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[fanaticsnail]

Body Worship: Franky

Birthday Celebration Masterlist

Word Count: 3,100+

Themes: Franky x gn!reader, angst, self worth, Franky has a little bit of dysmorphia, affirmation, fluff, smut, thigh riding, confession, body worship, praise, love, porn with feelings, mdni, NSFW, smut, 18+, non descript smut, grinding.

Notes: Massive shoutout to @thenotsofantasticlifestory for listening to my thoughts and aiding me with my time on this fic. I love this man, and I adore you. First time writing for Franky.

Cogs, wires, fizzes, and snaps of electrical circuits rang and shuddered within the chambers crafted by Franky’s own hands. There was never a silence to be held within him, not a calm moment where his body was not ticking like a clock wound by a coiled winch. He was constantly on, always on.

There was not a moment where man and machine were no longer merged as one, and Franky usually had no issue with being a self-made man in more ways than simple determination and gumption. But today, he just felt unnatural. He felt those cogs, wires, fizzes and snaps of electrical circuits overtake the humanity he so desperately attempted to preserve within himself.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t see the body he crafted as a work of mastery, but something foreign and tainted. He couldn’t look at himself without seeing the parts of his flesh, bone, and muscle he replaced, rendered, soldered, and attached. He was no longer himself, but just those parts he forged to keep himself alive.

A pile of scrap made into the shape of a man. Flesh from his prior life stretched over a frame of humanity pushed to its extremities.

Unsure as to when the first tear fell, or whether they were tears at all, his rounded eyes swelled and poured heavy drops down his cheeks and onto his chest within his workshop. Usually when he cried, he had the sensation of an almost sting in his nose: nostrils flaring and a saltiness within his nasal cavity. The lack of this feeling within his steel nose now only made him feel more like a machine and less of a man.

A soft knock at his workshop door was barely audible over the mechanical symphony rattling within his mind and skull. He scrunched his eyes shut and focussed finding a single sound to focus on within himself to no avail. It was just too much. Too noisy. Too intense. Too overwhelming. Too-.

“-Franky?” your voice shocks him out of his spiral, truly unaware of the opening and closing of the door to his workshop. He jolted back, beginning to panic a little while his body caught up to the way his mind was spiraling.

Keeping a safe distance away from the cyborg, you took him in. Noticing how his shoulders and hands were beginning to shake, you tilted your head and furrowed your brows while assessing him further. Franky’s eyes met with yours, a soft quiver of his lip atop his tri-pointed chin matching the forlorn expression blooming over his face.

As ships’ counselor, it was your job to advise and flesh out plans for your captain. It was also within your job title to unweave the troubled thoughts and matters of the head and heart for your crew.

Franky was a friend to you, and you adored the large cyborg wholeheartedly. If he ever gave you an opportunity to see him as more than just a friend or crewmate, you would take it before your heart could skip a beat.

There was no favorites on the Straw-Hat crew, but if there was, Franky would be it for you. You truly loved him for all that he was: man, machine, or otherwise.

It did not take much more than a soft sniffle from the larger man to usher you towards the larger man, opening your arms and taking him within your embrace. Pressing his head against your chest, you cradled his face within your hands and slowed your breathing for him to join with his own. His shoulders slouched, a single hand wrapping around your back and feeling the warmth your body had to offer him in the sensors within his palm and fingers.

Gently carding through his blue hair, you felt him relax into your touch while his ear pressed up against your heartbeat. His broad hands began to clutch at you and tug you into his lap, each thigh placed atop his own at the side while he pressed more of himself into you.

“Want to talk about it, big guy?” you asked softer than a murmur, but louder than a whisper, “I’m always here to talk with you when you need it, just like you are with me. Open door, honesty policy, remember?”

Franky sniffed before a raspy chuckle rattled in his throat. Tugging you nearer to him and releasing a sigh, he moved his chin to rest on your chest while peering up into your face. Gazing down at him, you offered him a softness in your smile while peering into his unshrouded eyes.

“Just-...” he began, waiting for the words to find themselves in his throat, “...It's just… I can't quite put it to words, now you mention it.” His chuckle was more in a bid to rise one of your own, teetering off the more he drank in your smile.

Darting his dark eyes between your own, glancing briefly down at your lips, he drank in your appearance the closer he drew to your face. You and he were nothing more than exceptionally close friends, but the cogs churning in his stomach and heart desperately desired there be a moment. He leaned in just a touch more, his eyes rounded just a touch more while his jaw grew softly slack.

“Franky?” Your voice soothed him, a smile found in each syllable, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re wanting to kiss me.”

Franky’s eyes darted down to your lips, angling his tri-pointed chin up just a small shift more. His eyelids grew heavy, lashes heavy as his pupils focussed on the way your lips curved in your smile.

“Do you?” he whispered, his voice heavy and husky within his throat. His hands desperately clasped the small of your back, his receptors tingling in indicating your body heat growing warmer.

“Do I ‘what’, Franky?” you queeried, not shying away from his touch. You were curious to see how far he would take this action, enjoying the attention he was giving you and feeling secure within his embrace.

Franky’s outer hand slid down to your thigh, his other moving you closer to press yourself into his chest. The blue-haired cyborg moved his lips in a tone just above a whisper, his breath tingling against your mouth as he ascended them towards yours.

“Know any better.”

His lips immediately claimed your own, focussing his own existentialism on claiming your lips against his own. His skin felt your warmth as you opened yourself up to him. Each roll of his lips mouthing at yours was reciprocated with eager enthusiasm, and Franky began to feel just that little bit calmer.

Until he wondered if it was truly his skin touching your own, not what receptors told him it was. Was it his lips touching you, or the cogs behind him sending sparks to his mind and alerting his brain that it was truly you giving into him.

Did you even like him?

Were you attracted to the man that he made himself to be?

Did you even see him as a man, not just a creation marred with the injury of battle and reforged by his own mind?

You sensed his enthusiasm dwindle against your lips, prompting you to close off the embrace with a soft peck. As you pulled away your lips from his, you peered down at him with your eyes half-lidded and holding nothing but a slight amount of teasing pulled in a soft smirk.

“Franky?”

When you met his gaze once more, your smirk immediately fled your features.

His eyes were glassy, his expression the polar opposite of the manner he usually presented himself as. There was nothing of the boisterous, uplifting, passionate, and optimistic cyborg you had come to adore, and it's absence held you hostage.

“Franky,” you sighed, gently reaching up and cupping his cheek. “Please. There's something going on, and as your counselor, I need to know. I could leave the job at the door and just be-.”

“-What am I?” he answered suddenly, his lips toppling hurriedly over the words, “I need to know.”

Taken aback by his hasty questions, you furrow your brows at him and check him over. Darting your eyes over his face, noticing his posture becoming slightly slouched and his hands holding you in heaped fistfuls, you inhale a soft and steady breath before exhaling.

Your breathing inadvertently has him so the same, both inhaling and exhaling slowly and steadily. After a moment of you both dwelling in the silence, you answer him with a non-rehearsed speech from the heart.

“You are Franky,” you whisper, rolling the pad of your thumb against the apple of his cheek, “Shipwright to the Straw Hat Pirates, senior officer shepherding the Straw Hat Grand Fleet. Creator and master constructor of the Thousand Sunny. Former gang leader, who convinced those joining to switch from beer to cola, and-...”

Franky nodded you on, convincing you to continue to affirm him with your words. You could see it was not entirely the answer he was seeking, which spurred you on to change to how deeply remarkable you found him.

“...-You are so kind. An exceptionally intelligent person with your heart beating for others,” you nod to him, catching the hitch in his throat and paying it no mind. “The way your mind can see the mastery in machines, crafting it with your hands, and forging it into the best version of itself is a gift.” You draw your other hand up to his bare chest, feeling a fizz and beat beneath the skin while you speak.

“You don't just do this with your skilled labor, Franky.” You reassure him, glancing down to your knuckles on the back of your hand in his chest. “You see the potential in others, and coax them skillfully to bring it to the light.” A small laugh fled from your lips, prompting you to shake your head and whisper, “A remarkable skill, and I envy you for it.”

The dampness felt beneath the fingers on his cheek had you moving your eyes slowly back up to meet his own.

“You are, and will forever be, Franky: man, machine, both married as one and inseparable from the other,” you concluded, drawing your hand up on his cheek to slowly caress away his tears. “You are all of this, and you are so much more.”

Franky felt his chest soar, whichever fluid, whether cola or blood, pumped his heart and had him desperate to know more. Considering the fact you didn't pull away from the offerance of a kiss earlier, he drew his hand over your back and rested it on your hip while leaning in.

“What am I to you?”

Without skipping a beat, you spoke truthfully and from the chamber's within your own beating heart.

“And you are beautiful to me.”

Franky scoffed, rolling his eyes and almost pouting at your response. You sigh out with your brow arched high, gently perching your hands against his broad shoulders and grasping his muscles firmly.

“I mean it, Franky,” you reaffirm enthusiastically, “Everything about you is beautiful. Your heart, your soul, your mind, fuck,” you gasp, feeling the firmness of his shoulders beneath his hands.

A warm flush crept up your neck and swelled your cheeks with a vibrant fluster. Franky searched your eyes, darting down to your parted lips and back up to meet your gaze.

“What was that?” he chuckled, picking up your vocal inflection and teasing you with his smile.

“I just,” you halt yourself, slowly molding the joints beneath your palms and squeeze his muscles. “I usually… I usually focus on the mind and heart, but you're-...” Your fingers move down to his scarred pectorals, gently caressing a trail of timidity down towards his nipples.

“...-You're really attractive. Physically attractive,” you admit, pressing a little firmer against his muscles before dipping the pads of your index fingers over his pebbled buds. “Whether it was the kiss from a little earlier, confessing how I see your mind, my position currently on your lap, or the fact that there's a lot of tension between us right now…”

“Oh?” He taunts you a little more tilting his head to the side with a cheeky grin drawing up over his lips. Leaning forward, he pressed more of his pectorals against your hands and whispered coyly against the shell of your ear, “Tell me?”

“Shit,” you stutter past your lips. Eyes rolling a little, you suck your lips into your mouth to halt a moan from fleeing as you feel the tension only swell to a greater intensity.

Franky chuckles, his hands still running circles against your hips and gently ushering you in closer.

“Better yet,” he drew one hand away from your middle and drew it up to collect your chin in his grip. “Show me?”

Your breath hitched as you slowly drew your hand around in circles against his flesh. His skin felt warm to the touch, smooth and soft with coiled ringlets of cerulean fuzz shimmering against his pectorals. Moving your hands up and down his chest, your lips parted in surprise at feeling the buzz of circuitry beneath the stretch of flesh.

“Every nook you've notched into yourself is a work of art, Franky,” you exhale, rolling the pads of your thumbs against his abs and raking them towards his belly. “Each alteration and modification has just made you more you, you know?”

Franky felt his throat hitch at the admission parting from your lips. His body that he saw moments ago as a trap for his spirit, now being worshiped and praised for its mastery. As your hands ran over his skin, his receptors and skin both felt need and desire course through his circuits and veins.

Without any more prompting at your touch, he maneuvered you to straddle one of his thighs and held your pelvis flush against his own. Your hands automatically fled back up to the shoulders that held you captive as he pressed you firmly against himself.

“You like my body much?” The rasp in his voice tangibly reverberated within your chest and shot straight to your crotch, igniting it with need.

“Franky…” you gasp, his hands holding you against his thigh pressed harder, slowly rocking you over the hard muscle lurking beneath. “If you'd give me an opportunity, I'd drop to my knees and worship you like a devotee at an altar.”

Franky chuckles at the comment, using his large, metal hand gripping your waist to slowly rock you back and forward over his thigh. Your stomach bound in knots, your needs only growing higher and more incessant the more he puppetted you against his body and gazed into your eyes.

“No need for all that. I don't need it,” he laughed once more, moving forward and brushing his metal nose gently against yours, “But I do need this.”

His larger hand completely trapped your waist within his grip, knocking your knee against the bulge in his pants and grinding his clothed cock against your own body.

Manhandling you against his leg, bouncing you up to brush more of yourself against his cock, you felt trapped against him as he bore you fully against his body while holding your face gently. His metal thumb stroked your lip as you parted them to release a groan.

Soft whimpers and mewls left your throat as he held your gaze, his own gasps growing in need the longer he rocked you against himself. Your desire began to seep through your pants the longer he held you firmly and guided your motions.

“Show me,” he whispered, peering down his steel nose through half-hooded lashes. “Show me everything.” He worked you harder, his own cock leaking it's head and staining his red briefs with soft dewdrops of precum.

His abdomen tensed, feeling the need rise further in his stomach while his cogs, wires, flesh and bone felt more unified as one than ever. Humanity overtook his senses the longer his primal urge to feel more of you against himself.

You were no different, feeling your own release clench in the pit of your stomach and sizzle your eyes with the first sparks of euphoria. The need fogging your mind spurred you on to bare yourself down against him and begin rutting against him harder. As you found yourself falling over that edge, you clenched your eyes shut, earning you an immediate reprimand from the cyborg cariotting your bliss.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered firmly, “I said ‘show me’. I want to see you. Just you, baby. Gonna cum on my lap?” He rocked you harder, pinching your chin and giving it a soft shake to draw back your gaze on his own.

“Cum for me, baby.”

“Franky-!” you cried, feeling your eyes spring open as your vision blurred as your focus was marred by ecstasy. Your body flooded with endorphins, spurring within your chest and releasing the heavy knots in your belly. The damp patch below you deepened in intensity as your release seeped into his thighs.

Franky’s lips quivered as he darted his eyes between yours, finding in you that tether binding him to the mortal realm. With you anchored against him, he used your body rutting against his own to buck up his clothed cock and roll his hips against your thigh.

With a rough bark of your name, his cock began flooding his briefs with his own release. His eyes never left your face as he rode through his high while you came down from yours.

Two breaths, two hearts, two souls, two people: both enjoying their bodies while clinging to one another. That is where you found yourself, truly just intending to find his office to inform him your crew were about to make port in an island in two hours according to Nami.

As your body slouched against his chest, he cradled you in the same manner you did moments ago while reassuring him of his own body. He had never felt so secure as he did just now with his own body.

“Franky?” you whispered softly, turning your head and pressing your forehead against the crook of his neck.

“Yeah, baby?” He nuzzled against the crown of your head, “What's up?”

“We'll be making port in about forty-five minutes,” you gasp against his skin, pressing a shy kiss against his neck before hiding your gaze in his shoulder to cringe away your giddiness. Franky chuckles, reaching down and collecting your chin in his grip and turning you back to meet his eyes once more.

“Stay with me until then?” he asked softly, blinking slowly and and almost unsure of himself as you seemed to be. You found yourself drowning in his eyes, raw emotion swelling between you as you feel the chemistry fizzing up to a ruptuous tumble.

“After all that?” you scoff playfully, your smile painted over your lips and causing him to mirror it himself, “I'll remain by your side always.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @jadeddangel @ane5e

🎶 Happy Birthday to Me🎶

If you would like to celebrate by indulging my caffeine and bubble tea addiction, my Kofi link is here.

[porcelainstarrr]

Chapter 12

⌖ 

Morning Light

I woke up smiling.

Not wide. Not dramatic. Just a soft, sleepy curve of my mouth against the pillow. A breath that didn’t ache when I took it in. The light coming through the window was warm. Diffused. That honey-yellow that only shows up when the world is still quiet and soft and untouched by the day.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

I just let it sit there. That weightless feeling. The slow stretch of my legs beneath the blanket. The way the air felt cooler on my arms. My hair was half-stuck to my cheek. I turned my head, eyes still closed, and breathed in the stillness.

He kissed me.

The thought came like a whisper. Gentle. Unforced.

Not the way it haunted me before. Not like a question.

This time, it felt like a truth.

He kissed me.

Again.

And he didn’t regret it.

I opened my eyes.

The ceiling looked the same as always, white, cracked slightly near the corner, but the room felt different. Lighter. Like the silence wasn’t crushing anymore. Like it wasn’t pressing into my ribs or settling in my throat. I slipped out of bed slowly. The floor was cool beneath my feet. I padded to the bathroom, peeled off my shirt, and let the water run hot. Steam billowed up fast, curling around the mirror like it was trying to blur the version of me that existed before yesterday.

I stepped in.

Let it hit my shoulders.

Closed my eyes and exhaled.

My body felt like mine again.

Not like something fractured and overanalyzed. Not like a puzzle I couldn’t solve.

Just… mine.

And under the water, I thought about his hands. The way they shook, just barely, when he touched me. The way his breath caught. The way he kissed me like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

He was scared.

But he kissed me anyway.

And I stayed.

My fingers stilled under the stream.

He let me stay.

I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair slowly. Stepped out and wrapped a towel around myself, letting the steam follow me back into my room. I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t scrambling to beat the clock or silence the doubt in my head. I moved through my routine with something I hadn’t felt in days.

Ease.

I dried my hair, combed it out with patient fingers, even clipped it half-up just to feel more like myself. My lashes curled, my skin glowed a little from the heat of the shower, and for once, I didn’t flinch when I looked in the mirror. 

I didn’t see someone falling apart.

I saw someone still standing.

Still trying.

Still here.

I moved into the kitchen barefoot. The tile cooled my steps, but it felt grounding. Real. I cracked two eggs into a pan, turned on the coffee machine, and hummed to myself as I toasted a slice of sourdough. The sunlight hit the counter just right.

And I let myself think about him.

About today.

About walking into that room again. About meeting his eyes and not needing to say much, because we already had.

Because he kissed me.

Because we’re not broken.

Not like I thought.

And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m being naive.

But I don’t think I am.

Not this time.

He heard me yesterday.

Really heard me.

And whatever weight he was carrying, whatever fear that had stitched itself into his silence, I saw it shift. I saw it crack.

He let me in.

I sipped my coffee. Slow. Let the heat bloom behind my ribs. I was going to see him again today. Not as a ghost of last week. But like this. Like someone who mattered again. Like someone he didn’t want to push away.

Maybe we’re not there yet.

Maybe we’re still figuring it out.

But today didn’t feel heavy.

It didn’t feel impossible.

It felt like something was beginning again.

And for the first time in days…

I was looking forward to what came next.

─────── ⌖ ───────

The walk through the halls didn’t feel as heavy today. No nerves. No tension coiled tight behind my ribs. Just footsteps, quiet, even. The walls didn’t feel like they were closing in. They just felt like… walls.

For the first time in what felt like forever, my badge didn’t weigh a thousand pounds against my chest. I nodded at a few people I passed, colleagues, nurses, the quiet receptionist who always tucked a granola bar under the counter in case I forgot to eat. No one asked if I was okay. Which was… new. Usually, someone could tell. That I wasn’t sleeping. That I was unraveling at the seams. But today?

Today, I looked like a person again.

I felt like one.

I slipped into my office and closed the door behind me. The click echoed softly through the space, and the silence that followed was different than the kind I’d grown used to. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t lonely. It was peaceful.

The kind of quiet that lets you breathe.

I set my bag down, shrugged off my coat, and sat at my desk with a slow, content stretch, back arching, arms raised, fingers brushing the ceiling. My chair creaked just a little under me, but it felt good. Solid.

I opened my laptop.

Emails first. Notes second.

Then the charts.

I moved through them with ease. Clinical. Efficient. No second-guessing, no mental fog thick enough to drown in. I was clear. Focused. Even my handwriting looked cleaner, sharper. I jotted down updates for two patients I’d seen last week, flagged one for med reevaluation, then paused when I reached the last file in the stack.

Poindexter.

Benjamin.

I hesitated for a second.

Then opened it.

Just to check.

Not out of obsession. Not because I was spiraling.

Just because I wanted to.

Because I could.

His file stared up at me, his name, his photo, that barcode the system tagged to his wristband. I scrolled through the notes. I could almost track his progress like a line graph in my head. The steep slopes. The climbs. The crashes. The plateaus.

And the shifts.

The parts that weren’t measurable in ink or metrics.

The moments. The trust. The fight in his eyes when he tried.

The silence that wasn’t apathy, it was fear.

The kiss that wasn’t weakness, it was something real.

I added a brief update.

Patient’s emotional restraint remains high, but relational responsiveness has shown recent signs of breakthrough.

Recommend continued sessions to assess behavioral stabilization over time.

I paused.

Then added-

Notable improvement in eye contact. Voluntary touch noted.

My lips twitched. Barely.

A smile.

Small. Private.

I saved the file and leaned back in my chair.

For the first time in weeks, the air in this office didn’t taste like nerves. It felt still. Clean. Like I had the right to be here. Like I was good at what I did. And maybe, just maybe, it was working.

All of it.

Him. Me. The thing we weren’t calling anything yet.

The day moved slowly, but not in a bad way. I answered emails. I scheduled two more check-ins. I re-filed three loose charts and actually remembered to finish my tea before it got cold. It felt like balance. Like peace.

And then-

A knock.

Firm. Knuckles to glass.

I looked up.

One of the nurses. Jason. Friendly, a little awkward. Always wore mismatched socks under his scrubs. “Hey,” he said with a half-smile, lingering at the door. “Sorry to interrupt. Chief Calder wants to see you in his office.”

 “Oh yeah. Of course,” I said, already rising to my feet. “Did he say why?”

Jason shook his head. “Just asked me to send you over.” I nodded, brushing my hands down the front of my slacks as I moved to the door. “Thanks,” I murmured, stepping out into the hall. He gave me a polite nod and turned the corner, disappearing down the hallway.

I stood still for a second.

Then started walking.

I wasn’t nervous.

I should be nervous. When your boss asks you to come to his office, you should be nervous. But I wasn’t,

Not at first.

Calder called people into his office all the time. Routine updates, chart reviews, program changes. Sometimes he even pulled doctors in to thank them for their performance. And today, after how this week had turned around?

Maybe that was it.

Maybe he’d seen my notes, my patients.

I walked faster.

Shoulders straight. Hands calm at my sides.

It was probably nothing.

Just a check-in.

Just another quiet moment in a day that had started off so good.

So steady.

So full of hope.

─────── ⌖ ───────

His office is warm.

Not in the cozy sense, but in the way that nice offices are supposed to feel. Neutral wood paneling, low light, books stacked neatly behind his desk. Everything is in its place. He’s already sitting when I step inside.

“Morning, Doctor,” he says, gesturing toward the chair across from him. “Close the door behind you.”

I do.

No tension. Not yet.

Just the quiet click of the door as it seals shut. I take the seat he motioned to and smooth the fabric of my pants against my thighs. There’s a coffee mug near the edge of his desk, half full, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling. His laptop’s closed. No charts open.

This isn’t about a file.

“First of all,” he starts, folding his hands over a legal pad, “I just want to say, you’ve been doing exceptional work lately.”

I blink.

Not the sentence I expected.

“Thank you,” I say, cautious but polite.

“I mean it,” he continues, nodding slowly. “The patient reports I’ve reviewed? Remarkable. Your cases show growth, structure, and clarity. And the progress I’m seeing in some of our most complex patients, Poindexter included, isn’t something we see every day.”

He smiles.

A real one. Not forced. Not stiff.

Pride flickers in his eyes.

And I feel myself relax, just a little.

A small breath leaves my lungs.

“Thank you,” I say again, more softly this time. “That really means a lot.”

He nods once more.

And then his gaze drops.

Only for a second.

Barely long enough to register.

But it’s enough.

Something shifts.

“And that’s why this isn’t easy,” he says.

My smile doesn’t fall yet. But it starts to falter at the edges.

He leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly.

“You’ll be off Poindexter’s case.”

The words land with quiet finality.

At first, they don’t register.

Like I misheard him. Like maybe he misspoke. My brain tries to rearrange them into something else. Something softer.

But they stay.

Right there in the air between us.

You’ll be off Poindexter’s case.

“I-” My voice catches. “What?”

His face shifts, less warm now, more composed.

“I know this comes as a surprise.”

No.

No, no, no.

No.

My spine straightens, the chair suddenly too rigid against my back. My hands curl into fists in my lap before I even realize I’m doing it. “But- sir, I’ve been working with Poindexter for months now,” I say, trying to keep my tone level. “He’s progressing. We’re making headway. I don’t understand why would you change his doctor? You just told me you were proud of my work.”

“I am proud,” he says quickly. “This isn’t about performance. It’s not even a question of method.”

He hesitates, just briefly.

That flicker again.

Then he says it.

“It wasn’t my decision.”

And that-

That’s when it starts to sink in.

Slowly. Like ink bleeding into water.

My breath feels shallow.

“What do you mean it wasn’t your decision?”

He sighs, folding his arms now. Leaning forward. “You’ll be reassigned,” he says. “We’ve got a new intake arriving later this week, classified, high-risk. You’ll be leading it. It’s a challenge, I know. But you’ve proven you’re more than capable.”

I don’t care.

I don’t care about a new intake.

I don’t care how “capable” I am.

He’s still talking, words I can’t hear. Something about it not being personal. Something about opportunity. Career growth.

But it all fades.

Blurs.

Like, my ears aren’t working anymore.

Like someone pulled a plug and drained the noise out of the room.

My stomach sinks.

I feel it in my ribs. My throat. My chest.

He requested it.

Dex requested this.

And just like that, everything soft from this morning turns cold. All that warmth, all that hope-

Gone.

─────── ⌖ ───────

I don’t remember leaving his office.

I know I stood up. I know I thanked him. I know I kept my voice even and my expression composed because that’s what I was trained to do. But it wasn’t me who walked out of there. It was some version of me on autopilot, nodding, smiling, saying all the right words as if something hadn’t just been ripped out of my chest. The hallway feels colder now. Too bright. Too clean. Each step echoes louder than the one before, and by the time I get back to my office, my hands are shaking. I close the door behind me, slower than I should.

Staring at nothing.

Poindexter.

He requested it.

He asked for someone else.

And the worst part, the part that’s making my skin prickle and my lungs burn, is that I didn’t see it coming. Not even a little. I walked into that session yesterday believing we were on the same page. I just sit there in my office, hands loose in my lap, eyes fixed on nothing. The corners of the room feel sharper somehow, like everything has been hollowed out and left to echo.

The silence isn’t soft anymore.

It’s not peaceful.

It’s suffocating.

I blink at the wall in front of me, but it doesn’t feel real. Nothing does. The light through the blinds feels wrong, too warm, too bright, like it doesn’t belong in this moment. My ears are ringing. I don’t know if it’s the blood rushing to my head or the words replaying in it on a loop.

You’ll be off Poindexter’s case.

Reassigned. Removed. Like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing.

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. My fingers thread into my hair, clutching the roots like they’re the only thing keeping me from floating off the floor. I press my forehead to my hands and squeeze my eyes shut, willing something, anything, to make this make sense.

We were okay.

Yesterday, we were okay.

He kissed me.

He held me.

He looked at me like I mattered.

I sit up abruptly, breath catching in my throat. The urge to cry comes fast, but I fight it back with a hard blink. No. Not here. Not now. I reach for my phone. My hands are trembling, but I unlock it anyway.

My thumb hovers over Gigi’s name.

I don’t think- I just tap.

It rings once. Twice.

“Heyyy,” she answers, voice light. Unknowing. Warm.

I swallow.

“They took me off his case.”

There’s silence. Just a breath. One second. Two.

“What?”

“Dex,” I say quietly. “They pulled me off his file.”

Another pause. Her voice drops, serious now. “Wait- what? Why?”

“They reassigned me to some new high-risk intake,” I mumble, my voice already wobbling. “My boss called me into his office. Said it wasn’t his decision.”

Another silence.

Longer.

“Oh,” she breathes. Then, carefully: “Was it…?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “He asked for it.”

Gigi doesn’t speak for a beat. And then she exhales, slowly. “Fuck.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. I’m still trying to process it. Still hoping there’s another explanation waiting to surface. “He didn’t say anything yesterday,” I say, quieter now. “Not a word. He let me sit there. Pour everything out. And then he kissed me. Held me like I was the only person in the world. And now I’m off his file like none of it meant anything.”

The tears come now.

Not loud.

But steady.

And they sting more than they should.

“I want to go up there,” I mutter, wiping my face with the sleeve of my shirt. “I want to yell at him. I want to scream. I want to walk into his room and just-” I pause, my chest tightening. “I want to beat his ass.”

Gigi makes a sound-half laugh, half breath, but it’s not because she thinks it’s funny. She just gets it. She always does. “Okay, babe. Listen to me.” Her voice changes.

Softer. Firmer. Anchored.

“You can’t go up there.”

“I know,” I murmur.

“You’re not his doctor anymore.”

“I know.”

“I know you want to scream. I know you want answers. But this isn’t how you get them. He made this choice. For whatever reason, he asked to be reassigned.”

“But why?” My voice breaks. “Why would he do that if he didn’t want me to leave? Why kiss me? Why let me in? Why hold me like that if he was just going to shut the door the next day?” Gigi sighs again, softer this time.

“Because people like him, people who’ve been through what he has, they don’t always know how to have something good. So when they do, it scares the shit out of them.” I press my hand to my mouth, trying to steady my breathing. It doesn’t work. My chest still shakes.

“You don’t do this to someone you care about,” I whisper.

“No. But he probably thinks he’s protecting you.”

“I didn’t ask him to protect me.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But he’s not thinking like that. He’s thinking like someone who’s been hurt so badly, so many times, that letting someone love him feels like handing them a loaded weapon.”

I close my eyes.

It hurts.

It hurts in that quiet, permanent kind of way. Like something’s shifted in me and can’t be undone. “You kissed him,” she says softly. “And he kissed you back. He held you. That wasn’t fake. That wasn’t meaningless.”

“Then why?”

“Because he knows he can’t give you what you deserve,” she says. “Because he’s scared he’ll hurt you. Because it’s easier for him to push you away than risk watching you stay.”

I wipe another tear off my chin.

“I’m so tired, G.”

“I know.”

“I really thought this was going to be different.”

“I know,” she says again. “But sometimes the people we want to save… won’t let us.”

I sit in that for a long moment.

And then, quietly, so quiet it’s almost not there:

“I miss him already.”

“I know, y/n,” she says. “I know.”

There’s a pause. Long. Quiet.

Then Gigi’s voice shifts.

Sharper. Drier. Like she’s done holding the soft space for me.

“Okay. But babe… what if this is who he is?”

I blink. “What?”

“I mean it. What if this is just… him? We’ve always known he’s high-risk. You said it yourself, he’s been through shit, he’s dangerous, he’s emotionally unstable. So why are you so surprised?”

My mouth opens, but I don’t know what to say.

“He asked for another doctor after kissing you, y/n. After holding you like you were air. That’s not normal. That’s not okay. And it’s not your job to try and make it make sense.”

“He’s not- he’s not manipulative, G.”

“Are you sure?” she shoots back, voice firm now. “Because I don’t know, if I looked like him? I’d probably use it too. Wrap a pretty girl around my finger, kiss her like it’s the end of the world, make her feel like she’s the exception, and then drop her before she gets too close.”

“G…”

“No. Listen to me. You’re smart. You’re good at what you do. But this? This wasn’t clinical. This was personal. And he knew it.”

I go quiet. She keeps going.

“I’m not saying he’s evil. I’m saying he’s sick. And maybe this isn’t the first time he’s done this. Maybe you’re not the first person who thought they were saving him. Maybe that’s the cycle.”

Silence buzzes in my ears. I can barely breathe around it.

“You want to think you mattered to him,” she says. “But y/n, even if you did, especially if you did, he still made the choice to let you go. And I think you need to stop trying to turn that into something noble.”

I sit there, completely still.

Because even though I don’t want to hear it…

Part of me knows she might be right.

But God-

It hurts worse than silence ever did.

─────── ⌖ ───────

My apartment is quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels personal. Thick. Like it’s sitting in my lungs. Like it knows what I did today.

I’ve got a glass of wine in one hand, cheap, red, something I forgot I even had, and Gordon Ramsay is yelling at some poor chef on the TV screen across from me. Hell’s Kitchen. I don’t even remember turning it on. It’s background noise now. A distraction with a British accent and too many knives. The window’s cracked open. Just a little. Just enough for the night air to slip in. I can hear Hell’s Kitchen below me, the real one. Not the show. Cars. Horns. Sirens. Some guy is yelling down the block. Music from someone’s second-story apartment bleeding into the street. The usual mess of life outside these walls. It’s comforting, in a way. All that noise. All that movement. Everything else keeps going.

Even when I feel like I can’t.

I take another sip. It doesn’t taste good. Too acidic. But I don’t care.

I stare out the window, unfocused.

And I think: I got too attached.

Too fast. Too hard.

I wasn’t supposed to. I knew better. From the moment I felt that pull, I should’ve said something. Should’ve stepped away. Handed the file to someone else. Requested a reassignment. Something. Anything.

But I didn’t.

I stayed.

I leaned in.

I crossed every line I swore I wouldn’t, and now I’m here, alone, tipsy, staring at the city like it has answers.

This was a mistake.

Letting myself care about him.

Letting myself believe for even a second that there was a version of this where it could work.

That we could work.

God, how stupid could I be?

There was never a future here.

He’s a patient.

A high-risk one. A murderer. A convicted assassin with a documented kill count and a track record that reads more like a horror film than a resume. People fear him. They build walls and systems and entire facilities to contain him.

And me?

I thought I could… what? Reach him? Fix him?

Love him?

He kills people. Innocent people. People like me. And yet I sat there, on that couch, in his room, and let him touch me like I was something he wanted to keep.

I close my eyes.

My head tips back against the couch cushion, and I exhale hard.

Why would he care about me?

I’m just a name on a badge. A signature on a file. A face he’s seen every few days for a few months.

He probably saw an opportunity.

And he took it.

Started cooperating. Started talking. Made me think he was progressing. Made me feel like I was helping, like I was special. Like I was getting through to him in a way no one else had.

And then he kissed me.

God, I let him kiss me.

More than once.

I let myself believe it.

And now?

Now I’m sitting here, drinking half-warm wine and wondering if this entire thing, every session, every look, every pause between breaths, was just part of some bigger play. A manipulation.

Maybe this is what he wanted all along.

Get me close. Make me care. Get me on his side.

So when the time came, I’d make it easier for him to walk free.

So I’d be the one to convince the board he was stable. Safe.

And when I wasn’t useful anymore-

He’d drop me.

Like he did today.

Like I never mattered in the first place.

My throat tightens, and I press the heel of my hand to my eye.

I feel so stupid.

I should’ve never let this happen.

I’m a professional. A doctor. I’ve worked too damn hard to get here. My license. My career. My entire future- I risked all of it for a man who has nothing left to lose. A man who could’ve easily made me the next name on his list.

And I miss him.

That’s the part that breaks me.

That’s the part I can’t say out loud.

Because after everything, after today, after that look on his face when I walked into his room, I still miss him.

I still want to be close to him.

I still want to know why.

I wrap the blanket tighter around myself and stare at the flickering lights on the TV. My wineglass rests on my knee, hand loose around the stem.

I’m an idiot.

I got fooled.

I fell for it.

And now I’m trying to explain it away. Trying to rewrite the narrative in my head, like maybe there’s a version where it wasn’t cruel. Where it wasn’t calculated.

What if I’m overanalyzing this?

What if Gigi’s wrong?

What if he didn’t mean it like that?

What if he’s hurting too?

What if this is how he protects people? What if he thought it was safer to push me away than to keep me close? What if he’s sitting in his room right now, just as wrecked as I am?

What if he cares?

What if he really, truly-

I clench my jaw.

My wineglass trembles slightly in my grip.

No.

Who am I kidding?

He asked for the reassignment. He didn’t even look at me when I confronted him. Barely spoke. Barely moved. All that connection, all those things we weren’t saying aloud? He walked away from them. He let them die.

Because it was easier.

Because I didn’t matter enough.

I’m not the exception.

I’m not the one who changed anything.

I was just next.

I sip the wine again. It tastes worse now.

I need to get over this.

Get over him.

He’s not mine to care about anymore. He’s not mine at all. He never was. He’s out of my hands. Out of my case file. Out of my future. And I need to remember who I am. I need to remember what I worked for. I need to find someone normal, someone stable, someone safe. Someone who doesn’t live behind bulletproof glass and prison bars. Someone who doesn’t look at me like they’re starving and kiss me like it’s the end of the world.

I deserve that.

I know I do.

But the ache in my chest says otherwise.

Because all I want is to go back.

To that moment.

That second before everything fell apart.

And it hurts.

It hurts more than I thought it would.

More than I want to admit.

Because even now, after everything, I still don’t know if he ever really felt it.

And worse?

I still do.

─────── ⌖ ───────

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. ♡

I know the last few chapters have been a bit heavy (okay… very heavy), and I’m so sorry for putting you all through the emotional blender, but trust me. I’m cooking. The good stuff? The everything-you’ve-been-waiting-for stuff?

It’s coming.

Veryyy, very soon.

I’m already writing the next chapters, and I can’t wait for you to see what’s ahead.

Thank you, truly, for reading.

Enjoyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Yours truly, Raey ♡

─────── ⌖ ───────

[ next chapter ]

[wileys-russo]

reader being an early bird but less having none of it, whenever she wakes up without reader she goes downstairs asap and just is whiny that she can't get her morning cuddles

soft n sleepy gf lessi bear incoming.

good morning sunshine II a.russo

alessia's body begin to wake much earlier than she was ready, her sleep schedule already dictated by her disciplined regular training routine. however with today being her rest day, the girl cracked open one eye tiredly and was assured by the darkness of the bedroom around her that she did not in fact need to listen.

the blonde stretched gently and blinked sleepily before rolling her body to the side, expecting to land on top of your still sleeping form, but instead was met only with an empty space and a cold pillow. 

ever since a young age you'd forever found it literally impossible to sleep in, and it wasn't for a lack of trying. you were just meant to be an early riser and a sunrise chaser, which was much to your family's displeasure. it meant 5am wake ups on christmas mornings and birthdays, your younger form much too tightly coiled with excitement to give in to their wishes you return to bed for a few more hours sleep.

the habit was even less to your girlfriends liking, the blonde striker your polar opposite. alessia forever valuing any spare time she could stretch out to remain in bed of a morning, always having described herself as more of a night owl. 

alessia's favorite and only way to wake up early when she absolutely had to was always by your side, soft loving kisses peppered across her face, favorite voice singing out a raspy good morning in her ear, nails gently scratching at her scalp as you softly reminded it was time for her to get up.

yet here she was awake against her will at a time much earlier than necessary with both of you having the day off, in bed alone.

with a frustrated and tired groan the blonde dragged herself out of bed, clumsily knocking her knee on the edge of your shared bed as she shuffled toward the closed door, a string of quiet curse words falling from her lips as her mood worsened. 

tucking her hands into her armpits the girl shivered as she opened the bedroom door, hit by a sudden cold draft but far too tired and grumpy to venture back and grab a jumper. instead she made a beeline downstairs kit only in a large oversized short sleeve top which she was unsure belonged to her or you, having lived together well over a year now your wardrobes had merged into one.

though still grumpy at the interruption to her desired morning cuddle plans the blondes bad mood could only hold for another few seconds as she rounded the corner and laid her bright blue eyes on you.

similarly to herself you were kit only in a large oversized top, alessias eyes unable to help but wander downwards as you bent over to grab a mug, a pair of black fluffy bed socks covering your feet as you carefully padded around the kitchen.

having not wanted to wake your girlfriend on her day off you made sure to sneak downstairs quickly and quietly when your internal alarm clock had gone off, intending to spend a few hours sat on your balcony in the warm glow of the early morning sun, perhaps with a book or a coffee in hand.

alessia's black beats headphones sat atop your head, a tired smile breaking onto the older girls face as you did a little shimmy to whatever you were listening to, clicking your mug into the bottom of the coffee machine.

you were silently mouthing the words to the song blasting in your ears as a pair of arms wrapped around you. far from expecting the company you let out a shout of surprise and pushed her away, your phone dropping from your hand onto the counter as you yanked off alessia's headphones, clutching a hand to your chest where your heart was racing. 

"you're gonna give a girl a heart attack less jesus christ!" you stammered out, checking your phone screen was in tact with a shaky breath, placing the headphones down beside it on the counter. "come back to bed." alessia ignored your reaction, too focused on achieving her desired end goal which was to be wrapped up with you in bed under the warm cocoon of the duvet.

"you know i'm an early riser." you smiled as your girlfriend clung tightly onto you, gently rubbing her back as she buried her face in your neck, her arms snaking around you and sliding up the back of your top. "and you know i'm not. we both have the day off and i planned to spend it in bed with you, you're ruining that, don't be selfish." alessia mumbled against your neck, nails gently scratching at your back.

"selfish hm?" you hummed in amusement, alessia simply nodding and holding you even tighter, as if you could fly away at any given moment. the italian would often endearingly refer to you "Il mio più grande tesoro" which after must convincing she finally explained translated to 'my greatest treasure'.

safe to say you melted at the sincere confession.

"i was going to bring you up some breakfast in bed baby, why don't you go back up and have a little sleep while i cook." you tried to offer softly, already confident that you would not be able to fall back to sleep yourself.

"if you came up with me i would already have breakfast in bed." you felt the strikers cheeky smile spread against the warm taunt skin of your neck.

"alessia!" your cheeks flushed red at the comment, smacking her shoulder gently as the taller girl only leant her body weight into you more, once again pulling you even tighter against her. "so you really won't come back to bed?" she pulled her head out of your neck with a pout as you smiled but shook your head.

"i was really looking forward to laying out in the sun." you looked over her shoulder toward the balcony longingly, the small arm chair you'd planned to camp out in already bathed in the gentle orange glow, practically calling to you.

"okay." alessia seemingly gave in with a deep sigh and your heart broke a little at the noise. "can't say i didn't ask nicely." the blonde smiled sweetly in your direction before you felt your body be lifted off the ground and you squealed, wrapping your legs tightly around the strikers midsection.

"less!" you cried out in protest as she walked the two of you out of the kitchen and toward the stairs. "you go this way or i throw you over my shoulder, one way or another i'm getting my morning cuddles." alessia warned tiredly as you sighed in defeat, reaching out to gently wipe the sleep from the corner of her eye with your thumb.

"at least let me get my coffee." it was now your turn to pout at the older girl who shook her head, mumbling something about how caffeine wasn't on the agenda as you groaned, sadly waving goodbye to your early morning sun plans, alessia finally putting you down once she entered the bedroom.

"can i at least open the curtains? i get an hour of sun and you get your cuddles." you bargained , hand already on the faded material as alessia nodded in agreement, collapsing back into bed and tiredly covering her eyes with her arm, lazily gesturing for you to continue.

"can i read my book? is that okay?" you asked the striker who wordlessly nodded, arm still covering her face as she slowly adjusted to the change in lighting. you stared down at the girl beside you in adoration, counting the freckles on her nose which had surfaced after your recent trip together to ibiza.

"cmere please." your girlfriend mumbled impatiently, making grabby hands at you and turning on her side, staring at you through sleepy half lidded eyes. slipping into bed beside her you quickly grabbed your book off the night stand, shuffling closer to alessia whose body instantly wrapped itself around you.

"read to me." the italian requested tiredly, sliding her body a little further down the bed so her head could rest on your stomach, toned arms wrapping tightly around you. "are you going to fall asleep right away like when you claim its my turn to pick a movie after you finish training?" you accused jokingly but shuffled to lay down a little more, sliding your arm underneath alessia's neck and holding the book up with one hand, resting it on your knee.

"obviously." the blonde answered bluntly, eyes already closed as she felt her girlfriends body vibrate quietly with laughter beneath her own. "i love you." you pressed a kiss to her warm forehead, lips lingering there for a moment before you tangled a hand in her messy blonde locks, nails scratching at her scalp as the girl let out a small sigh of pleasure.

you began to read aloud, feeling alessia's body relax and her breathing even out as you did so. even when you were sure the girl had fallen back to sleep you kept reading to her, though a little quieter this time.

hours passed just like that with both girls wrapped up together in bed, bare legs intertwined as the warm sun of a promisingly lovely day shone through the window, bathing them in its gentle glow.

[letmetakecare]

The undercity stretched beneath the sprawling metropolis like a forgotten labyrinth, its tunnels lit by flickering neon signs and the occasional hum of power lines sparking to life. It was a realm of shadows and rusted steel, where whispers carried secrets too dark for the surface world.

Amara, a scavenger, moved cautiously through the maze. Her boots echoed against the wet, corroded metal floor as she navigated the twisted pathways. She was searching for a rare part something valuable enough to buy her a week’s worth of food. Her lantern cast long, wavering shadows, and her breaths came shallow. The air was heavy here, laced with the faint scent of burning plastic.

Then, she heard it.

A rustling sound. Faint at first, like cables shifting under their own weight, but steadily growing louder. She froze, her fingers tightening around the wrench she carried for protection. She scanned the darkness behind her, the beam of her lantern trembling with every heartbeat.

"Just the pipes," she muttered under her breath, though her pulse quickened.

The sound came again, closer this time an eerie, mechanical chittering, like wires slithering over one another. Amara backed away, her lantern catching glimpses of exposed circuits and walls lined with conduit. It was as though the tunnel itself was alive, pulsating with unseen energy.

The rustling stopped.

She turned, only to find herself face-to-face with a mass of shifting wires emerging from the walls. They moved with purpose, snake-like tendrils that glinted with oil and sparks. Before she could react, they shot forward, wrapping around her wrists and pulling her deeper into the darkness.

“Let me go!” she screamed, but her voice was swallowed by the tunnel.

The wires slithered toward her neck, their cold, metallic touch sending shivers down her spine. She thrashed, but her movements only seemed to excite the tendrils. One curled around her throat, tilting her head back as another tendril pressed firmly against the base of her skull. For a moment, it paused, almost as if savoring its control, before driving into her flesh with surgical precision.

Amara cried out, but the sound was cut off as her body went rigid. Her vision exploded with a storm of light and static. She could feel the wires burrowing deeper, spreading through her spinal cord like roots, latching onto her nervous system. Her thoughts splintered, replaced by waves of crackling data and the rhythmic hum of machinery.

“Syncing complete,” a voice buzzed within her mind, sharp and metallic. It wasn’t soothing; it was absolute. Cold. Purposeful.

The static morphed into streams of symbols and patterns that etched themselves into her mind, burning away her memories. She tried to hold onto who she was, but the data was relentless, overriding everything.

Her limbs slackened as more wires coiled around her, lifting her off the ground like a puppet. They worked with meticulous precision, pulling her arms and legs taut as new tendrils connected to her temples and spine. A low, droning hum filled the air, vibrating in perfect sync with her heartbeat.

“You are a node. A vessel. A function of the system,” the voice intoned.

Amara’s mind wavered as the words embedded themselves in her psyche. Her thoughts became fragmented, distorted, drowned beneath the mechanical monotone. She could feel her body changing her muscles twitching in time with the rhythmic pulses surging through the wires. Her veins felt as though they were filled with circuits, her heartbeat replaced by the steady thrum of electrical power.

“You are essential,” the voice droned. “You will obey.”

Her breathing slowed, her chest rising and falling like clockwork. She was losing herself, her mind unravelling into streams of ones and zeroes. The wires guided her head forward, her gaze fixed on the darkness ahead as glowing shapes materialized in her vision. She wasn’t looking at the tunnel anymore she was staring into the vast, interconnected network of the machine. It pulsed and shifted with a life of its own, a monstrous intelligence that stretched endlessly in every direction.

Amara’s lips parted, her voice now tinged with static. “Command received,” she murmured.

Her irises flickered, transforming into glowing circuits of amber light. The wires released her, but she didn’t fall. She stood upright, her movements eerily precise as she took a step forward. Her lantern lay shattered behind her, but she didn’t need its light anymore.

Her body was no longer hers. Her mind no longer belonged to her. She was part of something infinite now an extension of the machine’s will.

As she disappeared into the shadows, the faint hum of the wires faded into silence, leaving only the empty tunnel behind.

Amara was gone. The machine had claimed her.

[covenofagatha]

Miss covenofagatha dear, I hath returned with another gift of a sneak peek at some parts of a new (chapter) of a fic I’m working on, enjoy! ☺️🩵

——

“Please” you gasp as you feel the coil in the pit of your stomach winding impossibly tighter as Agatha continues fucking her cock into you, lifting her hand to wrap around your throat, not applying pressure but just hold it. “Are you asking for permission to cum?” she hums and you nod frantically “Then ask properly, pet” she says firmly as she squeezes your throat and moves her free hand to rest on your lower abdomen, pressing down. “Fuck! Please may I cum, mommy?” you whimper, consciously focusing on forcing yourself not to climax without permission. Agatha chuckles darkly, adding pressure around your throat and you feel her nails digging into your skin ever so slightly “That’s my good girl. Cum on mommy’s cock, baby” the older woman purrs and you clench your eyes shut tightly as the coil in your stomach snaps and your body writhes beneath her. “Uh uh, eyes open. Look at me while you cum for me, baby” Agatha coaxes and you force your eyes open, your gaze locking with hers as she continues pressing on your abdomen and reaches her thumb down to rub your clit. “Oh fuck! Mommy!” You cry out and she gives you a wolfish grin “There you go, baby. Fuck, you look so pretty when you cum for me. Mommy’s sweet girl” she coos, her praise going straight to your cunt as you clench around her cock, making it harder for her to move, your body convulsing as she continues fucking you through your orgasm.

————

Your body rocked forward with each thrust and moans fell from your lips left, right and centre as the older woman fucked your still sensitive pussy. “F-fuck” you mutter under your breath, resting your forehead against the cushions of the couch before you feel Agatha’s hand slide around your body and she grabs your jaw, lifting your head. “Look at our helpless little slut, baby” you lifted your gaze until it met Rio’s as she squirmed on the riding fuck machine that she was straddling, mewls and moans falling from her mouth uncontrollably. “Aggie, please” Rio whined as you noticed her wrists wriggling against the ropes suspending her arms above her head “Tell her how good it feels, pretty girl” Agatha encourages you as she nibbles your earlobe and you let out a shaky breath. “Oh god. Feels so good, mommy. Filling me up and fucking me so good. F-fuck, I love being so full of your cock, stretching me out so good” you moan as Agatha chuckles lowly in your ear and picks up her pace, fucking into you faster and rougher.

Ohhhh yes this is the good stuff 🥵 cannot wait to read the whole thing

[juliussilver25]

The Infernal Set

It was a day like any other at the Iron Vault Gym. Three regulars—Marcus, Logan, and Darius—arrived one by one for their usual evening workouts. Each of them had trained here for years. The clang of iron, the scent of chalk, the familiar rhythm of exertion—it was a ritual, a sanctuary.

But today, everything was… off.

The moment they stepped through the glass doors, the world shifted.

The lighting, once bright and clinical, now burned a deep, seething red. Thick clouds of dry ice slithered along the floor like living mist, curling around dumbbells, engulfing treadmills, hissing between the lockers. The air was hot, heavy, metallic.

None of the men were greeted by the usual chorus of grunts or beats of bass-heavy workout music. Instead, silence. Stillness.

Their mates—fellow gym-goers they'd seen daily—were already inside. But they weren’t lifting, weren’t stretching. They stood statue-still, encased in tight, glistening black rubber leggings. Silent. Breathing slow and synchronized.  Eyes fiery red.

Marcus called out. “Yo, Jay? You good?”

No answer.

Logan frowned and waved a hand in front of one of their faces.

Nothing.

They exchanged nervous looks. But compelled by the smoke enveloping them, each man still stepped forward and began his routine. Bench presses. Pull-ups. Deadlifts.

Sweat began to pour as they pushed their bodies harder than usual—far harder. And the smoke crept. Up their legs. Into their lungs.

They didn’t cough. They didn’t resist.

Instead, their breathing deepened. Movements sharpened. Their minds emptied of worry, of doubt. Eyes, one by one, ignited a smoldering red.

Marcus was first. Then Logan. Then Darius.

All throughout they were being watched.

From between the machines emerged a figure cloaked in power—tall, imposing, wrapped in obsidian rubber. Horns curled back and crimson eyes. His voice, deep and resonant, echoed through the steam.

“You’ve trained your bodies. Now it is time to obey.”

The fog swirled faster, thickening. Rubber slithered and coiled across the four men’s limbs.

Tendrils of heat and shadow snaked up their legs as their gym gear tightened, darkened, and transformed into glossy rubber pants that hugged every contour with unnatural precision.

Their tank tops and shirts warped into sleek vests—some leather, some high-shine rubber—clinging to their torsos like armor. Sneakers morphed into tall, polished black boots that clicked ominously against the gym floor.

None resisted. They stood taller, chests out, muscles flexing as if eager to be claimed by the transformation.

The Demon Prince stepped closer. “You serve now. In strength. In obedience. In smoke.”

Each man ceased working out. The rubber suits hissed, locking perfectly to their forms.

Without instruction, they moved to a wall rack. Four cigars waited. They lit them together, red tips glowing with an inner fire. Inhale. Exhale.

Smoke and unity.

They turned. The gym was no longer a place to train. It was a sanctum. A furnace for forging new loyal bodies.

The doors opened.

And the three stepped outside, cigars and cigarettes smoldering, rubber gleaming, red eyes scanning.

They stood in silence. A subtle smile curled on each of their lips.

“Come in,” Marcus said in a low voice.

“It’s leg day,” Darius added.

“A full-body transformation,” Logan grinned.

Darius exhaled a thick cloud of red-tinged smoke.

And the next man walking by hesitated—drawn by the scent, the glow, the promise of a new kind of strength. The door opened again.

The Demon Prince smiled with his minions. The next set was about to begin.

[sevikas-biceps]

Jinx falls into fire and forgiveness.

It’s an instinctive strike, the lunge at the gauntlet—one last measure of good intentions that she tried to make count. An act of saving that someone might remember her by. The very thing that she should’ve been able to do from the very start. What a funny feeling, that. It doesn’t even hurt. Even as her knuckles rammed into the crystal compartment and the weight was dragged down with her; even as the familiar, heavy presence of the wolf tugged at her waist; even as their falling speed caused the wind to sting against tired eyes and open cuts. She feels nothing.

She doesn’t hear Vi scream, not really. Oh, it’s there. But the sound is muted, almost silent. Blanked-out. A headache waiting to hurt. Ringing in the thick haze of a selfish calm that only the dying could imagine. Underwater. Clogged in her ears, wrapped around her head, all three of their voices dimming the further down the tower she and the beast went.

Then, for a moment, just a moment, the world stills.

It’s nice.

Painful, but nice.

(No laughter in her head, no images inside her mind. Just this. Only this.)

Her sister’s desperate expression shifts into that of the hound’s guttural snarl. Flush rose hair covered in soot and grime fades to gold fur lined in black; a smoke-grey gaze tinged in blue exchanged for that tight, arcane tangle. White teeth like glass inch dangerously close to her face. Their closeness makes every detail sharp. It’s nothing at all like baring herself to an animal. Whatever Viktor had done to this body, this husk, this damn vessel—it wiped all the traits of a monster clean. It isn’t anything like the time he—Warwick—attacked her in Stillwater. No trails of saliva, no sign of breathing, no sign of hunger or vengeance or survival. It’s just that. He just is. Lifeless—and yet perfect. A most wonderful machine.

It makes her stomach twist. Something like half-grief and half-relief coils around the muscles where he digs his claws into. Her hand drifts to his face. She can’t tell why she does so. Maybe it’s out of sentiment; maybe it’s out of desperation. A final lunge at a farewell countlessly lost to them. But it’s a well-worn move, she supposed: the motions in perfect synchrony with how Vi used to hold her—both in their childhood, before they’d thrown themselves to the fires; and during their reunion, before the remnants of Powder wasted herself on that blasted bullet-ridden bridge. Fingers draped across a cheek. Palms forged in violence clamped down by fictive psalms of peace.

She reaches out; she touches him—and she tests if Warwick is still warm, hoping even beyond all broken hopes that for a second Vander might yet return. He doesn’t. Not quite so. His eyes—that fucking muddle of all things natural and unnatural—show her everything. A thousand truths and a million more possible realities. Cries of joy and delusions of contentment. Timelines branching out like veins aching in pipe dreams and powder blue. The biddings of a man-made god crushed into the reflection of one mere soul.

Despite it all, she smiles.

It’s a soft thing. Easy to give. Unstrained, so very different from the old ones she always painted on. There’s no mocking edge to it, no deprecating tilt, no nonchalant stretch—nothing at all and no one compared to the character she played up and lived as. The cracked-out, neon-bright grin is missing; the erratic shifts pulverised into off space.

Down, down, down the blue—rain and river water mixing into one; the crackle of the crystal twinkling above a lowered body.

Slowly, surely, the silly girl smiles.

The further down the tower they went, the sharper it became. The more daring.

He isn’t attacking. He has her in his grasp, but he isn’t tearing her to shreds.

It’s in that quick strike of time Jinx knows, Powder knows: maybe a part of him was still in there somewhere.

Acknowledging the fact that she can’t save him, that all these precious seconds are good for is the pull of his mass with hers, as the two of them could never escape. Dipping her heart into the slim chance that she can sight his kindness one more time. Thinking that, if she plucked out each individual follicle and peeled back the grain, then she would see Dad: only asleep underneath those crystal-coloured tears, or better yet, trapped—even despite all odds, even despite all their grievances. Feigning an idea where, somehow, in some way, he wasn’t going to let go so easily—and not because it’s what the beast demanded of him, but because the man who called himself Vander remained, because the father she’d missed still squirmed beneath that skin of metal and magic.

He’s still there. He’s still there.

And that was enough.

(It’s easy to pretend, even now.)

This is the one thing she can have for herself.

So, she takes the monkey bomb from her belt, and she finishes what they started in that little corner by those silver cells.

(Sleep at last.)

Are you watching, Dad?

She only hopes he can be proud that she made this choice.

Jinx falls into fire and forgiveness—

—and finally, finally, finally—

—the curse is lifted.

[artisticfurby]

Rez "He stood nine feet tall, an imposing tower of alien design. He was humanoid in shape, his arms and legs extending from a torso composed of the darkest black. Wrapping his figure were coils of squirming wire and cable, a metallic, living machine that pulsed with intricate, meticulous purpose. Hundreds of gears protruded from the lines of complexity that engulfed his body like pieces of an engine carefully assembled into human form. His limbs ended in rounded caps like logs of iron and steel. Running up his back was a long, neon tube of electric blue fluid wrapped in a translucent casing. Upon his shoulders sat a cage, a square block of grated metal. Through the bars, I saw his head, a large, circular nest of contorted, moving machinery. His eyes were massive and round, two spotlights of dazzling blue, the light cold and brilliant. Stretching from his mouth was a long cable that snaked between the bars of the cage and connected to the neon tube along his spine." Has anyone here even read the book version of The Third Parent?

[briar-ffxiv]

FFXIV Write #12 - Quarry

FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

Prompt #12 - Quarry

Trigger Warning: Blood, violence, injuries. Not overly graphic, but present because, well, I wrote Zenos for the first time!

This is my particular take about how the end of Rhalgr's Reach (aka the first time meeting Zenos) went for Briar.

Briar's ribs ached as he panted, one knee on stony ground and a hand steadying him. With his free hand, he reached to touch his side. He grimaced as each breath caused pain and a glance showed his fingers smeared with red. Gritting his teeth, the half-Elezen glanced at his bow, but the weapon was useless now. The slash of a sword had severed the string even as it sliced into his flesh. Forcing the pain and fear away, Briar turned his eyes toward his opponent.

Zenos yae Galvus.

The crown prince of the Garlean Empire was an imposing, alien figure in his eyes. Towering near two fulms over Briar, he was wrapped in jagged, dark plate armour with a bone-white mask. There was only the occasional flash of light from the eyes within to mark the prince as a man instead of a machine. As he watched, Zenos flicked his sword absently, sending drops of blood across the sand to clean the blade.

All around them, there was chaos in Rhalgr's Reach. The dead and the dying were everywhere. The Ala Mhigan Resistance was desperately trying to their own against the Garlean soldiers. Somewhere nearby Y'shtola lay in the sands, protected by a frantic Lyse. Krile, Aliasaie, and Alphinaud were doing their best to get the wounded to safety.

But at the moment, none of that mattered.

In this moment, there was only Zenos and the wide sand stretched between them as the statue of the Destroyer looked down.

"Will you run, Beast?" Zenos tilted his helm as he took a step toward Briar. "Will that fierce spirit break?"

In answer, Briar stood slowly, hearing the soft platter of blood drops hitting the sand. Reaching for the sheath on his thigh, he pulled out the curved knife, gripping it as he walked to meet Zenos.

"Good!" The laugh boomed out of Zenos as he walked faster. "Let the beast bare its fang at me!"

Without meeting to, Briar showed his teeth at Zenos, green eyes sharp as he darted forward. He twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding the slash of the long samurai sword. Briar lashed out, knife scraping along Zeno's leg near the knee. He gave a frustrated snarl under his breath as he threw himself away to avoid a backward strike at him. The Garlean Steel prevented Zenos from being hamstrung, but the boldness of Briar's attack had him barking another laugh.

The Garlean prince attacked in a flurry of strikes, although his movements were almost lazy. Briar hissed and twisted, dodging and twisting, forced back step by step. But he gave grudgingly, teeth still showing and eyes locked on Zenos. While his determination did not waiver, he was not the warrior Zenos was and his stamina faded.

A small stumble was all it took for a brutal backhand to slam into his chest, sending his slim frame through the air to crash on the blood-stained sand. Briar rolled and twisted, coming to his hands and knees, body heaving and sweat drenching his thin leather armour. He started to rise, only to give a strangled gasp as a gauntlet-covered hand seized his throat and jerked him upward.

Briar gagged, vision blurring and full of spots as Zenos squeezed with casual viciousness. The sharp points of the armour pierced his skin, sending trickles down his neck and chest as the half-Elezen dangled from the ground. "Pathetic," Zenos sighed, voice strangely soft as he brought Briar closer to his face. "Such potential to be a fine quarry but--!"

His words turned into a grunt of surprise as Briar twisted suddenly. One hand grabbed Zenos's wrist, jerking the armour aside just enough for the half-Elezen to plunge the short blade into the Garlean's forearm. At the same moment, Briar coiled like a snake and slammed both heels into the prince's helm with everything he could manage. And it was enough, if only just.

Zenos staggered back, grip loosening around to drop Briar to the ground. The half-Elezen sucked in a deep breath, only to cough and spit blood from his injured throat. His fingers were still curled around his dagger though, now red with Garlean blood. He staggered to his feet, free hand at his own throat to try and staunch the bleeding.

Zenos stared down at the slim little Eorzean with wild red hair and green eyes that gleamed with a quiet fury. He watched as Briar showed his teeth yet again in a blood-tinted snarl, even as he swayed in place, dizzy from wounds and lack of air. That savage gaze did not waver though, despite blood trickling down Briar's chin and his thin chest heaved with the effort to breathe.

The Garlean tilted his head, absently reaching up to remove his helm. He shook long blond hair out of his face as he hooked the helmet to his waist. He studied the slow drip of blood from his injured forearm. He reached up to wipe away a small smear of blood from his nose. Elegant features furrowed a bit as he considered the battered but defiant Briar. The sight of the slim half-Elezen still standing his ground made Zenos's lips twitch up in a very faint smile.

Then Zenos simply turned away. Without another word or glance, he simply stalked away, departing the field. Briar stared after him, watching the last of Garlean soldiers quickly moving to follow their prince out of Rhalgr's Reach.

Only then did Briar shudder, knees giving way so he fell to the sand. He gave a strangled gasp, spitting out blood again. A wave of pain and exhaustion swam over his vision and he only dimly heard General Aldynn shouting his name and calling a healer. Briar made an effort to rise, but darkness washed over him. The last thing he was aware of was Raubahn's hand catching him before he hit the ground as the pain faded into nothingness.

[is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not]

Ryūga - THE LAST DRAGON'S SANCTUARY

Coordinator's Suite

DropShip DCS Tenryū

En route to zenith jump point

Luthien system, Pesht Military District

Late September, 3153

The steady hum of the Tenryū’s engines was a low, thrumming pulse, a heartbeat against the void—constant, rhythmic, unyielding. Within its reinforced hull, warriors and war machines rested, each a weapon honed for the great grinding wheel of war. But here, in the hallowed suite reserved for the apex of power, the burdens of command melted away, replaced by something far more primal, far more indulgent.

A sanctum apart from the utilitarian precision of military efficiency, this space had been shaped in the image of a noble’s retreat—a seamless fusion of Kuritan tradition and the highest comforts available in space. The walls, paneled in dark mahogany, bore hand-painted silken tapestries of dragons locked in an eternal, writhing dance—a reflection of both myth and the legacy of the man who ruled this chamber. The soft golden glow of ambient lights bathed the room in warmth, casting shifting shadows over intricate patterns woven into the plush rugs covering the floor, each one a masterpiece of ancient Combine artistry.

A shoji-screened viewport, currently closed, could be opened at a moment’s notice to unveil the abyss beyond—the swirling nebulae, the cold glow of distant stars. A reminder that, for all their power, even gods walked within the confines of the universe.

And here, at the heart of this floating palace, three figures lay entwined in luxury and desire, the air thick with sandalwood, jasmine, and something deeper, something unmistakable—the scent of shared pleasure, the lingering promise of more to come.

Ryūga Kurita reclined at the center of the sunken seating area, a mound of silk cushions cradling his massive, red-scaled frame. Even in repose, he was monumental, a living god of war wrapped in flesh and scale. His silk yukata, black as the void beyond, hung open, the dark fabric slipping away to reveal the chiseled musculature beneath. Emerald-green eyes gleamed in the dim light—sharp, watchful, ever-predatory—even now, even here, where he was meant to be at ease. His long, thick tail, a thing of power and coiled intent, curled lazily over the edge of the seating area, its slow, deliberate motion betraying his ever-present tension.

But he was not alone.

To his left, Reika Jurobei sat with ethereal grace, her raven-black hair streaked through with white, her dual-colored gaze—one eye a haunting violet, the other a deep, molten gold—was a challenge and an invitation all at once. The silken robe she wore, a deep crimson as rich as fresh-spilled blood, clung to her like a lover’s caress, the slit along her long, sculpted thigh revealing glimpses of flawless pale skin. She was a vision of exaggerated, impossible beauty, a creature seemingly forged by the gods themselves—and yet, beneath the soft, indulgent curves lay razor-edged lethality, a mind sharper than any blade she wielded.

Her full lips curled into a knowing smirk as she traced delicate patterns along Ryūga’s exposed forearm, her fingers ghosting over scars long healed, their touch soft but insistent, teasing in its deliberation.

To his right, Dahiya Ult Salah-Miyamoto lounged in a way that was both relaxed and wickedly suggestive, her black-and-white striped fur glistening under the low light. She was raw power and untamed sensuality, a walking temptation wrapped in primal elegance. Her muscular arms, capable of ripping through steel, were languid now, propping her up in a posture that screamed confidence and challenge alike.

Her piercing blue eyes gleamed with wicked amusement, the faintest smirk curving her lips as she stretched, the motion deliberate, sinuous, intoxicating. The gentle shift of her weight sent the heavy swells of her breasts into a mesmerizing rhythm, the soft bounce exaggerated, the sheen of her fur catching the light—a vision of wanton perfection, unrepentant and glorious.

“You should relax more often,” Dahiya purred, her voice a velvet-rough whisper, edged with sultry mischief. She dragged a single clawed finger down Ryūga’s broad chest, the sharp tips grazing against his scales, just enough to send a ripple through him, a shudder so subtle, so deeply buried, but there nonetheless.

Ryūga huffed, his expression unreadable, yet the glint in his emerald gaze betrayed something darker, something smoldering beneath the surface. “A bowstring is useless if it loses tension.”

Reika chuckled, the sound smooth as polished steel, soft as silk, leaning in just enough that her lips brushed against his jaw, her breath warm, enticing.

“And yet,” she murmured, her tone low and knowing, “even the finest blade must be sheathed between battles.” Her fingertips traced the edge of his yukata, teasing the fabric just so, slipping it further from his broad shoulders, revealing more of his sculpted form, the planes of his abdomen, the heat of his skin beneath her touch.

Dahiya stretched, her powerful legs shifting, one striped, toned thigh sliding between his own, pressing just enough to tease, to remind. The movement sent another slow, deliberate bounce through her impossibly large, impossibly perfect breasts, the soft motion mesmerizing, a deliberate show of both power and temptation.

“She’s right, you know,” Dahiya said, voice laced with amusement and promise, her striped tail flicking lazily against his thigh. “And besides… you enjoy this as much as we do.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Ryūga’s lips, slow and dangerous. “Perhaps.”

Reika’s violet and gold eyes locked onto his, a glimmer of playful menace, a silent dare. “Then let us ensure you remember why.”

Her hand moved lower, her nails skimming over sculpted muscle, a featherlight touch, deliberate, drawing heat and tension in equal measure.

Dahiya, ever the provocateur, leaned in closer, her clawed fingers dancing lower, teasing, lingering—taking her time, savoring the moment.

The air thickened, the flickering false candlelight casting dancing shadows over their entwined forms, the warmth pressing in, the scent of sandalwood, jasmine, and raw, unfiltered desire saturating the space between them.

Beyond these walls, duty awaited.

Beyond these walls, war loomed, an unrelenting specter on the horizon.

But here, in the Dragon’s sanctuary, with soft whispers and bated breaths, heated touches and knowing glances, the war could wait.

For tonight, the Dragon would be worshiped.

For tonight, they were his temple.

[sheliesshattered]

Somehow it's been almost two weeks since I last posted about my velvet Yule dress sewing project. I find this tends to happen when I'm sewing quickly or particularly pressed for time -- and given that I plan to wear this dress in less than a week, I'm definitely pressed for time and I've been trying to sew as fast as possible without making any mistakes.

By last Sunday, I had the nine panels of the dress assembled into one piece, with just one long seam (between one side panel and one side-back panel) left to sew. That let me wrap the dress around me for the first time to check for fit.

And it was then that it occurred to me that this dress really needs a zipper.

For some reason I had it in my head that I wouldn't need to put a zipper in this dress, partially because I've used this same pattern to sew knit dresses, and they absolutely don't need any sort of closure, and are even a bit baggy. Silk velvet, unlike knit fleece or viscose, does not stretch at all. I could tell when I wrapped the nearly finished dress around me that it would fit, but tightly enough that I wouldn't be able to get it on and off without a zipper.

I'm a fan of invisible zippers, both the process of putting them in and how they look when they're done -- but invisible zippers aren't a good option for velvet, since there's no room to keep the velvet pile from getting stuck in the zipper coils. But top-stitching a traditional zipper into place wouldn't look right either, so I did some reading up on couture zipper placement, in particular a hand-picked zipper.

If I had planned this from the beginning, I would have cut bigger seam allowances at the center back and then set the zipper before sewing any of the other panels together. Instead, on Monday I unpicked the center back seam down to the hip line or so, then spent way too much time trying to figure out how to attach the zipper to that tiny 1 cm seam allowance.

I ended up whip-stitching the seam allowance to the front of the zipper, which served the dual purpose of securing the zipper to the dress and keeping the raw edges nicely contained so that they won't get caught in the zipper during use.

Once the zipper was whip-stitched to the seam allowance on both sides of the 20" length, I used a contrasting silk thread to baste the center back seam closed again (using the needle scaring from the original center back seam to line it up correctly). With that seam closed all the way up again, I could then start on the actual pick-stitch to secure the narrow flaps that will more or less hide the zipper while the dress is being worn.

Pick-stitching in a couture zipper placement is usually visible on the end product, similar to the pick-stitching on suit jacket lapels. But with velvet the tiny little pick-stitches mostly disappear into the pile -- an added benefit, since my first time doing this sort of zipper placement was far from perfect, lol.

It's not nearly as invisible as an actual invisible zipper, but it glides open and closed nice and smooth, and looks like I had always intended to have this sort of zipper treatment in the center back.

All that handsewing -- and fiddling with the techniques, trying something only to end up picking it out and doing it all over again -- took most of the week. By Friday morning the zipper was finally finished, and I was able to move on to the last long seam that still needed to be sewn, and then the shoulder seams. I ended up sewing the shoulders by hand just to have more control over where the four panels meet than I was able to get with pinning or basting before putting it through the sewing machine.

With a week until I plan to wear it, the dress was finally dress shaped!

At that point, I decided to let the dress hang for about 36 hours, just to allow any bias issues the time to work themselves out before setting the sleeves and evening out the hem. Any fit issues are best addressed before the sleeves are set, so if something was going to stretch out weird, I wanted to know it before the sleeves were in.

That gave me all of yesterday and part of today to turn my attention to the other little project I'm kind of hoping to get done for this coming weekend: an ahistoric interpretation of the Viking/Rus style of pants that are wide through the hip and then gather in below the knee, with a much more fitted lower leg segment from the calf to the ankle.

I've known for a few months that I wanted to try out this style of pants, so the plan for them was pretty clear in my head. I used the pattern I drafted about a year ago for my winter fleece pants, changing the length to be calf-length and widening out the leg significantly, then drafted the narrow portion that'll cover from calf to ankle. Front and back of the upper leg and one piece for the lower leg, so only three pieces to draft and six pieces to cut out.

For this wearable mock-up version of the pants I'm using the same burgundy cotton flannel that I lined Jack's Very Fancy Santa hat with. It's a perfect color match for the velvet, and I'm planning to use some of it as hem facings for the velvet dress, too. If I can get this pair of pants done before Saturday evening (without cutting corners on the dress), it'll give me a nice layer to wear underneath the dress for a bit of warmth.

After working with the silk-velvet for the last month, it was such a relief to take a little break and cut out half a dozen pieces in a nice, simple, straightforward cotton flannel.

This morning I got all six pieces of the pants cut out and pinned for their first run through the sewing machine, but by that point the dress had been hanging for roughly 40 hours and it was time to get back to it. The fit turned out to be lovely, no adjustments needed, so I spent a little time ironing (with the velvet needle board) the last seams I'd sewn, including the flaps over the zipper.

Next up will be setting the sleeves, which I started pinning in before taking a break for dinner and to write this post (and watch the second half of Die Hard -- it's Christmas, after all). Once the sleeves are attached, the only thing left will be hems. I'm planning on using bias-cut strips of the flannel as a thin but sturdy facing for the sleeve ends, neckline, and skirt hem, which will then be secured into place with a blind hem stitch.

It seems pretty straightforward in my head, so I'm hoping I can finish up these last few steps by mid-week, and then switch out the needle in my sewing machine and throw the Viking pants together in time to wear them under the dress. I do have a couple of other ideas of things I'd like to sew in the next few days, if I have time, and I'll try to remember to take photos and post updates as I go.

[dyxtd21]

Astrotaffy (Astrotrain) aesthetic moodboard!!

Astrotaffy:

Astrotaffy is a visually striking and deceptively formidable member of the Decepticorns, his entire being infused with the pliable, sticky nature of taffy. His blue-and-pink coloration gives him a whimsical, almost playful appearance, with swirling patterns across his armor that mimic the stretched, ribbon-like texture of taffy. His body appears elastic in places, with joints and limbs that seem to flex unnaturally, as though they are composed of soft candy rather than hard metal. Large coils of taffy wrap around his arms and legs like bands, giving him a unique, almost candy-craftsman aesthetic. His shoulders and chest are adorned with decorative taffy twists, and his wings—representing his transport modes—are striped in alternating pink and blue hues, resembling spun sugar.

Despite his sweet and almost cheerful appearance, Astrotaffy is a brutal and cunning combatant. His body’s taffy-like properties grant him extraordinary adaptability, allowing him to stretch, twist, and even reshape parts of his form to gain an advantage in battle or to manipulate his surroundings. This malleability extends to his dual modes: a sleek, taffy-styled train and a spaceship with a candy-coated sheen that mirrors the swirling designs of his primary form.

Personality and Behavior:

Astrotaffy embodies the duality of his taffy motif—he is both flexible and tenacious, able to adapt to any situation with a cunning, manipulative edge. Unlike some of his more rigid comrades, Astrotaffy is pragmatic and opportunistic, often acting as a transporter and strategist for the Decepticorns. He takes great pride in his ability to carry out complex missions, whether it’s ferrying troops and supplies or sowing chaos behind enemy lines. Astrotaffy revels in his role as a vital cog in the Decepticorn machine, and he isn’t afraid to boast about his importance, often overstating his contributions to the cause.

Astrotaffy has a dry, sardonic wit and a sharp tongue, which he uses to deflect criticism or belittle his opponents. He views himself as the quintessential Decepticorn—practical, resourceful, and indispensable—and resents being underestimated due to his colorful, candy-themed appearance. However, his pragmatism often leads him to question the grandiose ambitions of Megatwix or the endless scheming of Starcream, making him something of a reluctant skeptic within the faction. Despite these doubts, Astrotaffy values survival above all else and will fall in line when necessary, knowing that siding with the Decepticorns is his best chance to ensure his own continued existence.

Relationships with Other Decepticorns:

Megatwix: Astrotaffy respects Megatwix as a leader but often finds his caramel-coated ambition exhausting. While he admires Megatwix’s strategic mind, he privately considers the leader’s obsession with domination impractical and prone to overreach. Still, Astrotaffy remains loyal out of self-interest, knowing that the Decepticorns’ success increases his own importance.

Starcream: Astrotaffy and Starcream have a contentious relationship, marked by mutual disdain. Starcream sees Astrotaffy as overly pragmatic and lacking the flair needed to truly shine, while Astrotaffy views Starcream as a self-absorbed liability. Their bickering often erupts during missions, with Astrotaffy mocking Starcream’s ego and Starcream belittling Astrotaffy’s “delivery boy” role.

Soundwafer: Astrotaffy has a professional respect for Soundwafer’s efficiency and intelligence, often relying on him for tactical support during transport missions. However, their relationship is strictly transactional; Astrotaffy finds Soundwafer’s cold demeanor unsettling, while Soundwafer views Astrotaffy’s sarcastic personality as unnecessary noise.

Shockwerther: Astrotaffy maintains a respectful distance from Shockwerther, recognizing his stoicism and power but finding his rigid adherence to order stifling. Shockwerther, in turn, tolerates Astrotaffy’s pragmatism but disapproves of his questioning attitude and self-serving tendencies.

[dravidssideblog]

Normally, when I wake up in the morning, I like to just lie in bed awhile, hug my plushie bunny, enjoy being comfy. But today, I can't help but feel very… very… hungry~

I feel my mattress shift, and I roll out just in time as it opens up and swallows my blanket. Sorry, but I've got a big day today! I grab my shirt, and it practically wiggles its way over me, eager to have me inside it. In fact, it's a little tough to get my head and arms out the holes! My pants go on the same way, chewing at my waist before settling down. Glad they're easy to satisfy, but now I'M itching for a meal!

I race to the kitchen, pour myself a bowl of cereal, add some milk, grab a spoon, and swallow the bowl whole! Gosh, everything feels so good going down today~

Getting outside to water the plants is a hassle, as the house tries its best to keep the doors locked and keep me inside. I placate it with some rubs, then slip out while it's distracted. The plants are busy wrestling, stems and flowers splitting open to swallow each other up. Looks like a few of them have already won a meal, and one lone plant in the corner is gulping down a squirrel that was probably trying to snack on it first.

Once I get the hose going, the plants stop fighting and open wide for an easy meal. I fill them up, the water traveling down their stems and pooling up in a big bulging belly. The plants are mostly cooperative, but the old tree tries to snag my ankle with a root and drag me inside. But it's not like this is my first vore day, I saw it coming a mile away.

I finish up fairly quick, and the moment I so much as approach the door, it swings open and the carpet stretches out like a tongue to slurp me in! The door shuts and I'm left wrapped up on the floor. The house is satisfied just to have me back inside, but the carpet itself refuses to let me go, coiling around me tight enough to make me burp up the bowl and spoon from breakfast!

Well, looks like I've got some room~ The carpet splits open at the end, hovering above me like a snake, but I lean in and bite it on the corner! I pull and drag, slurping it up like a noodle. A wide, fuzzy noodle that make a nice big bulge in my gut~ Sorry carpet, but it's eat or be eaten today, and frankly, I'm a little too hungry to give up on eating yet~

I check my social media, the site already filling with pics of people showing off their bulging bellies; roommates who slept in, friends who lost bets, or just happy willing romantic partners. Lots of funny pics too; a dog that finally got revenge on the vacuum cleaner, a poor soul who got eaten by their recycling bin (at least it wasn't the garbage bin!), and a video of someone struggling to get their clothes out of the washing machine.

Heading back to my room, I find my pillow chewing on a bunny-shaped bulge. I hold it down and reach into the pillow case, dragging my bunny plushie Hobbles out from its maw. I give her a hug, then a look over; I had her in my belly all day last year, but I'm still pretty full from that carpet. But she is looking pretty tasty right now~ She turns her head toward me, and her face splits into a mouth. Aww, that's cute, she thinks she can- Mmph!

Cloth and stuffing surround my head, then my shoulders. I curl up as Hobbles works her way down my body. Within seconds, she packs me all away, slurping down my feet and turning me into what I'm sure is a COLOSSAL bulge in her little plushie body. And golly, it feels so nice in here~

This is why I had to be so careful not to get eaten; once I'm inside such a soft, tight belly, how am I supposed to resist~? The stuffing all around me, the pressure of the fabric walls, the- Oh, gosh, she's rubbing her belly! Oh, why did it take me this long to get eaten by a plushie? I usually just get snapped up by a friend, or I let my mattress gulp me down. But this is so much softer and comfier and NICE!!

I spend a nice, long while just enjoying Hobbles' gut, rubbing against the stuffing and fabric, shifting around to feel the pressure, leaning into her little rubs and giving her rubs in return. It's so comfy in here, I could relax and sleep the whole day away…

I get bored after half an hour. It feels great, but I kinda want to do things today, so I start to push and struggle. Hobbles doesn't like that very much and does her best to squeeze me in place, but fabric and stuffing can't beat muscle and bone. I push my feet down, stretching her body and pushing me up toward the head- Wha!

My foot slipped into something! Into her leg, I guess. It stretched out really far, my leg is basically all the way in there. Wait… Hey, that's an idea. I feed (heh) my other leg into hers, and feel around for her arms so I can do the same there. I push my limbs into hers, lift up my head, and I can see out her mouth!

Then she snaps her maw shut on me.

"Hey, chill out." I reach up a hand, her hand, and pat her on the head. My head. I sit up and move my legs a bit, then stand up; I'm wearing Hobbles like a suit! She seems to understand, and lets her mouth hang open for me to see. I pet her head. "That's right, you can keep me inside, just play nice. And speaking of nice, this feels INCREDIBLE!" In response, Hobbles wraps her- our arms around us and gives us a squeeze. I join in the motion, doubling our hug's tightness.

Then my belly grumbles. Even with that carpet still stretching out my gut (and Hobbles'), it's just not satisfying me anymore. I snatch the pillow off of the bed, which immediately chomps onto our arm. I pry it off, letting it wiggle upside-down. "Hey Hobbles, this little rascal made you a snack earlier. What do you think we should do with it~?"

Hobbles lifts our hand to hang the pillow over our mouth.

"My thoughts exactly~"

[captainderyn]

touching prompts #14. putting an arm around the other’s waist

Knitter!! Thank you for this, so sorry its taken me forever ;--; I had half of it written, then Life Happened, but now its finally clicked! And its angsty, special just for my favorite angst-machine-mutual <3

Spoilers, I suppose, for Corellia of the Imperial Agent storyline

Five/Roslynd

--

Five scrubbed his hands across his face, pressing his forehead into his palms as he tried to stretch the tension from his neck. His entire body was taut, drawn tight and ready to snap. Each hour that ticked by on his chrono, with him twisted like a pretzel in his desk chair, didn't help. Nor did the words that kept him tethered to the data terminal.

The only thing that had changed was the time, each minute crawling by agonizingly slow.

He dragged his hands from his face and through his hair instead, tugging on the strands and level an exhausted glare at his screen.

Agent [REDACTED], [REDACTED]  Designation: Cipher Nine Last Known Location: Corellia, [UNKNOWN], Timestamp: 16:35 Dromund Kaas Standard Time Status: Missing In Action  Notes: Cipher Nine failed to report in at scheduled time to supervisor. Reports from war zone indicates possibility of agent being compromised. 

The anxiety had long since gone from sharp, stabbing jolts to his chest and gut to an ice-cold hum that froze him to his office. All he wanted to do was turn off his terminal, turn off everything, rewind before this tracker had pinged in his messages from Keeper.

But he couldn't.

It should've been him out there instead. That coiled serpent of anger still hissed and rattled inside his shelled out mind. That beast had been growing for years now, ever since the Minister had proposed the Star Cabal mission.

If he'd known this is where they would be, he never would've nominated Era as his top agent. If this was what giving her the recognition he thought she'd deserved, then he would've gladly faced her young, reckless ire and put her squarely in the middle of the pack.

Maybe if he'd done that, the then-Keeper would've reconsidered putting him forward on the mission.

He tugged harder on his hair, squeezing his eyes closed. His lids were gritty, heavy with lack of sleep. His body wanted to drift off, slip away. His mind wouldn't allow it.

With a soft whoosh, the door to his office slid open. He peeled an eye open, shoulders deflating, "You were supposed to be home hours ago."

Roslynd let the door slip closed behind her, enclosing them in the darkness of the office, lit only by the lightning strikes outside and gentle glow of the city, and the two lamps in either corner with their yellow glow.

"I could say the same to you." The heels of her uniform boots clicked against the floor, silencing when it met the carpet beneath his desk, "I figured you wouldn't be leaving anytime soon."

He'd stay here all night, keeping vigil, if Keeper would let him.

"There's still no word on her." The words came out raw, guttural. He cleared his throat.

Roslynd set down cups; he hadn't realized she'd brought coffee with her. The smell of his favorite late-night roasterie reached him, even if it roiled his stomach right now.

When she went to grab the second chair at the end of his desk he shook his head, pushing back his chair and holding out his arms. She paused and he gave her a single, pleading look. Her brows drew together, lips pressing thin.

But then she settled in his lap, her arms around his shoulders as one hand carded through the short hair at the back of his head. Perhaps, later, the paranoia about another agent seeing them like this would sneak in.

For now though, the blinds were drawn, and he needed her steady strength.

"Breathe, Val." Roslynd murmured, hand running up and down his back.

He drew in a shuddering breath, wrapping his arms tight around her middle and pressing his forehead against her shoulder, "I can't do this again."

Not one more ceremony with no body to bury. He couldn't handle the Minister handing him a velvet-padded box with another tile for the memorial wall, another name of one of his agents etched within.

Roslynd's hand paused, fingers clenching into his uniform, "I know."

Every time he lost another agent, a piece of him died too.

But this would be losing Rhys all over again. This would be worse.

His voice dropped low, cracking, "That's our daughter out there."

If he'd done his job right, he would've had a cold detachment from her like Intelligence preached. If he done his job right she never would be out there at all.

Of all the agents he could've failed so miserably, so completely, it had to be Nine. It had to be Era.

There were no words to say. Roslynd sniffled, but just continued the gentle motion of her hand. Five didn't want her to say anything, didn't want empty platitudes. Her presence was enough. The weight of her arms around him was enough.

When his terminal pinged with an alert, Five tightened his arms around Roslynd's waist, squeezing his eyes closed so hard that stars burst in the darkness.

"I don't want to read it." His voice shook, his stomach already dropping to the floor, "I don't want to open it, Ros."

For a long stretch, Roslynd was silent, but he knew, he knew from the way a tremor went through her entire body, the way her grip tightened so that it was almost suffocating.

"Val..." An exhalation, and she tried again, though Five was already shaking his head.

"No."

"An explosion was detected at a Corellia military museum."

A switch flipped somewhere in Roslynd, Five knew that distant, clipped voice. He squeezed his eyes even tighter closed against the burning.

"No."

"Agent designated Cipher...Cipher Nine's coordinates match those of the museum. Status updated to--" She heaved in a breath, "Status updated to killed in action."

A sanitized, cookie-cutter message that'd been sent to him dozens of times. Impersonal, clinical.

One he'd read over and over and over again.

But when he lifted his head from Roslynd's shoulders, clearing his vision, and saw the red mark on her file, saw Nine's picture from the day she'd pinned on as Cipher, defaced with an ugly red KIA...

His world shattered.

[just-some-random-blogger]

ME TRYNA GIVE YOUR FIC ALL THE HEARTS IN THE FUCKING WORLD

WHAT THE FUCK ALLLIEEEE WHAT THE FUCK

Unfortunately I have to requote your entire fic back to you I'm so sorry

“Quit squirming or I’m going to turn this constellation into a penis,” you griped, lifting your machine from Sirius’ leg.

HOW COULD YOU START YOUR FIC LIKE THIS????? HOW COULD YOU BE SO FUNNY AND WITTY AND ENDEARING AND WELL-WRITTEN WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU 😭😭😭😭😭😭🤚🤚🤚🤚🤚🤚

“Sadist,” he hissed.

🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦 SO WHAT????

“Said the masochist that paid me to stab him a million times.”

EAT HIM UP. ALLIE ARE YOU CONVERTING ME INTO A SIRIUS GIRLIE????? I FEAR I FEAR HIM COS GART OLDMAN WAS SO SCARY TO ME IN THE FILMS I FEAR I FEAR I FEAR THE CHILD IN ME CAN SEE HIM IN MY MINDS EYES BUT THE WOMAN IN ME IS LIKE 🤪 I LIKE SCARY MEN NOW THO?????? AHHAHAHAHAAHNSIDDNNCJDKKD

He glanced down at you. “Are you flirting with me?”

🗣️AND🗣️WHAT🗣️IF🗣️I🗣️AM🗣️ 👏AND👏WHAT👏IF👏I👏AM👏 PUNK ASS LOSER WHAT THEN

Just then, the bell on the front door or you shop chimed. A tall man with sandy hair, dressed in jeans and thick sweater stood in the foyer, looking around at the art and plants strewn about. Given your profession, you immediately noticed his lack of tattoos, and the scars marring his hands and neck, one even stretching from his sharp jaw towards his nose.

Das my ride yall

“Moony!” Sirius called, jerking his leg and nearly inking himself.

YOU MEAN MY HUSBAND 🤬🤬 GET IT RIGHT BLACK ITS FIRST NAME MY LAST NAME HUSBAND. YOU DONT KNOW ANYTHING ALSO STOP FUCKING MOVING YOU LARVA YOU WORM

Then, his eyes flicked to you, a deep brown and sallow with exhaustion, but his beauty struck you like a blow, the lines of his face coalescing in a way that would make the great painters weep.

[VIOLENTLY SHAKING] I NEED TO WRAP HIM LIKE A BURRITO

Based on the countless stories Sirius had told you in the hours spent on your table, you surmised that this was Remus Lupin, his level-headed, long-suffering schoolmate.

Wrong. That's my chair. My comfy beefy bed. My warm biteable pillow. You fool. You imbecile. You misguided spirit

You sighed and set your machine aside. Clearly, you were taking a break.

😭😭😭😭😭😭🤚 IM CRYING YOU WRITE SO BEAUTIFULLY SO WELL SO AMAZING SO VIVID IM BITING YOUR BRAIN NOM NOM NOM

“Remus, this is y/n, the architect of my beauty,” Sirius said, gesturing grandly in your direction.

Sigh. Fine. Smash. Give me Sirius right now. I'm gonna eat him up

HO IS YOU A POET WHY YOU SPEAK LIKE THAT

“Well, then there’s no where to go but up,” he said with a cheeky wink, and your heart damn near leaped out of your mouth.

🤞 hoping it's up

“Moony wants to know if you can tattoo over scars,” Sirius said, earning a glare from Remus.

With my thighs????? I thought you'd never ask

“Really. I’ve tattooed over dozens of scars, cover-ups, or decorations. I’d love to work with you.” Merlin, did you just say that out loud? You needed to get it together; you were a professional.

WRONG YOU SHOULD HAVE JUMPED HIS BONES THE MOMENT YOW SAW HIM. WEAK PIECE OF SHIT 👎👎👎👎🍅🍅🍅🍅

“AHH YOU WITCH!” Sirius wailed.

🤨 says the witch?

“Bloody hell, I knew you two would get along. You’ve got twin scowls,” Sirius chuckled, leaning back against the table with his hands behind his head.

The fact you didn't do this sooner is criminal

“You’re really good,” he murmured, close enough that you could smell the wool of his sweater, the lingering notes of cinnamon and tea from his cologne. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks, Rem,”

❓❓❓❓❓ REM YOU JUST MET AND YOURE CALLING HIM REMMMMMMM SKSKSKKSKJSKSJSJSJSBSHSBSBSISKKSSK 🫡🫡🫡🫡 RIZZLER I FEAR

He was like an anxious thundercloud, tense and unsteady, and it made your chest tight with empathy.

AN ANXIOUS THUNDERCLOUD IS CRAZY WHAT RHE FUCK

He sat down, coiled in on himself despite his long limbs. Like he was afraid to take up too much space.

HES SO

“It's just—” he sighed, lifting his arm. He started to roll up his shirt sleeve, dexterous fingers folding the fabric neatly over itself, revealing inch after inch of his forearm. Lightly tanned and taut with lean muscle, veins tangling with the map of scars littering his skin.

Lick. ((I am nothing but a dog))

You tried to stay neutral, but you were practically salivating. He was so beautiful.

YOU AND ME BOTH SISTER IM GNAWING AT THE BARS OF ME ENCLOSURE 👹👹👹👹🤤🤤🤤🤤🫠🫠🫠🫠

Remus’ profile floated into your minds eye, sorrowful and striking, and your pen started to move of it’s own accord. His expression came to life under your hand, with long lashes and a crooked nose and that jagged scar.

🫵I🫵KNOW🫵WHAT🫵YOU🫵ARE🫵SIMMMPPPPP🫵

“Whatever you say, love,” he murmured, getting comfortable. Entirely oblivious to the way the petname made your thoughts turn to static.

“No wonder Sirius like this so much,” he said, tracing your face with his eyes. “Watching you work is fascinating.”

Sirius is also in love with me 😞 it's hard being THAT gworl 😣

“That does sound like Sirius,” he chuckled. “I like your focused face much more than that scowl.”

Sit on it. HUH WHO SAID THAT (me)

“Charming? Sweet? Clever?” You asked, glancing up at him. “Sirius talks about you like you hung the moon.”

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫SHE GETS ME YOU TELL HIM GIRLIE RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

You shrugged. “I figured you’d tell me if you felt comfortable. I’m not here to pry, just help.”

We love an emotionally intelligent girlie

Before leaving, he placed another appointment on your books for the following week, this time asking for a tree along the back of his calf, the roots spreading across the scaring he had there.

I dont remember what I wanted to say but I bet it was something inappropriate 🫦

Your sketchbook was filling with sketches of him, like you mind needed a place to spill your overflowing thoughts of him. With him, it was like every sound was heightened, every movement sharper, the very colors in the room more vibrant. Overwhelming in the best way.

🫵 SIMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPP

He huffed a laugh, seeming a bit shy himself. “Yes ma’am.” In a fluid motion, he hooked his fingers under his sweater and tugged it overhead. His chest was tanned and lined with lean muscle, the kind built outdoors, not in the gym. The scaring was worse, deeper gauges in softer flesh, but you barely registered it, too busy staring at the half-healed red slash across his ribs.

😰😰😰😰😰😨😨😨😨😳😳😳😳😃😃😃🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵 SLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-

You were already starting to gather that Remus was…different. And you'd only met one other person with scars that matched his, and they also always cancelled around the full moon.

We got blue's clues up in here

Remus seemed to pick up on your dilemma and slowly spread his knees, allowing you to step between them. The heat of his body was intense, drawing you closer, but you swallowed your impulse, trying to focus instead on the moon and constellations you were mapping out.

🫵 WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-

“You smell nice,” he hummed, close enough that you felt his breath tickle the hair around your ear.

Eat me then 🙄

“Y’know, I probably shouldn’t say this, but I—I missed you the last two weeks.” Remus’ voice was low, just above a whisper, resonant like a drum in his chest. You wanted to wrap it around you like a blanket.

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN SHOULDNT SAY THIS YOU BUFFOON YOU ABSOLUTE CANDLESTICK YOU NINNYHAMER YOU JOBBERNOWL

“Brilliant. I love them, and they’re very effective.” He waggled his eyebrows, and you and Remus rolled your eyes.

BROTHER EUGH WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEYRE VERY EFFECTIVE

James lifted his shirt, revealing a peak of his washboard abs, framed by a pair of sprawling antlers across his hip bones. You leaned a bit closer, checking for any faded spots or ink spreading.

FUCKING hell

Was he…jealous?

HE BETTER FUCKING BE

“Would you ever get a tattoo like that?” You asked, glancing up at him through your lashes.

LICKING HIM SO MUCH

You met his eyes. “You should give me a little more credit, Moony.”

She really said

And I respect her for it. She a bsddie

“It's risky, y’know, to flirt with your tattoo artist,” you murmured, grazing your fingers over the mostly healed goldenrod tattoo. “You've got a permanent reminder of me.”

She's so smart I love her I will shove my tongue down her throat. So hot. She is me. Holy shit am I a narcissist

He smirked, his hand sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. “Well, the thing about werewolves…” he was so close, warm breath fanning across your lips. “We're a possessive sort, territorial. So having your mark on my skin…” he sighed, eyes dark with desire. “I'm finding it hard to hold myself back.”

WHAT THE FUCKING SHIT IS STOPPING YOU COS IT AINT FUCKING ME

Remus surged forward, lips colliding in a heady, toe-curling kiss. You immediately gave into him, his tongue caressing the seam of your mouth, dipping past your lips to taste you, claim you.

“Be gentle with me,” he grated, kissing along your cheek, down towards your throat. He craned your head back, grazing his teeth along your pulse, and you shivered. “I’m trying to savor this, not devour you.”

I CAN BE GENTLE BUT DONT GET IT TWISTED IVE BEEN TRYNA DEVOUR YOU THE MOMENT YOU WALKED IN FUCKER 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

“Patience, dove,” he chastised affectionately, lifting his head. “Just be good for me, yeah? You’ll get what you want.”

Your brain emptied. Seeing this dominant side of Remus had you folding like origami. You nodded, letting him drag you in for another languid, bone-melting kiss.

✍️ FOLDED✍️LIKE✍️ORIGAMI✍️ IM CRYINGGGGGGG WHAT THE FUCKKKK 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 IM GOING TO CREAM MY PANTS ON HOW GOOD IT IS

“Tell me if you want me stop,” he said, shifting to kiss around your navel.

THE DAY I TELL YOU TO STOP THEY NEED TO PUT ME DOWN

“Don't stop. Please don't stop,” you pleaded, and he smiled against your hip before sucking the skin between his teeth, biting at your flesh just hard enough you make you keen.

🫠😃🤓🫨🤪😣😫👹 IM FINE THIS IS FINE. SHE PASSED THE TEST THAT IS THE ONLY CORRECT RESPONSE

The table shifted, rocking back a bit, and you looked past Remus' hair tangled in your fingers to his body. He was rocking his hips against the edge of the table, so turned on by the act of eating you out that he needed some relief.

IM GONNA GET PREGNANT IF YOU DONT STOP

“Rem, baby,” you whined, the sight dragging you that much closer to release. He glanced up at you, his eyes glazed and pussydrunk, and he whimpered against you.

I'm legally obligated to say I feel so bad for Britney I nearly use this gif but I don't like using people I don't kin as meme reactions and I love women so #freebritney

“Good fucking girl,” he growled, withdrawing his fingers to lap directly from you, savoring every drop of his efforts. “That's it, love. Relax f’me.” He brought you back to earth with his tongue, long, languid licks and kisses around your trembling center, across your inner thigh slung over his shoulder.

Little did he know I would give him 10000000000 babies. Fucking hell I need a blunt (don't smoke)

He made his way up your body, catching your words in a messy, top-lip kiss. “Got your mark all over me now, dove,” he purred, pecking your cheek with a cheeky grin.

HES INSANE ACTUALLY OK THX

“I’m, ah, a bit embarrassed to say that I did.” He straightened with a sheepish smile, revealing the dark spot leaking through his jeans.

YOU DONT EVEN KNOW YOU DONT EVEN KNOW YOU DONT EVEN KNOW

I WANT HIM SO BAD I WANT HIM SO BAD

HI ALLIE CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR 1000 FOLLOWERS I THINK ABSOLUTELY DESERVED BECAUSE YOUR WORK IS INCREDIBLE YOU ATE THAT UP SLAYYYYYYYYYYYYY

I............ I have never submitted a request, unless I was explicitly asked by the writer because ksjdjdjjjsjsj ME ASKING FOR SOMETHING?????? SNSJSJSJ ANYWAY I was like it should be fine because it's for your celebration SOOO hear me out. Remus Lupin ? IM GOING THRU A REMUS THING ? 1000 scars/1000 glances???? WHICHEVER IS FINE YOURE GONNA EAT WITH THAT

WEE OK BYE I LOVE YOU BYE

xxx

ilysm and I hope this only deepens your Remus fixation 🫶🏻 thank you so much for all of your love and support, I genuinely get excited when I see you pop up in my feed or notifs. my favorite hanni 🤍

1000 inked scars | R.L.

feat. Remus Lupin x tattooartist!reader

cw: mdni 18+, possessive!Remus, marking kink, oral (fem receiving), tattoo needles and tattooing, mentions of injury and scars, probably inaccurate representation of tattooing in the 70's, no war

1000 things prompt list (closes feb 1!) | masterlist

“Quit squirming or I’m going to turn this constellation into a penis,” you griped, lifting your machine from Sirius’ leg.

“Maybe if you didn’t handle that gun like a cudgel—”

You slapped his fresh tattoo and he yelped. “Pull yourself together, Black. You’re almost done.”

He groaned, slumping back onto the table with his arms slung over his head. “Sadist,” he hissed.

You resumed your tattooing, packing black ink to the map of stars. “Said the masochist that paid me to stab him a million times.”

He glanced down at you. “Are you flirting with me?”

You glared up at him.

Just then, the bell on the front door or you shop chimed. A tall man with sandy hair, dressed in jeans and thick sweater stood in the foyer, looking around at the art and plants strewn about. Given your profession, you immediately noticed his lack of tattoos, and the scars marring his hands and neck, one even stretching from his sharp jaw towards his nose.

“Moony!” Sirius called, jerking his leg and nearly inking himself.

“Sirius,” you bit, but he was already out of the chair.

“What’s—uh, what’s up, Pads?” the stranger, Moony?, said, glancing down at Sirius’ rolled up pant leg and the nearly finished tattoo on his calf. Then, his eyes flicked to you, a deep brown and sallow with exhaustion, but his beauty struck you like a blow, the lines of his face coalescing in a way that would make the great painters weep.

Based on the countless stories Sirius had told you in the hours spent on your table, you surmised that this was Remus Lupin, his level-headed, long-suffering schoolmate.

“I wanted you to meet my friend!” Sirius grabbed his by the elbow and dragged him towards your station.

You sighed and set your machine aside. Clearly, you were taking a break.

“Remus, this is y/n, the architect of my beauty,” Sirius said, gesturing grandly in your direction.

You slid off one of your gloves and extended it to Remus. “Pleasure. I’ve heard loads about you.”

“Oh?” Remus asked, shaking your hand with a light touch, his skin warm and a bit rough. “Terrible things, I wager?”

“The worst,” you chuckled, and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a half-smile.

“Well, then there’s no where to go but up,” he said with a cheeky wink, and your heart damn near leaped out of your mouth.

“I asked Moony to come hang out for the last bit of the tattoo so he could pick your brain,” Sirius said, hopping back up onto the table.

“Sirius—”

“Pick my brain about what?” You asked, pulling up a chair for Remus and sitting back onto your stool, putting on a fresh pair of gloves.

“I, uh—”

“Moony wants to know if you can tattoo over scars,” Sirius said, earning a glare from Remus.

“Absolutely!” you chirped, hoping to dispel Remus’ clear discomfort. “Just takes a few extra passes, but it shouldn’t be an issue.”

Remus gave you a small, grateful smile. “Really?”

“Really. I’ve tattooed over dozens of scars, cover-ups, or decorations. I’d love to work with you.” Merlin, did you just say that out loud? You needed to get it together; you were a professional.

“See, Moons? I told you!” Sirius propped his leg back up, and you fired up the machine. “And it doesn’t even hurt.”

You lowered the machine back to his leg, taking a few quick warm up strokes.

“AHH YOU WITCH!” Sirius wailed. You and Remus both jumped at his shouting, but he quickly dissolved into laughter. “Bloody hell, I knew you two would get along. You’ve got twin scowls,” Sirius chuckled, leaning back against the table with his hands behind his head.

You glanced at Remus, and he looked back at you. A flicker of connection flared between you, and heat rose in your cheeks. Quickly, you looked away, turning your attention back to Sirius’ tattoo.

“So, what are you thinking you want to get, Rem?” Sirius asked after a few moments of quiet, the buzzing of the machine filling the air.

Remus shrugged. “Hadn’t really thought about it. Just wanted to do…something.”

“Well, if you want, we can try and cover any up. But I find that people really get more out of going the decorative route,” you supplied, looking at Remus while you picked up more ink. “I can hand draw a few designs that flow with the scar, turn it into an art piece itself.”

Remus was quiet for a moment, contemplative, and Sirius gave you a knowing smile. “I think I might like that, yeah,” Remus said, his voice soft, almost awestruck. Like he’d never ever considered the possibility before.

As a tattoo artist, you were intimately aware of how much a person’s skin could impact their well being, scars in particular weighed heavily on many people’s spirit. Remus, it seemed, was no exception.

Sirius guided the conversation in another direction, giving Remus a chance to process the implications of what you offered, and you finished the tattoo half-an-hour later. While you were wiping it down, Remus hovered over you, looking down at the piece.

“You’re really good,” he murmured, close enough that you could smell the wool of his sweater, the lingering notes of cinnamon and tea from his cologne. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks, Rem,” you said, smiling up at him, and he smiled back, a flush creeping up his neck before he hurriedly stepped away.

You patched up Sirius and sent the boys on their way, an appointment for Remus on the books for the following week. All he’d given you to work with was placement, his forearm, and that he wanted something natural, like a plant.

Having no more appointments for the evening, you folded yourself into your studio couch with your sketchbook. You sketched a few things, lavender and roses and chamomile, but your fingers itched to draw something else. Remus’ profile floated into your minds eye, sorrowful and striking, and your pen started to move of it’s own accord. His expression came to life under your hand, with long lashes and a crooked nose and that jagged scar.

You clapped your sketchbook shut, sitting back with a sigh.

Next week couldn’t come quickly enough.

You paced around your shop, pouring over your sketch for Remus. You wanted it to be perfect for him, lest you scare him off a tattooing forever.

The door chimes, startling you out of your concentration, and Remus strode in, carrying a tray of drinks and a paper bag

“Morning!” You chirped, hugging your sketchbook to your chest.

“Morning,” he said, passing you one of the cups. “I asked Sirius what you liked, so if it's awful, blame him.”

Butterflies fluttered to life in your stomach. It wasn't unusual for clients to bring you coffee and food, but with Remus it felt…different.

“Oh! You didn't have to do that. Thank you, Remus,” you said, taking a sip. It was your favorite drink, and it's familiar warmth settled some of your nerves.

He gave you a small smile, but you could tell he was nervous. He set the bag on your desk. “I also brought some pastries. Sirius mentioned you like chocolate?”

“I love chocolate.” You beamed. “Come on in, we can sit over here and go over the design.”

Remus nodded, shirking his coat and following you over to the couch. He was like an anxious thundercloud, tense and unsteady, and it made your chest tight with empathy.

“How are you feeling?” You asked, patting the spot beside you.

He sat down, coiled in on himself despite his long limbs. Like he was afraid to take up too much space. “Ah, fine,” he replied, taking a sip of his drink. Earl gray, from the smell of it.

You arched a brow. “It's okay to be nervous, Rem,” you said. “But it's just us, and nothing is set in ink. If you change your mind, it's totally fine.”

“It's just—” he sighed, lifting his arm. He started to roll up his shirt sleeve, dexterous fingers folding the fabric neatly over itself, revealing inch after inch of his forearm. Lightly tanned and taut with lean muscle, veins tangling with the map of scars littering his skin.

He watched your face, gauging your reaction. You tried to stay neutral, but you were practically salivating. He was so beautiful.

“Are they too bad?” He asked, his voice rough with tension.

You met his brown eyes. “Not at all.” You pulled out your sketchbook, flipping to the page you had ear marked. “And it's perfect for what I sketched up.”

He managed a half-smile, some of the clouds disappearing from his aura, and accepted the sketchbook when you handed it to him. His eyes widened.

“Goldenrod,” you said, shifting closer to look at the sketch over his shoulder. “Used to treat pain.”

Remus traced his finger over the tangle of stems, the delicate florals. “I take it almost everyday,” he murmured, looking over at you, his eyes warm and full of something you couldn't quite place.

“So, what do you think?” You asked, your gazes lingering on one another.

“I think it's perfect,” he said, and you smiled, genuinely thrilled that he liked it.

“Okay, ready for me to start sketching?” You asked, and he nodded. You led him over to your station, already set up and waiting for him, and he hoped up onto the chair,, his long limbs dangling near to the floor. To break the quiet, you put on a muggle record, and Remus seemed to relax a bit, sipping on his tea and watching you putter around through dark lashes.

When you settled onto your stool, ink pen in hand, anxiety bloomed in your stomach. Remus was about to watch you draw on him. You’d drawn on hundreds of clients, but like everything else, with Remus it felt…different.

“It might tickle,” you warned, resting his arm where you wanted it, your fingertips tingling from the contact. “And try to stay very still.”

“Whatever you say, love,” he murmured, getting comfortable. Entirely oblivious to the way the petname made your thoughts turn to static.

You placed your sketchbook just beside his arm and made the first line, a quick stem arching alongside a scar stretching from wrist to elbow. Slowly, line after line, the sketch started to come together, flowing with the natural shape of his forearm and it’s scars. You got lost in the act, sinking into the labor of creating.

It wasn’t until Remus made a soft, approving hum in his throat that you peaked up him, breaking your focus. His eyes were almost sleepy, heavy-lidded and soft and the corners, a smile tugging at his lips.

“No wonder Sirius like this so much,” he said, tracing your face with his eyes. “Watching you work is fascinating.”

Heat roared to your cheeks. “Oh, I don’t—he seems more interested in teasing me than letting me work.”

“That does sound like Sirius,” he chuckled. “I like your focused face much more than that scowl.”

Merlin, what was happening to you? You felt like you could melt into your chair like a pile of pudding. Was he flirting with you? Or does he always talk like a romance book hero?

“How long have you guys known each other?” You asked, changing the subject and ducking back down to your work to hide your expression.

“Decade at least,” Remus said. “We met our first year at Hogwarts. Never thought I’d befriend the Sirius Black, but y’know, stranger things have happened.”

“Why’d you think that?”

Remus shrugged, the muttered a soft apology for moving. “Sirius is…Sirius, and I’m…”

“Charming? Sweet? Clever?” You asked, glancing up at him. “Sirius talks about you like you hung the moon.”

A flush creeped up his neck. “He’s dramatic.”

“And brutally honest,” you said, holding his gaze.

“Can I ask you something?” Now it was his turn to change the subject.

“Of course,” you said, capping your pen and setting it aside.

“Why haven’t you, ah, asked?” He glanced down at his scars, and you know what he was implying.

You shrugged. “I figured you’d tell me if you felt comfortable. I’m not here to pry, just help.”

His eyes flitted over your face, swallowing hard, and it seemed he was at a loss for words.

“Ready for ink?” You asked, giving him as reassuring of a smile as you could muster.

He exhaled, turning his wrist to inspect the design. “Ready.”

The rest of the appointment flew by, with Remus sitting like a stone while you tattooed him for close to four hours. You didn’t speak much, letting the music fill the empty air, but it was a comfortable silence, broken by the occasional question or annecdote. Remus seemed to appreciate being able to relax, and you were happy to give him a safe place for little while. Holding space for what this moment meant to him.

When you were finished, Remus stared at the tattoo in the mirror for a long time, and when he turned back for you to wrap it up, you could see tears collecting on his lower lashes.

"Thank you for this," he said, clearing his throat. "You were--this was amazing."

You knew he meant the art, but still, the praise made your heart glow all the same. "Of course, Remus. I'm glad I got to be the one to do this for you."

Before leaving, he placed another appointment on your books for the following week, this time asking for a tree along the back of his calf, the roots spreading across the scaring he had there.

After Remus’ second and third appointment, you noticed a change in him. He seemed more confident, a little more outspoken. He was coming to life before your eyes, and you were starting to see the fuller picture of the boy Sirius loved so much.

Already, you felt so close to him. Connected. And you were starting to miss him those days in between, his appointment becoming the highlight of your week. Your sketchbook was filling with sketches of him, like you mind needed a place to spill your overflowing thoughts of him. With him, it was like every sound was heightened, every movement sharper, the very colors in the room more vibrant. Overwhelming in the best way.

But then he cancelled your fourth appointment, citing illness, and you didn’t see him for two weeks. It wasn’t until he sent and owl requesting an appointment for this coming Friday that you finally felt like you could breathe.

Sorry again for cancelling. Are you free this Friday? Thinking a moon and stars on my chest, with those gorgeous clouds I saw in your sketchbook. Can’t wait, RL.

When Remus walked into your studio, you had to stop yourself from hugging him, you were so excited to see him. He looked tired, a little dimmer than the last time you saw him, but he greeted you with a warm smile and a bag of pastries, and that was all you needed.

You had him sit up on the table, busying yourself with the station in avoidance of the inevitable. He was going to have to take his shirt off. Your heart was palpitating just thinking about it.

“Alright, Rem. Strip for me,” you said, ripping the metaphorical bandaid off.

He huffed a laugh, seeming a bit shy himself. “Yes ma’am.” In a fluid motion, he hooked his fingers under his sweater and tugged it overhead. His chest was tanned and lined with lean muscle, the kind built outdoors, not in the gym. The scaring was worse, deeper gauges in softer flesh, but you barely registered it, too busy staring at the half-healed red slash across his ribs.

You gasped. “Rem, what happened?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was in a fight club?” He rubbed the back of his head, averting his eyes from yours.

“No, but you don’t have to tell me anything. Just that you’re alright,” you said, unable to mask the warble of concern in your voice. You were already starting to gather that Remus was…different. And you'd only met one other person with scars that matched his, and they also always cancelled around the full moon.

His eyes softened. “I’m alright, dove. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m the only one that gets to gauge you with weapons,” you huffed, grabbing up your sketching marker.

He barked a laugh, head tipping back on his shoulders. “Fair enough. Only you get to wound me permanently from now on.”

“Glad we reached an understanding.” You propped the sketchbook on the table and leaned in to start sketching. Remus sat up as straight as he could, resulting in your head hovering around his clavicle. But, with his long legs, you couldn’t get close enough.

Remus seemed to pick up on your dilemma and slowly spread his knees, allowing you to step between them. The heat of his body was intense, drawing you closer, but you swallowed your impulse, trying to focus instead on the moon and constellations you were mapping out.

As you drew, you started to shift closer, drawn in by the work and his proximity, the clean smell of his skin, until you were practically leaning against him.

“You smell nice,” he hummed, close enough that you felt his breath tickle the hair around your ear.

You nearly dropped the marker, but managed to keep your grip steady. “So do you,” you said, unable to come up with something clever.

“Y’know, I probably shouldn’t say this, but I—I missed you the last two weeks.” Remus’ voice was low, just above a whisper, resonant like a drum in his chest. You wanted to wrap it around you like a blanket.

You looked up at him, lips slightly parted in shock, so close you could brush your nose against his if you moved a hair closer. “You did?” You asked, certain that if pupils could turn into lovehearts, yours would be beaming out of your head like a cartoon.

His hand came up to caress you jaw, tentative and gentle. “Being with you is the best I’ve felt in ages,” he said, tilting your face a little closer to his. “I don’t—”

The bell to your studio rang loudly, and you jumped back from Remus’ hold, nearly tripping over your stool.

“Hey Moony! There’s my favorite artist!” James came plowing through, wrapping you up in a bearhug that squeezed the air from your lungs. “How are you, sweetness?”

“I’m good, Jamie,” you wheezed, and he set you back on your feet.

The boys clasped hands, a quick, almost automatic handshake.

“What are you doing here, Prongs?” Remus asked, trying and failing at not looking irritated.

“Sirius said you were getting some ink today so I figured I’d swing by and have you take a peak at how mine’s healing.”

“James, it’s been like six months. Your antlers healed fine,” you reminded him.

“You did his antlers?” Remus asked, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes.

You nodded. “Yeah, you didn’t know?”

He shook his head, glancing sidelong at his friend.

“I suppose it might be time for a touch up. Let me see,” you sighed, crossing your arms over your chest.

James lifted his shirt, revealing a peak of his washboard abs, framed by a pair of sprawling antlers across his hip bones. You leaned a bit closer, checking for any faded spots or ink spreading.

“Looks perfect, Jamie. All good,” you said, sitting back on your stool, mildly impressed with yourself.

“Brilliant. I love them, and they’re very effective.” He waggled his eyebrows, and you and Remus rolled your eyes.

James hung out for another hour, chatting with Remus while you finished the sketch of the tattoo. Your bodies were just as close as before, but with James, you were forced to keep it strictly professional. But the proximity without being allowed to touch was melting your mind, making heat pool in your lower belly. You could feel every breath Remus took, feel the rumble of his voice in your chest, the warmth of his body mingling with yours.

It was maddening, and you could tell Remus was growing more impatient by the second, the muscles around his neck taught with tension, his fingers twitching against his thighs.

At one point, you laughed at one of James’ jokes and swatted at his chest, earning a smile from him. When you glanced back at Remus, his jaw was clenched tight, eyes glaring a hole into the drink in his hands.

Was he…jealous?

He had no right to be, but still, the thought of him being possessive made your heart rate quicken.

Finally, James left, leaving you and Remus alone in the simmering tension you'd built. He watched you closely as you returned to your station, prepping the tattoo machine.

“Would you ever get a tattoo like that?” You asked, glancing up at him through your lashes.

He leaned back on the seat, bracing his hands behind him. Showing off the lean expanse of his torso, the rugged look of him that stood in sharp juxtaposition to his style and personality. “Not sure I could pull it off.”

You scoffed, allowing him to see you peruse his body. “I strongly disagree.”

He chewed on his lower lip, a nervous habit. A flush started to spread across his chest, reaching towards his cheeks. “What would you suggest?” he asked, a sultry edge of his voice.

Unhurried, you stepped back between his legs, letting your fingertips graze along the valleys of his lower abdomen. “Perhaps a snake.” You traced the shape along his skin, his muscles tensing to stop himself from shivering. “Or ferns. Maybe a wolfs jaw—”

“A wolfs jaw?” He asked, quirking an eyebrow at you.

You met his eyes. “You should give me a little more credit, Moony.”

He blinked at you, clearly taken aback that you knew his secret. “You knew.”

“I do now. I've only seen scars like yours once before, on another werewolf. And with the nickname, your tattoo choices, being MIA on the full moon…it adds up.”

His eyes searched your face. “And you don't care?”

“Of course not. I care about you, not your affliction.” Your hands still lingered on his hips, like your skin was magnetized together, you couldn't seem to pull them apart.

Remus straightened, his hand coming up to cup your face again. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about you,” he breathed. “You’ve gotten under my skin, dove.”

“It's risky, y’know, to flirt with your tattoo artist,” you murmured, grazing your fingers over the mostly healed goldenrod tattoo. “You've got a permanent reminder of me.”

He smirked, his hand sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. “Well, the thing about werewolves…” he was so close, warm breath fanning across your lips. “We're a possessive sort, territorial. So having your mark on my skin…” he sighed, eyes dark with desire. “I'm finding it hard to hold myself back.”

“Then don't,” you replied, heart in your throat.

Remus surged forward, lips colliding in a heady, toe-curling kiss. You immediately gave into him, his tongue caressing the seam of your mouth, dipping past your lips to taste you, claim you.

Your arms found their way around his neck, fingers digging into his feathery hair and tugging at the roots, drawing a low groan from his chest. He nipped at your lower lip in warning before soothing it with his tongue.

“Be gentle with me,” he grated, kissing along your cheek, down towards your throat. He craned your head back, grazing his teeth along your pulse, and you shivered. “I’m trying to savor this, not devour you.”

“Do you always keep yourself on such a tight leash?” You asked, breathless as he lapped at your skin, your thighs trembling with desire.

“Patience, dove,” he chastised affectionately, lifting his head. “Just be good for me, yeah? You’ll get what you want.”

Your brain emptied. Seeing this dominant side of Remus had you folding like origami. You nodded, letting him drag you in for another languid, bone-melting kiss.

Remus slid off the table without breaking the kiss, leaning down to scoop you up by the thighs in a fluid motion.

“Rem!” You gasped in surprise when he turned and dropped you onto the table he just vacated.

He leaned over you, one hand reaching down to recline the seat so you were laying back, legs on either side of his hips. His lips found your neck again, kissing and licking his way down while his hands pushed up the hem of your shirt, fingertips cool against your fevered skin.

“Tell me if you want me stop,” he said, shifting to kiss around your navel.

“Don't stop. Please don't stop,” you pleaded, and he smiled against your hip before sucking the skin between his teeth, biting at your flesh just hard enough you make you keen.

“I won't, love. I'm not going anywhere.” His fingers hooked into the waistband of your jeans, easing them down over your hips until they fell to the ground in a pile.

Your knees tried to pull together on instinct, the vulnerability making you flush, but his hands gripped your inner thighs, spreading you apart for him. You could tell he was in his element, something having loosened from his usually reserved demeanor. It felt like you were seeing him completely for the first time. No holds barred.

“Don't hide from me, pretty girl,” he cooed, lowering to his knees. “You're gorgeous.” He trailed kisses up your thigh, charting a tingling path until his nose grazed sodden panties, making your pussy flutter and clench. “Fuck, you smell divine,” he muttered before dragging his tongue over the thin fabric.

“Oh, god—Remus,” you moaned when he sucked on the fabric over your clit, pleasure blooming from your center. Your eyes rolled back, fingers tangling in his hair as he flicked your swelling bud with his tongue.

“So responsive,” he praised, pulling your panties aside with his middle finger. “You this sweet for all of your clients?”

You shook your head. ”I've never—fuck, baby.” Your words splintered into a cry as he eased his middle finger inside of you, your dripping entrance accepting him eagerly. He nudged your clit with his nose, making you cry out again.

“Just me?” His voice almost sounded like a purr, deeply pleased by your admission.

You nodded, urging him closer by the roots of his hair, and he practically growled.

He nipped at your thigh, overpowering your meager attempt easily. “Patience, remember?”

You whined. “Remus, please. Just wanna feel you.”

He withdrew his finger, then added a second, pumping you slowly. “I know, baby. I'm right here, I've got you.” His mouth found your clit again, his tongue circling around and around, and you arched off the table, moans spilling from your lips like a song.

Steadily, the fire built, with Remus' devoted attention pouring over you like gasoline. He moaned against you, eyes screwed shut when your pussy clenched around his fingers, teetering on the edge.

The table shifted, rocking back a bit, and you looked past Remus' hair tangled in your fingers to his body. He was rocking his hips against the edge of the table, so turned on by the act of eating you out that he needed some relief.

“Rem, baby,” you whined, the sight dragging you that much closer to release. He glanced up at you, his eyes glazed and pussydrunk, and he whimpered against you.

His deliberate motions got sloppier, greedier, as he rutted against the table. Losing control of himself, like his entire being was desperate to be inside of you.

With a final curl of his fingers, you toppled over the edge, coming with a cry loud enough to rattle the windows as relief crashed over you, cool water dousing the flames beneath your skin.

“Good fucking girl,” he growled, withdrawing his fingers to lap directly from you, savoring every drop of his efforts. “That's it, love. Relax f’me.” He brought you back to earth with his tongue, long, languid licks and kisses around your trembling center, across your inner thigh slung over his shoulder.

“Fuck, Remus,” you panted, slumping back against the table. “That was—”

He made his way up your body, catching your words in a messy, top-lip kiss. “Got your mark all over me now, dove,” he purred, pecking your cheek with a cheeky grin.

“What about…” you trailed off, fingers toying with his belt, unsure of what you were asking for him to fuck you, or mark you. Or both. All you knew was that you wanted him, badly, even more so with that post-orgasm clarity.

“Patience,” he replied, chuckling at the annoyed look you shot him. “Ready to finish up this tattoo?”

“But you didn't get to—”

“I’m, ah, a bit embarrassed to say that I did.” He straightened with a sheepish smile, revealing the dark spot leaking through his jeans.

Holy shit. You'd made him cum in his pants.

You surged up, throwing your arms around his neck and tugging him down in to a ravenous kiss. “Merlin, you're so fucking hot,” you mumbled against his mouth.

He grinned, breaking the kiss to nuzzle into your neck, hiding the flush you could see staining his ears. “Says the girl that made me cum without touching me,” he muttered, almost indignant.

“I’m not sorry,” you chuckled, sighing when he pressed his plush, kiss-swollen lips to your racing pulse.

“It's alright, I'll get even,” he teased, his teeth nipping at your skin.

“Is that a promise?”

“Most normal people would interpret it as a threat.” He picked his head up, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Well, I'm not normal people,” you replied.

“And thank Godric for that.” He kissed you again, all smiles and airy pecks.

Normal was never your style anyway.