ladysierra117

[ladysierra117]

i see you, and i trade all you this

[ladysierra117]

[ladysierra117]

friends to lovers never had a bad track. “scared i’ll ruin what we have” SLAPS. “friendship cuddles while secretly dying inside” BANGER. “teasing each other and holding eye contact for a little too long” KILLS ME. and don’t even get me STARTED on “screaming i love you in the middle of a heated argument.”

[ladysierra117]

[ladysierra117]

[ladysierra117]

“Come along, Pep!”

The World of Peter Rabbit and Friends 1992-1995

[ladysierra117]

Just saw an ad for fucking Kellog's cornflakes wherein a shirtless blindfolded man tied to a bed is like "Wait.. are you... eating??" and it pans across the bed to reveal that his partner is, indeed, too distracted to have sex with him bc she is chowing down on corn flakes. Now I've been caught up in wondering whether:

a) John Harvey Kellog would despise this ad; the mere proximity of bondage-play to his brand name and beloved anti-porn flakes is unforgivable

b) John Harvey Kellog would enjoy this ad, because it shows a young woman forsaking the temptations of the flesh in favour of eating a wholesome and nourishing bowl of cornflakes

[ladysierra117]

Beatrix Potter’s Hilltop House. 

[ladysierra117]

Art by Ida Rentoul Outhwaite (1888-1960)

[ladysierra117]

[ladysierra117]

Cookies n cream bambi

(via)

[ladysierra117]

Touch Starved Kenma

Kenma x afab reader, 18+ content mdni Post timeskip Chars 20+

touchstarved!kenma who can’t think straight whenever you’re close to him

touchstarved!kenma who has been crushing on you since first year of high school but was too scared to tell you in fear of losing you as a friend

touchstarved!kenma who gets hard instantly whenever you touch him

touchstarved!kenma who always ends up stroking his cock after you guys hang out, thinking about how close you were or when you accidentally brushed his hand when walking with him

touchstarved!kenma who, after weeks of Kuroo bugging him about it, finally confesses to you when you guys were over at his house playing video games 

touchstarved!kenma who finds out that you want him just as much as he wants you (you have no idea how obsessed he is)

touchstarved!kenma who, after you guys got together, has to have his hand on you at all time. In public he only holds your hands but at home he loves to lay with his face in your boobs and have you snuggled up in his lap when he's gaming

touchstarved!kenma who cums in his pants by you grinding on him

touchstarved!kenma who loves to eat you out while your thighs are crushing his head

touchstarved!kenma who’s cock gets harder with every whimper and moan you make

touchstarved!kenma who loves it when you ride him so he can watch your tits bounce as you take his thick cock in your wet pussy

touchstarved!kenma who digs his nails in your ass, pressing you down on his cock as you both cum in unison

touchstarved!kenma who cleans you up with his tongue, slowly licking your folds and sucking your already overstimulated clit, causing your third orgasm of the night

touchstarved!kenma who strokes your hair as you lie asleep on top of him, happy that you’re finally his

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have posted in forever omg. Hope you guys enjoy my first attempt at writing smut

[ladysierra117]

author ive binged so many of ur works in the past few hours.. i was going through something and your writing cheered me the fuck up so thank u a lot!

i was wondering if i could make a request if its something you enjoy writing,,, could u make surprising the hq boys with lingerie a little series? i enjoyed the iwa one soso much and i feel like u could do a lot w the different personalities of each character and howd they react to such a surprise!! if not maybe just a version for suna or atsumu 👁️

BAEE THANK YOUU ❤️❤️

I've been like going thru it your message cheered me the fuck up 😩😩

Also I love your idea so much yes I am making it a series teehehe Enjoy <333

--

Laced Reactions: Atsumu

It had been a slow, unremarkable kind of day. The kind where time stretches in sleepy increments, and even your to-do list didn’t feel like it was in a rush. The apartment was clean. Dinner was already figured out. The sunlight pooled lazily across the kitchen counter, and your playlist drifted quietly in the background—muffled lo-fi beats and the hum of a city winding down.

You were curled up on the couch in one of Atsumu’s old jerseys, your legs tucked beneath you, flipping through your phone with a half-eaten bag of chips nestled at your side. Every now and then, you paused to scroll back and forth through the same three apps, rereading conversations or squinting at memes that weren’t funny enough to laugh out loud but too amusing to ignore.

When the door finally clicked open, you barely lifted your eyes.

“'M home,” came his usual singsong voice, warm with the weight of routine. The sound of it made your chest ease a little.

His footsteps padded in—socked feet against the floor, keys dropped into the bowl by the door, the thunk of his gym bag against the wall. And then came the rustling of a paper bag.

“I got somethin’ for ya,” he called, his voice light and teasing.

That made you pause. You glanced up as he approached, swinging a sleek black shopping bag by its gold ribbon handles. He dropped it next to you on the couch, and his grin told you he knew exactly what reaction he was about to get.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” you said, side-eyeing him even as you reached for the bag.

“Didn’t say I had to,” he replied, kicking off his shoes. “I wanted to.”

You parted the tissue paper carefully.

And blinked.

Deep, vivid red gleamed up at you—lace, straps, sheer panels, and the soft glint of garter clips. A matching lingerie set, rich as blood and twice as dangerous.

You stared down at it, then slowly lifted the bra with two fingers, holding it like it might purr or explode.

“Seriously?” you said flatly, casting a look at him.

“You’re a pig.”

He let out a full, unapologetic laugh, already crouching beside you with a shameless twinkle in his eyes.

“I’m your pig,” he said proudly, placing a palm over his heart like it was a badge of honor.

You opened your mouth to roast him properly, but he leaned in—close enough that you caught the salt of his sweat, the spice of his cologne—and his voice dropped low, just for you.

“Wanna see you in it,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges, breath ghosting against your ear with a heat that raised the fine hairs at the nape of your neck. The scent of him—sweat still clinging faintly to his skin from practice, mingled with the citrusy spice of his cologne—coiled into your senses like smoke. His words sank deep, velvet-wrapped and deliberate, vibrating through your spine as his fingers traced a slow, teasing path beneath your jaw. The pads of his fingertips were warm, a little calloused from hours of drills, dragging lightly across your skin as if tasting it through touch.

“Bet it’ll be fun.”

The way he said it—low, lazy, laced with just enough amusement and hunger—made your stomach clench. It wasn’t even overtly dirty. It was suggestive in the most infuriating, devastating way. Like he wasn’t just asking for a favor. Like he was offering an experience, something slow and indulgent.

It pooled heat in your belly, crawled up your spine, lit your nerve endings with a hum. Your cheeks flared instantly, warmth blooming beneath your skin before you even realized it. Your breath caught, barely audible, and you swatted at his shoulder—not hard, just enough to make contact.

“Stop doing that.”

He leaned back slightly, blinking at you with mock innocence, though the glint in his eyes was anything but pure. His hand still rested at your waist, fingers curling ever so slightly into your side—warm and sure, like he knew exactly how much space he was taking up.

“Doin’ what?” he asked, his voice lilting up with faux confusion, but there was already a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Your glare barely held its form, shaky at best. “That thing with your voice.”

His smile broke into something slow and satisfied, like a cat stretching in the sun. He leaned in again without hesitation, and his lips brushed your throat—a kiss so soft, so maddeningly light, it felt more like a memory of touch than the real thing. Still, it left behind heat. Goosebumps.

You sucked in a breath as the warmth of his breath lingered. The scent of him—earthy, sweat-slicked from training and laced with that familiar, spicy cologne—wrapped around you like velvet. Every word he spoke settled low in your belly.

“What thing?” he whispered, voice a rough murmur that sent a tremor up your spine. “The one that gets you all red?”

As if to punctuate it, his thumb drifted just beneath your collarbone. You shivered. Audibly.

You groaned, the sound caught somewhere between protest and surrender. Your hand found his chest and pushed, but there was no force behind it.

“Just try it on,” he said, voice lighter now, but no less persuasive. His arms slid further around your waist, pulling you closer—his grip snug but gentle, like he was grounding himself with the feel of you. “Humor me, yeah?”

You grabbed the bag with a grumble, flushed to the tips of your ears, and stomped off toward the bedroom.

Behind you, his victory whoop echoed with shameless delight.

Inside, you shut the door and exhaled slowly.

You pulled the set out piece by piece, laying it on the bed. The red looked even more scandalous against the pale quilt. You stripped off the jersey and stood in front of the mirror, holding the bra up and narrowing your eyes.

One strap. Then another.

You clipped yourself in and stepped back.

It clung to you like it had been poured on. The fabric stretched and hugged every curve with sinful precision, molded to your frame like a second skin crafted from temptation. The lace was impossibly soft—whisper-light against your skin, intricate patterns etched in delicate swirls and scalloped edges that brushed your ribs and traced the slope of your hips. The cut was wicked—high, daring, unapologetically bold. It bared your thighs and framed your chest in fine filigree, the kind of lace that didn’t hide, but highlighted. The deep red shimmered under the overhead light, catching gold undertones in the delicate threads, demanding attention without even trying.

You turned slightly in front of the mirror. The garter straps stretched taut as your leg shifted, and you reached up to adjust one of the bra straps—fingers grazing your shoulder as you settled it into place. Then your hands drifted lower, thumbs resting briefly at the dip of your waist. Your fingers brushed the edge of the garters where they kissed the top of your thighs, soft elastic and polished metal clasps cool beneath your touch. Heat gathered in your face, your chest. Your reflection stared back—half incredulous, half mesmerized.

You looked powerful.

And very, very doomed.

“He’s gonna combust,” you muttered, and your voice sounded distant to your own ears. Your skin tingled, blood rushing hot through your cheeks as your toes curled into the carpet. Your ears were already burning, heat pooling at the nape of your neck. You hovered at the doorway for a heartbeat, one hand gripping the frame like it could anchor you to something real.

Then, with a breath dragged deep into your lungs, you stepped out.

The light in the living room was low and golden, casting soft shadows on the hardwood. Atsumu was sprawled on the couch like he owned it—one leg kicked over the back, his phone cradled lazily in his hand, expression half-lidded with contentment. He looked utterly at peace, his world uncomplicated.

Until you walked in.

The moment he sensed movement, his head lifted—and everything changed.

His jaw unhinged in slow motion. The phone slipped from his grip and landed on his chest with a dull thump, unnoticed. His mouth parted like he was about to speak, but no sound came. Just stunned, wide-eyed silence.

His gaze swept over you like a heatwave, dragging across the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, the way the red lace caught the light and turned your skin to gold. His breath visibly stuttered, his throat bobbing with a swallow that sounded like it hurt.

"Oh my god," he whispered, voice ragged. His eyes flicked up to yours, glassy and awestruck. "You’re gonna kill me."

You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the way your heart was pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. "Well?"

He surged to his feet like gravity had reversed.

He was on you in a blink. One hand cupped your waist, the other slid reverently over your hip, fingers spreading wide like he was trying to memorize the exact feel of you under his palms. His touch was warm, trembling, desperate with restraint.

“You’re not real,” he breathed, eyes locked on your chest, then your legs, then your face. “You’re—babe, you can’t just walk around like that. This is illegal. You’re illegal.”

You raised a brow, trying to keep your cool even as his fingers threatened to make your knees buckle. “Hands off.”

He froze mid-lean, lips just shy of your collarbone. “Wait, what?”

“No touching,” you said, stepping aside like it was the easiest thing in the world. “If I have to be out here half-naked, the least you can do is look.”

The groan he let out was deep and strangled, like it had been torn from his chest. He dragged both hands through his hair, pacing a slow circle.

“You’re evil, that’s what you are,” he said, his voice half-laugh, half-prayer.

“You’ll survive.”

“I’m not so sure,” he muttered, staring at you like you were a myth that just stepped off the page.

You walked past him slowly, deliberately, aware of every sway of your hips, every squeak of the floorboard beneath your feet. His eyes followed you like he was starved.

When you glanced over your shoulder, he was still rooted in place, fists clenched at his sides like he was physically holding himself back.

Then the spell snapped.

He launched forward with a sharp, breathless curse. You shrieked and bolted, the hallway blurring around you as his footsteps thundered behind.

Laughter echoed down the walls—yours breathless and bright, his low and exhilarated. He caught you just outside the bedroom, his arms banding around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground with a triumphant, half-mad noise.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he growled, burying his face in your neck as you laughed, squirming in his grip.

“Then I better make it worth it,” you gasped.

“Oh,” he whispered against your skin, kissing just below your ear, “you are.”

[ladysierra117]

Katsuki who's grabbing at your hips while you're waiting for him to get ready because you're ready early for once.

Pawing at all of the fat on your body. On your sides, your hips, your back and thighs. Nosing at your throat because you're wearing your special perfume. Salivating as you hiss at him for being too rough or for fucking up your outfit.

But he can't hear you over blood rushing to his cock

[ladysierra117]

You meet streamer Katsuki at a charity party for Denki. Its so busy and you're staying off your phone, although you get a notification from love and deep space, Sylus asking you if you're ignoring him. Sylus sends a few messages in a row.

Katsuki glares at your phone until the screen fades, he doesn't know love and deep space is a game and that Sylus isn't real. He bites his tongue damn near off trying not to tell you he doesn't like your boyfriend, Sylus.

[ladysierra117]

Ultra Artworks - Bonus Panorama illustration with 144 characters

[ladysierra117]

Thinking about Pervert Arkham Knight rn. Don't ask why I made this, I just did

~~~~

He shouldn’t need this. Not with everything else going on. Not with the militia spread thin and patrol routes needing adjusting and another damned skirmish with the Bat looming. But when the hour hits, that itch crawls back up his spine and burns behind his eyes. That need—not just want—to be close.

His men see it sometimes. The way he disappears. How his eyes glaze over in the middle of briefings. He doesn’t offer excuses anymore.

"Mind your fucking business," he growls one night when someone’s brave enough to ask where he goes.

Because they wouldn’t get it. Not really. Not the way he gets you.

You, a civilian. Untouched. Soft.

So unaware.

It’s become ritual. Like clockwork.

When you’re at work—gone, predictable—he slips in. He never rushes. He takes his time, peeling off gloves like a lover about to get intimate. Boots placed carefully on your doormat. There’s a kind of reverence in the way he moves through your apartment.

Straight to the laundry basket.

There they are.

Worn. Faintly warm still, maybe. Panties twisted around themselves, innocent in their placement. It’s nothing special to anyone else, but to him? It’s goddamn holy. He kneels beside them like it’s prayer. Drags them up to his masked face and breathes in deep—almost shuddering from how sharp and raw it hits him.

That scent. That fucking scent.

He fists his cock fast, rough, biting back every sound behind clenched teeth. His thighs shake, his breath comes out in heavy snarls, and he doesn’t stop until he spills all over them—strings of cum soaking the delicate fabric, catching along the seams.

He rubs it in with gloved fingers. Pushes it into the gusset, into the threads. Like marking them. Like staining your memory with him even if you’ll never know.

Then he folds them back. Neat. Precise. Returns them to the pile like nothing ever happened.

He’ll do it again in a few days. He always does.

Sometimes, when he’s feeling bolder, he creeps in at night instead.

You sleep like an angel. On your side. One hand curled under your pillow. Breathing soft, lips parted. You look untouched. Vulnerable. Dreaming.

He stands in your room for too long, just… staring. Cock already hard from the scent of your sheets.

He doesn't touch you. Not yet.

But he takes photos. Hundreds. Fingers ghost over your skin through the lens. He imagines what your skin would taste like. What sound you’d make if he climbed into bed and pressed his hips into yours.

He steals things, too. Shirts you slept in. A used tissue. A pillowcase that still smells like your shampoo.

He has a shrine.

You don’t know it. But your presence is everywhere in his hideout—folded panties tucked into drawers, Polaroids pinned beside gear schematics, a shirt of yours tucked under his mattress, stiff with dried cum.

Jason knows he’s sick. Twisted. Deranged. But he doesn’t care. Because you're perfect. And he’s already made you his. Even if you haven’t noticed yet.