#i just do not like the way it is written. or that the author. keeps. doing. this...at every...opportunity...

[bunny-jpeg]

a little sugar behind the wheel

charles leclerc

tags: smut/pwp, established relationship, fingering, car sex, semi-public sex, teasing, dirty talk, 1.6k words

author's note: i hope everyone enjoys this little piece i've written up. i've been slowly getting back towards being involved with writing fan fiction! i honestly feel a little rusty! but, slowly i'll build the confidence i had before my break. there might also be a little break at the end of july as my boyfriend will be on leave from deployment for two weeks. until then i'll try to post more often!

This was supposed to be a nice afternoon out. Around the streets of Monaco before the Grand Prix weekend - the sun was out, the weather was seasonably warm. And of course, the paparazzi had found out you two were out on the town.

Not that you were doing a very good job keeping an incognito profile, it was supposed to be a casual afternoon out. What you didn't expect was when your boyfriend's skillful hand ended up under your skirt - that people wanted to take photos of you.

"Charles." You said with warning.

And like honey, his voice soothed you, "They can’t see us from this angle, if you can stay still." And you couldn't help but relax a little as he played with your clit. Almost teasingly.

You shuddered as he played with you under your skirt. You trusted him that the paparazzi outside the car couldn't see what he was doing to you. You leaned back in the seat and tried to act comfortable. But when you then tried to go in for a heated kiss, the stopped you.

  "Have to keep it low-key, my love." He said softly, "Don't give them anything to photograph. Now why don't you tell me how good it feels? To have my hands on you this way." His other hand clenched onto the steering wheel of the overly expensive car he drove.

You felt a shudder run through you as he continued to tease you. You shifted and he shushed you, then encouraged you to talk to him. Make it seem like you two were having a boring conversation rather than his fingers pulling your panties to the side to get to the sweetness between your soft thighs.

  "Tell me." His words echoed in your mind, which made you giggle from the feeling.

  "I like how talented you are." You commented, "I like how your fingers feel... Fuck,, right there. You know the spot baby."

He chuckled lowly, "I know all your sweet spots, my love. I know exactly how to get you going and push you right over the edge. I bet you like where you are right now - caught in pleasure through the lens of all those photographers. All eyes on you, but you only see me."

You knew he wanted to kiss you, but you were trying to be boring for the cameras so they'd leave you two alone. Caught between trying to keep up the facade and having your lover's fingers dance across your pussy left you flustered. Even in a simple tank top for the warm day - you felt unbearably flustered by it all.

  "What else do you love?"

  "How you know exactly how to turn me on." You remarked with a small laugh, "You drive me crazy, Charles. Just like how this is crazy. What if someone's sees."

Charles replied cheekily, "Then they see." Something heated in those green eyes as he licked his lips and continued to tease across your pussy lips. His careful fingers then dragged across the stiff nub of your clit and you shifted from the feeling. He then shushed you once more, "Be boring, my love." Then cast his gaze towards the photographers who were bored with how you two weren't getting out of the car.

You let out a small noise, and it took a great deal of personal strength to not quiver and fall apart.

  "You have no idea what you do to me, my love." He cooed in your ear softly. The space in the car felt smaller as the heat in it grew hotter. You tried to compose yourself, but it was hard when your boyfriend's colourful language spun narratives in your head.

  "Charles." Your breath hitched as he sank two fingers into your pussy with his thumb teasing your clit with determination.

  "I'd usually tell you to let it all out. But right now, you have to behave. But you know how to do that, no? Know how to be a good girl for me. Don't let them see how good I make you feel. Those faces are for my eyes only." And he felt you clench around him, "That's it, that's my beautiful girl." His voice low, laced with honey and drowning you in its warmth.

Charles Leclerc was talented with his fingers and at that moment in the car, you hated that they were. Especially when you knew that your wetness was going to stain the expensive seats of the car.

Not that Charles cared, not when he was eyeing you. He said lowly, "Focus, don't want to cause a scene, my love. I know, I know." He whispered, "You're such a dirty girl for me, but no one else should get to see that but me."

You nodded and held his wrist as his digits continued to pump in out of you. You felt a tremble in your body as you tried to ask, "So what about the weather?" As a feeble attempt to compose yourself and not come completely apart from his attention on your pussy.

Charles laughed, it was like music to your ears. You felt your face grow hotter, maybe even a shade darker. He gazed into your eyes, those beautiful green eyes that currently held something much more sinister. Much more sexual.

  "So sweet, my love. Look at you, trying so hard to keep it together." He looked once more at the paparazzi and laughed, "If only they knew. I can feel how hot you're getting." he licked his lips, "Trying to talk about the weather so you don't finish all over my hand."

  "I don't want them to see me."

  "And you're doing such a good job for me, my love. Keeping it together so well..." he trailed off for a moment, "Makes me want to go faster. See how far I can push you." He chuckled as he started to move his fingers faster and your nails bit into the skin of his wrist. He was quick to hush you, "Behave, my love. Behave. All eyes on you."

Your boyfriend was a sexual freak.

  "Charles." You tried to keep your composure as the man continued to finger you. But soon enough was enough and you only managed to relax when he pulled his fingers out of you to shift the car out of the parking spot and drove off.

He waved to the cameramen, his first two digits glistened with your wetness as he sped off away from them. While it was fun to watch you fall apart under such a careful gaze, he didn't want to cause an international incident. Not only for his sake, but yours. You were his angel, you shouldn't be slandered in the headlines.

But as he drove down the streets at a reasonable speed, his hand once again was under your skirt. His fingers plunged back inside of you as he drove with one hand. He grinned like a mad-man as he sped up a little bit. His attention was split between your clit and the road. Now you could be a little louder as the heat continued to linger in the car.

  "Like that, my love? My angel. You feel so good around me, fuck. If only I could have you now. But if I got you into bed right now, you wouldn't be leaving until I marked every inch of your skin."

You knew your boyfriend had a pension for marking your skin. He loved to sink his teeth into the delicate skin, claim you as his.

His fingers moved faster and you held onto the handle in the car. You shifted in your seat, you could get a little louder as the rev of the engine covered up the noises you made. You were no longer under the watchful eye of the press, which meant that you could fall apart on your boyfriend's fingers.

They danced across your pussy and made your toes curl in your shoes. Sweat damped the back of your neck and your heart raced with exhilaration. You felt the pleasure climb up through your core as you cunt clenched around his fingers.

  "Charles." You gasped.

  " I've got you, my angel. My sweet angel." He could feel his own flustered state take over, but he had to remain in some kind of control while he fingered you feverishly. He was desperate to have you come apart, "You are perfect." he cooed, "So perfect for me."

  "I'm close." You gasped, you held onto his wrist tightly once more.

He licked his lips and said to you, "Then cum for me. Ruin these seats and stain my fingers." His words curled into your mind and with a few more heavy stroked, you came around his fingers.

Your hips bucked and your cunt clenched around his digits as you came. The noise you made was high pitched and Charles had to slow down his driving before he lost control too. The euphoria radiated through the confined space of the car.

And once you relaxed your hips and fully into the leather car seat. Charles stopped as a red light and pulled his fingers out before he carefully licked them free of your wetness. When he was done and the light had changed, he smacked his lips together like he had a delicious mean and turned left.

When you looked at him in your hazy state, he glanced at you from the corner of his eye for a brief moment as he said, "I think we've had enough excitement today, no? Maybe it's time to go home and relax."

You could see his erection straining in his jeans, even the bagginess of them didn't hide that the entire ordeal aroused him. Carefully, in your fuzzy state, you placed your hand over the lump in his jeans.

You said, a little out of breath, "That sounds perfect, my love." as if your legs weren't already jelly. But if they weren't Charles would happily spend the rest of the afternoon making sure they were <3

[secretivemessenger]

inspired by @sooniebby’s (sorry for the tag danny) magic dildo story. what if what if just what if instead of that its a magical fleshlight

☆ incubus bf x bttm male reader (no name specified so it can be imagined as any character)

★ synopsis: incubus bf who owns a magical fleshlight from hell and he uses it while ur in the middle of a solo presentation infront of your whole class.

☆ cw: magical toys? idk , exhibition-ish , almost getting caught, invisible penetration?, belly bulging mentioned.

★ AUTHOR’s rambling: this has been in my drafts for so long i wrote it then deleted it then wrote it again ugh, anyways i feel like i haven’t written bttm reader in a lonnggg while the bottom whore in my is unsatisfied.

nsfw content under the cut, proceed with caution.

imagine being in the middle of a uni presentation, all eyes on you as you explained your take on the theory of relativity. yer doing so great for once, as you’re not the one to have the courage for presentations but it doesn’t last.

suddenly feeling a something force its way past your hole, something is stretching you out harshly and you can only think of one person who would do that, your bf and his beloved fleshlight.

you could feel his hard cock drive forward into your core with no haste, as your body shakes and sweats. yet you try to continue, “T-the theory of r-relativity, proposed by Albert Einstein, rereshing that...ngh”. oh fuck on shit all eyes are on you, your professor is looking at you with concern as your legs tremble and even faint squelching sound is coming out from your hole being fucked and slicked up.

your ragged breathing and the way you swayed caused your professor to ask “are you alright?”, you nod violently and turn back to the board that had your powerpoint and pointed, opening your mouth again to try and keep going only to feel a particularly hard thrust that pushed you against the board and interrupted your sentence with a semi audible whimper. gosh they all must think you have a vibrator up yer ass or something.

why does it have to feel so good, you were being pounded like no tomorrow but that was the least of your concerns now. you turned back towards the rest of the students some seem to already have their minds in the gutter, blushing and looking away from your quivering body. you were ashamed as you tried as hard as you can to keep talking while letting some whines and groans slip out, you can almost see some students closing their thighs up.

your hole clenched and fluttered around nothing, aching to be filled with the real deal. you could feel your boyfriend's fat cock splitting you open, the bulbous head slamming into your prostate dead-on with brutal precision. you can’t take it any more as you stumble on your feet and have to grip the nearest wall for support.

your professor now even more concerned walks up to you and grabs onto your shoulders making you want to scream from how sensitive and hot your body is right now, you can see the look on your professors face as he takes a look at yours before coughing, “go wash your face up then come back, alright?”. you blinked the tears that were threatening to spill away then nodded sprinting out of the lecture hall and to the bathroom.

you stumbled as your hole fluttered around the object plowing into it before you shakily make your way to a bathroom stall and closed the door, not even bothering to lock it. you sat down on the toilet and hurriedly unbuckled your pants and boxers in one go, impatient and very horny.

your cock sprung free, rock hard and leaking with pre. you can feel the phantom of your boyfriends pre in your untouched hole, you felt how warm it is even though it wasn’t there.

weeping and sobbing, you took a hold of your cock and pumped it violently as you bucked into an invisible force, fucking yourself on a cock you can only feel.

one of your hands jerking your cock and the other. reached for the hem of your shirt and brought it up to your lips to chomp on it and hold it up, it revealed your tummy and the little mark left on your abdomen, which is what connects you to your boyfriend.

you reached your other free hand to place on your stomach, the said tattoo was glowing and when you placed your hands on it you almost came from the pulse of pleasure. you groaned as you can feel your boyfriends cock reaching so deep into your stomach that it makes a bulge. with every thrust it bumps into the hand you have placed there like a baby bump, baby fever much? maybe your boyfriend’s magical world have a way for you to get pregnant.

your silly thoughts vanished quickly at the sound of someone stepping into the bathroom, then it finally came down onto you that you never locked the door. you took your hand off your tummy and slammed it on your mouth to silence yourself.

“[name] you there? the professor asked me to come get you since you’re taking so long”, you recognized that voice as one of your classmates. gosh should you say something or stay quiet, if you talked you might moan but if you don’t they might think your skipping,, ahh geez.

“i-im alright, just uh doing.. y-ya know”, “ah”. you received an understanding hum from your classmate before he speaks again “alright i’ll let the professor know” then you hear him turn on his heels and make his way to the exit.

you tried to keep quiet till he was fully gone but with your boyfriend ramming your prostate like he was in a boxing match and your prostate was the opponents face you couldn’t, you let out a loud gasp at an especially aggressive plow making your classmate haste in his way.

“you alrigh-“ “YES” you screamed out loudly, your voice hoarse and shaky trying to sound as convincing as possible while your boyfriends dick continues to mercilessly pound your hole. “okay okay” your classmate responds teasingly before finally leaving.

yeah hes definitely thinking you were jacking off, to which you were but damn.

once he left you slumped over the toilet crying and moaning loudly as your hole hollowed out and gaped around nothing. your hand worked faster on your cock pumping it up and down, squeezing the tip till you feel like cumming then letting go with a disappointed whimper. you’re your biggest enemy tbh.

you wrapped your hand around your cock again resuming jerking it off, going in sync with your boyfriends thrusts.

you can sense his pounding slowing down, being more deep than rough, he was definitely close, you wanted to cum together. so you sped up your hand, sloppily jerking off while your thighs shook violently, you feel like coming right then and there but you have to hold on, just a bit more.

when you felt on the verge of bursting you placed your thumb on your tip pressing down, denying yourself the pleasure of release. while your boyfriend is nearly there you can feel it, from the way his cock twitched inside of you.

then you felt it, flooding deep into your guts, and you finally let go allowing yourself to cum aswell. time felt like it stopped as you threw your head back, cumming all over your chest and shirt.

and you felt his cum too, it wasn’t there physically but you felt it inside of you, filling you up to the brim,,

unless he cleans the fleshlight, which you doubt, then you’re gonna have to spend the rest of the day with invisible spunk deep in your guts.. yay, fun.

[inbabylontheywept]

Yo. Dumbass autism sufferer here. Just wondering how the everloving shitfuck you managed to get your writing so engaging? I'm not the worst, but I also feel like I stopped getting better years ago. I can regurgitate tropes and give twists on them, but it always feel like, idk, obvious? Simple? Your stories are anything but, and I was wondering if there's a trick to it, or some wisdom for you to share, or if you just happen to be a very interesting person? Or is it that dreaded "you just gotta work on it" that people keep talking about (as if I haven't been writing my dumbass stories on and off since 09, though i suppose "work on it" is supposed to be a move involved process than 'just write some shit at 3 am'). Also, your aviators sound great.

Generically, if you want to develop engagingness, I recommend writing online. Online feedback comes most handly in terms of engagement (upvotes, likes, kudos, reblogs, comments, shares, favorites, etc) and because the writing is short form, you get that feedback quick enough to immediately change and develop a style. I don't know how to put it exactly, but it's like it takes ten pieces to develop a good writing voice, and the size of those pieces mattters less than the fact that they exist and you got feedback on them. So writing very long works can underdevelop voice development because it takes too long to produce the The Ten Pieces.

The downsides of writing online is that the hyper development of engagingness and pacing (the twin skills of Never Boring Your Reader) often don't carry over as well into longer form works. I still highly recommend it because you can get years of style and pacing related skills done in just a few months, but don't expect short stories to just organically turn into novels. I did, and I feel very silly about it now.

If you want good writing advice, I also recommend WonderBook to anyone that asks. It's the only book with advice about writing that I have ever liked, at all, ever. It has pictures. It has web exercises. It's written by Jeff Vandermeer, who is talented and well adjusted and will not say insane shit like Being An Author Requires Writing 10k Words A Day + Substance Abuse + Daddy Issues. If read one book next year, aim for that one.

For me personally: I started writing on HFY. The tropiness gave me structure to start my stories around, and general reddit pseudo-anonymity meant that I had basically the same shot of getting noticed every day that the really talented old hands did. So if they wrote a flop, and I accidentally wrote a zinger, I'd get my 24 hours at the top of the subreddit, then the content cycle would move on. As a new writer, this was a huge benefit to me, but I frankly don't know why the older authors put up with it. Still very grateful that they let me ride their coattails for a while.

That forum helped me develop my prose smoothness, my story pacing, and my general story ideas, but it still kept me in a small box, and it just didn't do a lot to develop a writing voice.

(I don't know what you write, but if you're feeling like you just do tropes with a twist, I felt that way when I got to the end of my reddit writing. I think that was my sign to move on to writing something else.)

Eventually, I went to tumblr and started writing here, which gave me new things to work on. The site just has its own unique tastes. Reddit wanted good story ideas within a constrained genre, smooth but not standout prose, clear story outlining, and above all, great pacing. Tumblr likes stories that feel personal, that are highly idiosyncratic, unstructured, and told with prose that feels a bit dramatic. Tumblr readers love it when you play with words. Reddit readers just kind of tolerated it.

But that environment gave me room to work on my voice. Which contains a lot of those things - the idiosyncratic speech style, odd words, personal feeling, close, lots of word play, a much more dramatic voice than Reddit's "never met an adverb I liked" style preference.

So that's how I developed my engaging style. Reddit was, at that time, unusually friendly to new writers. I don't think it has kept that trait. The key that I've seen in my writing growth is that changing platforms and audiences changes what skills are needed to hold their attention. If you feel stagnant, maybe try writing on AO3, or Reddit, on in some new niche. They're always moving. I don't know where they all are now.

(Also thanks for the ask. It wasn't just very flattering, sitting down to write this out actually organized my own thoughts. Frankly, I've been feeling a little stagnant in my writing too, and I'd kind of forgotten why I started writing short stories. My own skill gaps are in long form. I think that if I want to grow, that's where I need to aim.)

(Also also - thank you for liking my aviators.)

[skyvolt120]

The Scarlet Sanctuary: The Return

Cult Leader!Wanda x Female!Reader

Prologue | The First Visit | The Return

Word Count: 2501

General Warnings: Psychological manipulation, Emotional grooming, Power imbalance, Implied magical coercion, Cult indoctrination, Gaslighting, Isolation from friends and family (hinted), Stalking behaviors, Depression, Toxic dynamics disguised as care

Author's Note: This is the last chapter where Wanda truly keeps up her "charming, neighborly friend" vibe. After all, the mask has to slip eventually. Some people have asked for a tag list, so I started one at the bottom, just lmk if you want to be added :). Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy! <3

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You wake the next morning feeling as though you’d dreamt the whole thing.

The warmth of her voice, the softness of her fingers brushing yours, the slight crimson glow of that little room with its delicate tea set, and the scent of roses heavy in the air — it all seems impossible now, fragile and far away in the gray, brittle light of morning. You lie very still, staring at the ceiling, and tell yourself it was nothing. A whim. A little strange, yes, but harmless.

But when you roll over to reach for your phone, something sharp and warm catches your fingertips.

The scrap of silk.

It lies on your nightstand like it’s been waiting for you all night, that rich red fabric catching what little light filters through the blinds. You pick it up slowly, turn it in your hands. The color is deeper than you remember, almost dark enough to look black where it folds over itself. You let it fall open in your lap, and only then do you notice something stitched into the edge: a series of small black numbers, precise and deliberate, curling like a secret written just for you. Ten digits.

You stare at it for a long while, your heart beating faster in the quiet of your bedroom.

It would be so easy.

You tuck it back into the drawer and shut it softly, but the weight of it stays with you through every hour of the day, sitting under your ribs like a presence you can’t shake.

Work is worse than usual. The espresso machine sputters and dies halfway through the morning rush, and your manager spends the next hour snapping at you like it’s your fault, throwing sidelong glares every time you so much as pause to wipe your hands. A customer complains loudly, slamming a quarter into the tip jar with performative disgust. And through it all, you feel a strange sense of being watched, like someone just out of sight is waiting for you to look up.

The next drink you make, your hands shake so badly you almost spill it on the counter.

When your break finally comes, you duck out into the alley behind the shop with your knees pulled to your chest and a half-drunk coffee cooling in your hands. It’s damp out here, the air faintly sour with the smell of trash from the bins, but it’s better than being inside. You press your back to the wall and close your eyes, trying to breathe, finding yourself whispering her number again and again.

Your phone buzzes in your apron pocket. You don’t bother looking at it at first, but after a minute, you fish it out anyway and see a message from a coworker you usually like.

You okay? You seem kind of out of it lately.

You stare at the screen for a moment before locking it and tucking it away again without replying.

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That night you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and try to think of anything but the way her voice sounded when she told you: You don’t have to feel this way.

The words echo in your head long after you close your eyes.

By midnight, you’re sitting up and reaching for your phone, thumb hovering over the number stitched into memory.

It rings once, twice, then:

“Hello?”

Her voice.

It catches you off guard, even though you were expecting it. Your fingers tighten on the phone.

“Hi,” you say, your own voice low, almost a whisper. “I… I don’t know if you remember me. I just —”

“I remember you.”

She doesn’t sound surprised. She doesn’t sound like she’s smiling, but somehow you feel as though she is.

You swallow. “Is it… okay if I stop by again? I don’t want to —”

“Of course, detka,” she interrupts gently. “Anytime.”

The line stays quiet for a moment, but you can hear her breathing on the other end, steady and sure, like the sea at night. Then she adds, softer still:

“Come soon.”

You don’t even bother changing out of your pajamas before you leave.

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The Sanctuary glows soft and golden when you arrive, the twinkle lights strung along its porch shimmering faintly in the warm night air. The gravel crunches quietly under your shoes as you cross the lot, and by the time you reach the front door, it’s already opening for you.

Wanda is there before you can even knock, leaning casually against the frame with a faint smirk.

“I hoped you’d call,” she murmurs, stepping aside to let you in.

The smell comforts you immediately, roses, woodsmoke, something faintly sweet and rich beneath it all. Her hand on your back is gentle but firm as she guides you through the hush of the house. She doesn’t ask why you’ve come, doesn’t need to, only leads you back to the tea room, where the candlelight seems to burn a little lower, a little warmer than you remember.

And somehow, as you sit and drink and talk to her, the hours seem to stretch and curl softly around you. You lose track of time completely until you happen to glance at the little clock on the wall and startle. Past midnight.

You set your cup down and mumble something about needing to go, but she only shakes her head, as though you’ve said something silly.

“It’s so late already,” she murmurs, and before you can protest, she lays a gentle hand on your arm. “Stay here tonight. You shouldn’t drive back like this. You need rest.”

You open your mouth. To argue? To agree? You’re not even sure, but she leans closer, her breath warm against your cheek. “We have plenty of rooms. You’d sleep better here.”

And so, you let her lead you upstairs.

The room she gives you is small but lovely. The sheets smell faintly of lavender, the little lamp on the nightstand throws a golden glow over the walls, and there’s even a glass of water already waiting for you.

She’s right. You do sleep better.

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At work, you hear things sometimes. Little snippets of conversation that seem to come out of nowhere and stick with you for no reason you can name.

One afternoon, as you’re wiping down the counter, you catch a few low words from somewhere behind you: two women in line, speaking just loud enough to drift over the hiss of the espresso machine.

“…that place outside of town…” one of them murmurs. “…people say they never come back quite the same…”

You glance over your shoulder, distracted, but they both look down into their coffees like nothing happened, their voices falling silent as if they’d never spoken at all.

The words stay with you anyway, faint and strange, as though you ought to know what they mean, but some soft, red whisper in the back of your mind tells you that you don’t.

Later that week, you decide to take your lunch break in the park, just for a change. The weak spring sun is shining, the air smells faintly of damp earth, and you tell yourself you deserve a little quiet. You sit on a bench under a broad elm tree, sipping your coffee, letting the warmth sink into your skin.

You’re halfway through the cup when a shadow falls over you.

“Fancy seeing you here,” comes a warm, amused voice.

You look up and feel your stomach flip.

Wanda.

She’s dressed casually in a cream sweater, jeans, her hair loose around her shoulders, but her smile is just the same. Calm, self-assured, sharp enough to cut if you’re not careful.

“What are the odds?” she says lightly, already easing down onto the bench beside you without asking.

You blink at her, trying to steady your heartbeat. “You come here too?”

“Sometimes,” she says, her gaze steady on yours. “I’ve always liked this park. The bench you picked under the elm, by the fountain, is one of my favorites.”

The words make you go still for a second, a faint chill running down your spine despite the sun.

You hadn’t told her you’d come here.

For a beat too long, you just stare at her, unsure if you’ve misheard, if she’s just guessing. The silence stretches, and you feel your brow knit slightly, the faintest prickle of unease curling up the back of your neck.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, a faint shimmer hangs in the air, a red thread curling lazily like smoke around the edge of her sleeve, so faint it could almost be a trick of the light. It drifts toward you, weightless, and for a moment, you forget why you’d been frowning.

The sharpness of suspicion dulls. Your shoulders loosen almost without your permission.

Her expression never falters. She only tilts her head slightly, watching you, her green eyes dark and warm and endless.

When you finally find your voice to ask how she knew, she just laughs softly, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“I pay attention,” she murmurs.

Her fingers linger against your cheek for a beat too long, enough to make your breath catch.

“You look tired again,” she adds, voice dropping lower.

You let out a faint, bitter laugh. “I’m always tired.”

Her thumb brushes lightly along your jaw, a faint smile curling her lips.

“You don’t have to be,” she murmurs.

This time, you believe her.

Even when she stands to leave, brushing invisible lint from the sleeve of her sweater, you can still feel the phantom trace of her touch on your skin. She glances down at you with a faint, knowing smile, her coppery hair catching the pale light like flame.

“I’ll see you soon,” she says, and it doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

And you watch her walk away, knowing, without knowing, that you will.

--------------------------------------ᗢ--------------------------------------

You do see her again, of course.

The next few days pass in a haze of routine, but her presence lingers, soft and insistent. You keep catching yourself thinking about her — the warmth of her hand on your cheek, the strange, heavy calm that settled over you as she murmured you don’t have to be. You find yourself looking over your shoulder at work, half-expecting to see her leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed, watching you with that small, knowing smile.

Even when you don’t see her, she’s there. You find little reminders scattered through your days: a faint whiff of roses clinging to your jacket, though you haven’t worn it to the Sanctuary in weeks. A slip of red thread clinging to the hem of your sleeve, though you can’t remember brushing against anything. Your manager mutters under her breath about you being “out of it again,” though you don’t even remember zoning out this time.

One night you lie awake staring at the ceiling, feeling the quiet press in around you like water. You turn over, grab your phone, and open your texts without thinking.

I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about what you said.

The reply comes almost instantly, as though she’d been waiting:

Come by. We’ll talk. Bring your things if you like.

And so you do.

You pack a small overnight bag and drive the now-familiar back roads until the trees close around you and the white-painted house rises ahead, golden and warm in the dark.

The young woman at the front desk doesn’t even ask your name anymore. She just smiles and nods as you pass.

That night you sleep more deeply than you have in months.

You tell yourself it’s just one night. Then another. And another.

It’s easy, here. Easier than it has any right to be.

--------------------------------------ᗢ--------------------------------------

One evening you find yourself sitting by the fountain in the garden just as the sun begins to sink. The roses are in full bloom now, heavy and fragrant in the air. You can hear the faint sound of laughter drifting from somewhere inside the house, but out here it’s quiet, the only sound the gentle trickle of water.

Wanda finds you easily. She always does.

You don’t even hear her approach this time. One moment you’re alone, and the next she’s lowering herself gracefully onto the edge of the fountain beside you, her skirt just barely brushing yours.

For a long moment, she says nothing. She only sits there, one hand resting lightly on the stone between you, her eyes on the water.

Finally, she exhales, tilting her head, and her gaze finds yours, glinting faintly in the dim light.

“You seem… better now,” she says. Not quite a question, not quite a compliment.

You manage a faint smile, give a quiet little nod.

Her lips curve, just slightly.

“I’ve been thinking,” she murmurs then, softer now, her voice curling low between you. She reaches over to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, her fingers lingering just a little too long against your cheek.

“You’ve been staying more and more,” she continues. “You seem happier here. Safer.”

She says the word safer like it means something more than you understand.

You want to argue, you don’t.

Her smile deepens just slightly, like she already knows what you won’t say.

“I think,” she says gently, her thumb sweeping lightly along your jaw before retreating, “you’d do well here. Permanently. Like the others.”

The others.

You’ve seen them, the quiet ones in the library, the ones who greet you by name in the kitchen every morning, the ones who move through the Sanctuary’s halls with a kind of ease you’ve never been able to find anywhere else. The admission unsettles you.

“You’d have your own room,” she adds softly. “You wouldn’t have to keep running yourself ragged between here and that little apartment. You’d have people who care about you. You’d have me.”

Her fingers brush lightly against yours, then curl, warm and firm, until she’s holding your hand properly.

“You already belong here,” she murmurs, and there’s a faint glimmer of red at the edge of your vision, curling lazily like smoke between her fingers and yours. “You just don’t know it yet.”

You don’t answer, but she’s smiling as though you have.

That night, you lie awake in your borrowed room, staring at the ceiling, the faint scent of roses seeping through the cracks around the door. For just a moment, it almost feels like you’re being watched from somewhere beyond the shadows, you shake the thought off quickly. You can’t even remember what your apartment smells like anymore.

The next morning, she’s waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, her hand already reaching for yours before you can speak.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” she says softly, her thumb sweeping slow circles over your knuckles, her smile quiet but certain. “But you already know where you belong… don’t you?”

And you squeeze her hand in yours, feeling something tight in your chest slowly, finally, come undone.

--------------------------------------ᗢ--------------------------------------

Tag List: @fxckmiup @milflovers4

[nebrasska-alasska]

IM MUNCHING ON YOUR WRITING NEBRASSSKKAAAA ITS SO DANG GOOD! DELICIOSOOOO AGHGHGHGH!

also hi 👋 I think I’ve mentioned before about how you inspired me to pick up my pencil —er in this case, keyboard? (Hhh-)

any tips for someone who took a long ass hiatus in terms of writing? What do you do in order to better improve your writing?

AWWWWWWW THANK YOU I HOPE YOU FEEL WELL-FED also OMG do I know about hiatuses, HAHA welcome back to writing!!

When I had written 'Silly Hats and Party Favors,' that was after almost a two-year hiatus from writing (due to life circumstances trololol), so it was rough in the beginning. I felt rusty and everything I wrote was awkward, not to mention I was so slow. But I was having so much fun with the concept that I pushed through! Like it was a banger for myself and that was enough to keep me entertained and going even when I felt a little out of my depth.

So my advice for returning is just to stick with it, and after a few chapters you'll find your rhythm! I personally give myself arbitrary deadlines that would force me to write, because forcing myself was the only way I could push through the initial uncomfiness of getting back into it.

As for improving, I guess my best advice is to read! Read a lot. (I personally haven't been reading much since starting this account so I'm currently at a weird place where I feel like I'm both regressing because I don't read and improving because I write so damn much haha.) One of my two majors in undergrad was English Literature, which exposed me to a wide variety of authors, genres, and periods and I think absorbing these books really helped shaped my voice into what it is today!

But anyways yes, best of luck with your writing! I think just buckling down and doing it (even when it feels strange and weird) is the best way to improve and find your voice!

[poisonvdhonvy]

Kyro shrugs, grinning as he glances at Tank, who’s still acting like he’s got a board meeting in five minutes. “I’m not trying to get on Tank’s bad side. Guy’s got more authority than half the people I know. If he says I’m walking you to the car, I’m walking you to the car.” He shoots her a look, half teasing, half genuine, then nods at Dash who’s circling like he’s about to start a flash mob. "Also, Dash looks like he would file a missing persons report if you were gone for two seconds. I’m not risking that kind of paperwork.” He lets out a soft laugh, feeling weirdly relaxed, which isn’t normal for him, not in these situations. Usually he’s counting down the minutes, but right now he’s just… here. “You know, I think Tank’s already got my annual review written up. Probably says I need to improve my bacon distribution skills and stop letting Dash run the marketing department.” He’s not even sure why he’s still joking, but it feels easy. Maybe too easy. He should be more on guard, but she makes it simple to just talk, not perform. 

“I guess I should thank you for not making me do the whole wine list thing. I’d have butchered the names and ended up ordering grape juice by accident. Not exactly the look I’m going for.” He glances at her, then away, not wanting to make it weird but also not really caring if it is. There’s something about this that feels like it could actually work, which is ridiculous, but he can’t shake it. “Honestly, I had a good time. Didn’t expect that. Figured we’d both be counting the seconds ‘til we could bail, but… yeah, this was actually fun.” He catches himself, realises he’s probably saying too much, but it’s out now. “Don’t get used to it though. Next time I might actually try to impress you and end up embarrassing myself. Could be entertaining for everyone.” 

He gives her a crooked smile, letting the silence settle for a second. He’s not sure if he’s flirting or just being honest, but it’s all kind of blending together. “And, if Tank’s adopted me, I guess that means I’m stuck with you. Could be worse. At least you don’t make me sit through endless meetings about territory lines.” His mind drifts for a second, thinking about how easy it is to slip into this back-and-forth with her. He’s not supposed to want this, but he does. Not in the way he’s supposed to, but in a way that makes him want to see what happens if they keep going. “So, next time, you’re picking the place. But I’m bringing the treats. Gotta keep the boss happy, right?” He gives her a look that’s half challenge, half invitation, not quite sure what he’s hoping for but wanting to leave the door open anyway. Maybe this fake thing isn’t so fake after all.

Tank really did look like he was conducting some kind of corporate evaluation, sitting there all serious while Dash flopped around like he'd been personally victimized by having to walk anywhere. "Yeah, Tank's definitely got that whole CEO thing down," she said, watching her chow chow maintain his dignified position. "And honestly, your dog food approach was way better than whatever romantic bullshit most guys try to pull." The lunch had been surprisingly normal, which was weird because nothing in her life was ever just normal. They'd actually talked like regular people instead of two strangers whose dads had decided they should get married. She'd been ready for awkward small talk or him trying to impress her with expensive wine knowledge, but instead they'd made jokes about their dogs running a business together. Tank had scored his bacon like the professional manipulator he was, while Dash kept up his starving artist performance even though everyone knew he got spoiled rotten at home. "We did pull it off," she agreed, meaning it more than she'd expected to. This fake relationship thing was supposed to feel forced and uncomfortable, but sitting there laughing about Tank's hostile takeover plans had felt easy. Like they'd been friends for years instead of barely knowing each other. "Tank's approval definitely sealed the deal. Nobody's going to question us when he's basically adopted you already."

Dash was still bouncing around like they were heading to some amazing adventure instead of just walking to their cars. Her husky had zero chill when it came to anything that involved moving or attention or basically existing. The scene felt weirdly natural, which should probably worry her more than it did. She wasn't supposed to actually enjoy hanging out with her arranged fiancé, but here she was, disappointed that lunch was over. "Rebellion sounds about right," she said, grinning because Dash would absolutely stage a dramatic protest if he thought the fun was ending. "He'd probably throw himself on the ground and refuse to move." They walked toward the parking lot, Tank maintaining his position between them like he was still on bodyguard duty. Dash kept circling back to make sure nobody was getting left behind, his ears doing that ridiculous thing where one stood up and one flopped over. "You know, you didn't have to walk me to the car," she said when they reached the lot, Tank and Dash flanking her like furry security. "I've got these two with me. But thank you for your chivalry."

[coquelicoq]

what is bothering me about the title of goblin is of course the order of the adjectives. the lonely and great god. this sounds unnatural in english, i'm not sure if it's because of syllable count or because of the meaning/type of the adjectives, but it should be the other way around. the great and lonely god. the once and future king. you could get away with putting lonely before great if they were separated by a comma instead of "and", thus making "lonely" seem to be modifying "great god" rather than both lonely and great modifying god in an equivalent way, but there's an "and" in there so never mind. i plugged the korean title into google translate and i see that they've just kept the order that the adjectives were in in korean, which is disappointing because if that weren't the case it would allow me to believe that they had done it on purpose for some effect, like to really call attention to the fact of his loneliness through unnatural phrasing that makes it impossible for you to not spend time thinking about the word "lonely". but no it's just that they translated it and then no one was like hey this sounds kinda funky. ah well.

[chilope]

rating for this is how you lose the time war: meh

[sociallyawkwardseal]

Is it. Really that weird that I like keeping my personal blog away from my writing blog? ._. I'm pretty sure that's normal for a lot of people, especially people who either Do webnovel posting or intend to go into webnovel posting.

[mbat]

also tbh if i ever did make a relativity falls au where mabel was the author, i wonder how different the concept would be between bill staying as a man or if i made him a woman instead

i just feel like a small change like that would affect how the whole thing felt by... a lot

[bidokja]

genius archer's streaming is actually a much more fun read than i was expecting and handles the disability aspect better than i thought it would

[justalittlebluetiefling]

Sometimes a book isn't exactly good, but the vibes are right and that ends up being enough.

[lesmiserablables]

Literature fucking slaps. Noone is doing it like Her.

[petalsandpurity]

i decided to read fourth wing to see what the fuss is about and i am feeling like i will eventually wish i did not

[fics-lovebot]

kento nanami fic recs - pt. 1

[anime fic rec m.list]

· · ♡ · · tysm to the amazing creative minds of the writers for giving me sevaral moments of joy reading your creations

these are my personal favs so pls reblog if you like any of them, and don´t forget to support authors!❤️

losing his mind - ( @daisynik7 ) smut, dom!reader, hubby!kento, sub!kento, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, WHEEEEEEEEW, 10000/10, now this is new

his protégé - ( @augustinewrites ) fluff, slice of life, fiancé!kento, dinner time with yuuji, it´s so wholesome :´)

edging - ( @pseudowho ) smut, pwp, fluff, this,,,,this is one the BEST nanami smuts out there, i just know the description of the whole thing is 100% accurate, the details, the way this is written, the visuaLSsss ldskjfhjsalfh go read it pls

riding - ( @screampied ) smut, hubby!nanami, "riding nanami so good that it makes him want to propose", LASJHLSFJH THIS IS SOME GOOD STUFF, the ride was so good he had to propose.. again

my wife - ( @chastiefoul ) FLUFF, period. married!nanami and his obssession with the word "wife", I WANT TO KMS HE´S SO :((((((

husband vibes - ( @rayveneyed ) nanami fluff. read it, just do it, YOU NEED THIS POV IN YOUR MIND I PROMISE

forgotten lunch - ( @nanaslutt ) SMUT, fluff, possessive husband!nanami. RAAAAAAAH ( insert picture of that one werwolf ripping his shirt) this is crrraaazzzyyyyYYYYYYYYYY, nanami makes me go fucking FERAL

dorm room escapades - ( @satoruhour ) smut, dad´s bestfriend!nanami, age gap, GAWWDD DAMNNNN, daddy kink, this is some good stuff

swear it´s just right for you - ( @slttygeto ) smut, fluff, hubby!nanami, I´m weaaaak, he´s so husband material

stressed after work - ( @arminsfavoritepookie ) boyfriend! kento, a cute lil drabble bc he loves your mere presence

labour of love - ( @s4lv4tions ) fluff, vanilla smut, lowkey angst if you´ve been keeping up with the manga/anime, loving hubby!kento, SO DOMESTIC, love making, :(

tie my tie, marry me - ( @kenananamin ) fluff, slice of life, "the moment nanami knew he never wanted to tie his tie by himself ever again and wanted to spend the rest of his life by your side" please just do yourself a favor and READ THIS

nanami drabbles - ( @sugurizz ) pwp, pls yall readdd part 2 and part 3, its crazyy

fifteen minutes - ( @roseglazedlens ) nanami smut. “Say that again. Louder. Can’t hear shit with the sound of my dick slapping into your cunt.” that´s all I have to say, your honor

[docholligay]

Do you think authors sometimes don't realize how their, uh, interests creep into their writing? I'm talking about stuff like Robert Jordan's obvious femdom kink, or Anne Rice's preoccupation with inc*st and p*dophilia. Did their editors ever gently ask them if they've ever actually read what they've written?

Firstly, a reminder: This is not tiktok and we just say the words incest and pedophilia here.

Secondly, I don't know if I would call them 'interests' so much as fixations or even concerns. There are monstrous things that people think about, and I think writing is a place to engage with those monstrous things. It doesn't bother me that people engage with those things. I exist somewhere within the whump scale, and I would hope no one would think less of me just because sooner or later I like to rough a good character up a bit, you know? It's fun to torture characters, as a treat!

But, anyway, assuming this question isn't, "Do writers know they're gross when I think they are gross" which I'm going to take the kind road and assume it isn't, but is instead, "Do you think authors are aware of the things they constantly come back to?"

Sometimes. It can be jarring to read your own writing and realize that there are things you CLEARLY are preoccupied with. (mm, I like that word more than concerns). There are things you think about over and over, your run your mind over them and they keep working their way back in. I think this is true of most authors, when you read enough of them. Where you almost want to ask, "So...what's up with that?" or sometimes I read enough of someone's work that I have a PRETTY good idea what's up with that.

I've never read Robert Jordan and I don't intend to start (I think it would bore me this is not a moral stance) and I've really never read Rice's erotica. In erotica especially I think you have all the right in the world to get fucking weird about it! But so, when I was young I read the whole Vampire Chronicles series. I don't remember it perfectly, but there's plenty in it to reveal VERY plainly that Anne Rice has issues with God but deeply believes in God, and Anne Rice has a preoccupation with the idea of what should stay dead, and what it means to become. So, when i found out her daughter died at the age of six, before Rice wrote all of this, and she grew up very very Catholic' I said, 'yeah, that fucking checks out'.

Was Rice herself aware of how those things formed her writing? I think at a certain point probably yes. The character of Claudia is in every way too on the nose for her not to have SOME idea unless she was REAL REAL dense about her own inner workings. But, sometimes I know where something I write about comes from, that doesn't mean I'm interested in sharing it with the class. I would never ever fucking say, 'The reasons I seem to write so much of x as y is that z happened to me years ago' ahaha FUCK THAT NOISE. NYET. RIDE ON, COWBOY.

But I've known some people in fandom works who clearly have something going on and don't seem to realize it. Or they're very good at hiding it. Based on the people I'm talking about I would say it's more a lack of self-knowledge, and I don't even mean that unkindly. I have, in many ways, taken myself down to the studs and rebuilt it all, so I unfortunately am very aware of why I do and write the things I do most of the time. It's extremely annoying not to be able to blame something. I imagine it must be very freeing. But it ain't me, babe.

Anyway, a lot of words to say: Maybe! But that might not stop them from writing it, it might be a useful thing for them to engage with, and you can always just not read it.

Also, we don't censor words here.