, can do it.

It’s normally a positive trait, that determination. But in a young boy, it can get annoying quite fast. And Patroclus never usually finds Achilles annoying: He’s in awe of him, smitten by him, happily attached to his hip. But Patroclus is only human, after all, and there is only so much teasing one boy can take before he has to seek some sort of revenge.

Achilles has known that Patroclus is ticklish for years, one of the early discoveries that had brought them closer together. However, in all that time, Patroclus has never gotten the upper hand on Achilles, which is just entirely unfair.

“I’m not ticklish,” Achilles had said. It was a sunny afternoon on the grounds of his father’s palace. “I never have been, even when I was small.”

Patroclus bites back the urge to argue that he is still quite small. “Everyone says they aren’t ticklish, to stop others from trying.”

“You didn’t lie,” Achilles replied with a smirk.

Patroclus felt his face flush. “I knew you would try anyway. Lying would have done me no good.”

“I guess that’s true. Well, you don’t have to bother trying. I’ll just get you back twice as bad.”

What should have been a threat had not deterred him in the slightest, though, and Patroclus had tears of mirth streaked down his face within minutes.

It didn’t stop him from trying again, but Achilles was always one step ahead. He always saw it coming, and always grabbed at the offending hands before they even made contact, and smirked before pinning Patroclus to the grass or the mattress and tickling him half to tears for daring to try and tickle the best of the Greeks.

However, here, in Chiron’s cave, the morning is quiet and still. The centaur is off fetching something to fix a meal, and Achilles is asleep beside Patroclus, unclothed and lying in a particularly vulnerable position, one arm tucked beneath his head of golden hair. Patroclus isn’t sure what compels him to do it then, to ruin the peaceful moment, or why tickling Achilles is even at the forefront of his mind: They’re older now, and this is surely something childish, but the chance to startle a laugh from the other boy has never felt stronger.

Patroclus cuddles close to his side, stroking the hair from his face. Achilles barely stirs, only gives a pleasant hum in his sleep. It’s probably cruel to pull him from such a peaceful slumber, but he doesn’t care. How many mornings had Achilles jumped onto his bed at sunrise, pushing bony knees into his sides and shaking his shoulders, pressing their faces close and loudly announcing the break of a new day?

Maybe Achilles deserves a morning of ruined rest, too.

Patroclus doesn’t quite know where to start. In the past, he’s always tried the obvious places: Stomach, sides, feet. Achilles has never reacted in the expected ways, never cracking a smile or squirming away. Perhaps there’s another spot he can try?

His hand still lingers by Achilles’ face, and he brings it slowly towards his collarbone, his touch featherlight as it traces the curve there before moving up to stroke the side of his neck.

He’s surprised when Achilles twitches in his sleep, his brow furrowing and his shoulder shrugging upwards. This only encourages him further, bringing his other hand to Achilles’ ribs and repeating the same motion.

Achilles makes a noise somewhere between a giggle and a groan as he seems to slowly awaken, his arms lazily moving to push at Patroclus. He rolls over onto his side and tugs the sheet, trying to cover his body, but Patroclus pushes it away and scoots closer, throwing an arm over his waist and pulling his back flush against his own chest.

“I thought you said you weren’t ticklish,” he mutters in Achilles’ ear, making sure his lips brush against the shell of it.

Achilles shivers. “No one but you has ever really tried.”

“So, you admit it then? You are ticklish?” Patroclus asks, grinning. He’s tickling his belly with both hands now, hugging him around his middle so he can’t squirm away. Even with all his strength and stamina, Achilles is still tired and caught off guard, and his body is weak to resist as the soft laughter comes in waves.

Still, he says, “I don’t admit anything.” The sentence carries much less weight when it’s said between laughs, though.

Patroclus shouldn’t be surprised by this. Like he’s said, Achilles is stubborn. For someone who says he hates to lie, he omits the truth and dances around topics like this, to uphold both his integrity and his dignity. It’s quite endearing to watch, honestly.

Patroclus chuckles. “Of course you don’t,” he says.

In an obvious attempt to distract him from the tickling, Achilles flips over and presses their lips together, and Patroclus can’t help but kiss back. However, he’s not going to give in so easily.

He runs his fingers along Achilles’ lower back, up his spine, over his shoulder blades, the touch light and teasing, and he feels goosebumps rising over the skin. While soft touches like this usually tickle Patroclus, he knows Achilles will find them soothing, even sensual. Luring him into a false sense of security will help him regain that element of surprise.

It’s funny, how strategically Patroclus is thinking about something so obsolete. He plans like a war general whose enemy is the ego of his lover, and his attack is to send a fleet of tickling fingers to his weakest spots.

As they kiss, Patroclus grabs onto Achilles’ sides and squeezes them roughly, and a startled laugh falls from the half-god’s lips, his body shrinking away.

“Admit that you’re ticklish,” Patroclus says in a voice so unlike his usual tone, deeper and more commanding. There’s still plenty of mischief dancing behind it, though.

“Never,” Achilles grits out.

“Then I’ll never stop,” he replies. He figures there are worse things to fill his days with. Touching Achilles, hearing his laughter. It would be a quite fulfilling existence if you asked him.

He explores bits of sensitive flesh, but no spot seems to get a greater reaction than the crease where his thighs meet the sacred place between his legs. Pressing the pads of his fingers there actually makes Achilles whimper, and the sound is dizzying.

“Okay, okay,” he finally pants. “I’m ticklish!”

Patroclus stops instantly, rewarding Achilles for his good behavior. He presses a kiss to his sweaty temple, pushes back that golden hair once again.

“That’s what I thought.”

Breathless but smiling helplessly, Achilles nudges him in the ribs with his elbow. It’s rare to see him admit defeat, but it’s a beautiful sight. His flushed skin, his laughter lines.

Stubborn is an accurate way to describe Achilles, yes, but Patroclus will always mention his beauty first. Heroes are usually remembered for their fatal flaw, but Patroclus will always know him for the good things: The golden hair that cascades down his back like a waterfall. His determination, his resilience, his kindness. His laughter. The fact that even with godly blood in his veins, Achilles is just a boy, who juggles figs and is ticklish.

This, and this, and this. The good, the beautiful things.

[raspberrylover28]

Chapters: 4/? Fandom: SolarBalls (Web Series) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Charon/Pluto (SolarBalls) Characters: Planet X (Solarballs), Charon (SolarBalls), Pluto (SolarBalls), Eris (SolarBalls), Haumea (SolarBalls), Makemake (SolarBalls), Triton (SolarBalls), Sun (SolarBalls) Additional Tags: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Characters Play Dungeons & Dragons, Angst, Fluff, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Miscommunication Summary:

A collection of solarballs drabbles i wrote during summer 2024! Drabble descriptions below:

1. Make Make gives Planet X the perfect opportunity to learn more about what's been happening in the solar system during his absence. The only cost being his dignity.

2. When Pluto and Charon found out about the moon club from Triton, Charon wasn't really bothered by not getting an invitation. For Pluto, though, it hit a bit too close home. So, they talk about it.

3. A canon-divergent explanation for The Sun's obsession with orbits.

4. A bunch of one-shot ideas

[raspberryjellybrains]

i know nobody gaf but i reeallllllyyyy wanna talk about my bad kids gender/sexuality headcanons so here goes

fig: obviously bi/pan/omni bc it's canon (yayy!!!), but i think she would identify as bisexual! i also really like her as a trans girl :) something about demonic puberty and human puberty and going against others' expectations to define for yourself who you are.

gorgug: same case with fig for sexuality, and i don't think he even really had many thoughts or feelings about it. bc he's one of my favorites and not because i have a great volume of evidence, im hitting him with the gender beam. i think there's something agender about this half-orc. masculinity feels like something gorgug was handed, went "okay", and never really examined further or felt in any meaningful way. not really a costume so much as a label with some instructions. probably uses he/they pronouns after some lovely chats with the AAAGSA (idk if thats the right acronym but i think it would be funny if it was)

adaine: i think she just kind of assumes she's straight? not enough time or care to investigate otherwise. had a thing for one (1) boy and just goes with that. i truly think that she's arospec and aspec and it takes her until after post-secondary to realize this. "girl" was kind of forced on her pretty hard, and kind of feels it, but also feels like it's inextricably tied to some awful memories. maybe demigirl in the future? trying to figure out what "girl" means for herself and still sticking with she/her, for now. still considers herself cis for a long time after knowing she probably isn't bc she doesn't feel "trans enough" to identify otherwise.

fabian: BIG woman enjoyer. i think he would kiss anyone of any gender as long as they're hot, but takes a minute to discover that one. he would probably just assume everyone works like that, and as long as he's mostly into women, he's straight. which isn't entirely right or wrong! as for gender, i think he's cisgender. there's room for experimentation with presentation after sophmore year, but feels most comfortable on the masculine end of androgyny. not gender, but queer: i think he'd LOVE drag. kristen would introduce him to it, and they'd watch fantasy rupaul's together and go to live shows when kristen's in town post-hs.

kristen: lesbian ofc!! i think she starts out with the "butch or really christian" bermuda shorts and t-shirts freshman year, but leans further and further into butch as she moves away from the church. she IS the girl in basketball shorts and a t-shirt/tanktop every day of the year and most of the school's sapphic population wants her for it BADLY. as for gender, i think a similar boat to adaine where femininity is tied up in a lot of bad experiences, but more nonchalant about it? should probably talk to someone about it but who caaaaaaaarrreeees. leans really hard into masculine woman bc i think she is a girl, and this is an expression of that which is entirely her own to feel and define.

and last but not least, riz: pretty well canon aro/ace and that genuinely means a lot to me. not to get personal. i think he's romance and sex repulsed, but interested in a qpr or some kind of lifelong companionship bc he gets lonely!! dude wants a friend for all of his many detective adventures. i think he's also a cisgender boy, but i would not shoot down readings otherwise.

and thats all!! if anyone does care, I'll probably elaborate on minuteae in the tags and if anyone really really wants, i can make a part two with other characters :D

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: daddy kink, overstimulation, forced orgasm.

“I don’t… I don’t know. This is stressing me out.” 

The box in front of you is labeled ‘kitchen’ and you’re staring at it like there’s a bomb inside. 

“Good job with your rule baby. What don’t you know?” 

“This… the appliances, and the bowls, and everything… where do I put it? I don’t want to move your stuff and I don’t want to take up too much space I…” His hands cover yours, thumbs moving in methodical circles across your skin. You’re overwhelmed. You’ve been on the brink all day, dialed down after he took over packing up your apartment, now ramping back up as you try to unpack it and put it away. It’s been a lot, all day, and you’ve taken it on the chin. He’s proud of you.

“Would it help if I did it?” Your lower lip trembles, and you nod. 

“Yes. Please.” 

“Okay.” He kisses your forehead, wiping away one of the fat tears falling down your cheek. “It’s alright. Go upstairs, get in the bath, and relax. I’ll take care of everything that’s left.” You already did your clothes and personal items, things brought over from your bedroom and closets, but the rest of it is too much. You’ve deliberated everything, and he’s happy you’re making his house your home, but you’re getting tired, and anxious. “It’s okay, go on baby.” You sniffle, turning in his arms to rest your cheek on his chest with a sigh. 

“Thank you daddy.” 

“You did a good job today.” You shake your head. 

“I didn’t finish.” You press closer to his side, leg hitched up across his thighs. 

“But you told me when you were stressed and trusted me to take care of the rest. It’s okay if you need my help, you just have to tell me, which you did. I’m very proud of you.” He rubs your back, your hip, kneading as he goes, slowly moving down between your legs, feather light touch ghosting over your panties. He’s been doing it for twenty minutes, teasing you, working you up, and when he finally presses his thumb over your cloth covered clit and you gasp.

“Daddy…” 

“Are you wet for me?” He turns you on your back, peeling your underwear down and off so he can spread your knees open. You’re fully exposed like this, little clit swollen and hard, pussy soaked and glistening, squirming as he studies you. “Oh baby. Look at you.” You throw your arm over your face, trying to hide in your elbow and he chuckles. “Why are you embarrassed?” 

“You’re looking at my… at me.” 

“At your what, sweetheart. Tell me what I’m looking at.” You drop your arm and stare at him with wide eyes. “Do you want me to touch you?” 

“Yes daddy. P-please.” You shake a little, hesitant, nervous, and he rubs your leg encouragingly. 

“You have to say where.” It’s a coaching game. He pushes you step by step, always there, always urging you forward, proud again and again when you rise to whatever challenge he’s posing.

“My… my pussy.” 

“Good girl.” He presses down on your clit, sliding two fingers inside you at the same time, drinking in your gasps and moans. He’s thoroughly enjoying taking things slow, working you up to your first time, soaking up every single moment, every single orgasm along the way. 

But tonight, he’s going to push some boundaries. 

“Your little pussy is so greedy, baby girl. Should daddy make you come?” You lick your lips and nod quickly.  “What do you say?” 

Please daddy, make me unf-  make me c-come, please,” you clench, naturally trying to squeeze him, your body instinctively knowing what to do. Already so close. 

“What a good girl, asking so nicely.” He gives it to you, harder, faster, and your back arches, thighs locking around his arm, the sheets twisting in your grip. Your pussy tries to milk his fingers for something that’s not there, fluttering as you come for him.  

“Oh- Oh my god,” you’re still riding his hand as it ebbs, but when you come down, he doesn’t stop, even as you try to run up the bed and close your legs. 

“You’re going to have one more.” You shake your head frantically. 

“N-no, it’s… ow- ah- it hurts,” He pins you by your hip, preventing your escape, and you shriek. “D-daddy, please-” 

“I know it’s a lot, sweet girl I know. One more, you can do it.” One more orgasm, and one more finger. It’s an overload, and your foot kicks when he pulls back, just to push back inside you with three fingers, groaning at the sight of your tears. “Look at you,” he coos, pumping his cock, “daddy’s girl stretched around his fingers. Are you nice and full?” You groan, the overstimulation bringing tears to your eyes. 

“It’s t-too much,” you cry, but even as you protest, your rhythm changes from tense to chase. 

“You can take it,” he fucks you harder, flicking back and forth across your clit, and your knees fall open, wails turning to moans. “That’s it, good girl. Such a good girl, listening to her daddy.” He tugs his cock free, letting it settle at the top of your slit, ready to explode, and just before you’re falling over the edge, he pulls away to settle his length between your lips, rutting forward to grind his cock against you.

“Oh god-” You fuck yourself against him mindlessly, screaming into your orgasm, crying for your daddy as you rub your clit on the head of his cock, sliding up and down his length, soaking it. It’s enough friction to draw his balls up, more than enough heat to bring his own barreling down, and he shoots cum up your belly and his at the same time. 

He covers your body with his immediately. Both of you sticky and sated, his lips dragging over the skin of your neck, your cheek, your mouth as he calms you down. “My precious girl,” you turn into his voice instinctively, searching for him with closed eyes, limp and exhausted. “Did so well.” You nod your agreement, grip still iron on his t shirt, fully out of it. You’ve already been in the bath once today, but he knows you won’t protest a second. “I’m gonna get you some water and then we’ll take a bath, how does that sound?” You pull him close, hands on his shoulders, and press your nose to his neck. 

“Sounds good daddy.” 

“I have a surprise for you.” You blink at him. 

“For me?” 

“Turn around.” The front door is half closed behind his back, and he can tell you want to peek around it or ask more questions, but you choose to listen. Good girl.

“I’m ready.” You announce, bouncing on your toes with a little squeak, and he laughs, pushing the door wide to let the floppy, giant, Great Pyrenees puppy inside.

“Okay, turn around.” Making you happy will never get old, and he knows these memories, the ones where your face lights up and your joy explodes, will stay with him for the rest of his life. 

“Oh my god!” Your excitement floods out of you as a high pitched squeal, and you immediately go to your knees in front of the white fluff at his feet, the puppy’s big pink bow flopping on her neck. “Oh my god, oh my god. Is she… is she ours?”

“Yeah sweet girl, she’s ours. She’s for you, actually.” You scratch under her chin, cooing at the huge white puppy that could easily pass for a baby polar bear, even at five months. 

“Does she have a name?” 

“Duchess.” You clap your hands together. 

“Duchess. Aren’t you just the cutest girl? Yeah,” the dog licks your face appreciatively, and you giggle, “you are. You’re the cutest.” 

“She’s not cute.” She’s not supposed to be cute, anyway.

“Yes she is.” You give her another pat. He has a feeling you’re going to turn Duchess into a lap dog. A one hundred pound lap dog. He pulls you over to the couch, settles you in beside him as the dog paws at your feet and you giggle.  

“She’s a Great Pyrenees. She’s not a pet so much as she’s a guardian dog.” You frown, pout already forming your lips. It was a tough decision. He almost bought a Mal, but the idea of you having to take care of a real life velociraptor when he’s not here didn’t sit well with him. “She’s going to grow up with you as her best friend, so she’s going to see you as her flock, which means she’s going to make guarding you her main job.” Not outright aggressive or high strung, but protective and territorial, and big enough to intimidate just about anyone once she’s full grown, a Pyr is perfect.

“But she’s still a pet.” He sighs. 

“Yes. She’s still a pet. We’ll take care of her together when I’m home, but when I’m away, you’ll have to do it by yourself. Do you want that?” 

“Definitely.” Good. It’s a dual solution. He needs to feel more at ease with you being home alone, and you need some gentle encouragement. Taking care of a puppy is a lot like taking care of a human. They need food, water, enrichment. Naps. Walks, exercise. When he’s gone, you’ll be the primary caretaker, for both Duchess and yourself, and he thinks, he hopes, having her will help you take care of yourself. 

You also need food, water, enrichment. Naps. Walks. Exercise. 

“And she can sleep in the bed with me while you’re away!” 

“Well, we really need to teach her to sleep in her own bed…” 

“Sure daddy.” You ruffle the top of her head. “We’re going to be best friends, aren’t we girl?” She paws at you and you smush her face, dotting a kiss right between her brows. He sighs.

That dog is definitely going to be sleeping on his side of the bed.