#short & neat and barely covering

[hyprmemes]

a study in steampunk: choice by gaslight (pt. 1) edit as you see fit

"what skill do you possess that makes you extraordinary?"

"at least i'm... dying out here... instead of in there"

"you're not about to die; you're with me, you've nothing to worry"

"you whisper to yourself I am nothing like them, but you might be"

"philosophy comes easier some mornings than others"

"we were not running, we were spilling blood"

"the brutal waste of it all sickens me"

"i struggle between pride at what we accomplished and horror at what it cost"

"things aren't so bad, really... except on mornings like these"

"you do realize he is sitting right here and we can resolve those questions by more direct means?"

"it is what it appeared to be, i have already confessed"

"we'd be ostracized as well as penniless; it was my whole life, what else could i do?"

"not an hour ago, you threw yourself whinging upon my mercy - that commodity is neither plentiful nor free"

"you talk as though my life still had value to me"

"the day promises to be very cold, but inside are eggs and bacon and coffee and a roaring fire"

"it's been such an age since i was anywhere near a dance floor"

"it's very good of you to take all the blame like that"

"i find these notions of class wearisome"

"they are people with virtues and faults and interesting stories to tell, so of course i get to know them"

"i cannot kill this man with a stimulant for the slim chance he may know something"

"you're much better at rallying the troops than i am"

"i'm sure there are many people who would be grief-stricken if you didn't come back to them"

"the kind of courage that can keep it together during the direst of circumstances is often the kind that breaks once the danger is past"

"for both clarity and maneuverability, there is nothing better than a letter"

"if you do not wish to pursue this, i will be honored to maintain our friendship; say nothing and we will never speak of it again"

"i'll be gone before you're awake tomorrow, but i should be back for dinner"

"i triumphed in that confrontation, and i will here as well"

"i give you my word–for what it may be worth to you–that no one here had anything to do with it"

[starkeyisthelastname]

When stepdad rafe hears reader talking about how she wants to loose her virginity

He had over heard you on the phone, giggling away with one of your girlfriends. As delicate and innocent as you were, your voice still carried and that’s when he had found out about you wanting to lose your virginity. The thought of some random boy’s limp dick inside you, made him seethe in anger. It had to be him who popped your perfect little cherry.

You were sitting on your pretty pink bed, surrounded by an enormous amount of fluffy pillows and stuffed animals. Glittery pen in hand, you wrote something down in your journal, while humming to whatever pop song played. Rafe knocked on the already open door, watching those big eyes light up at the sight of him. You slammed the journal closed, shoving it aside.

“Hi, Rafey!” You said, swinging your bare legs off the bed.

It was comical to him that you were still a virgin, especially the way you ran around the house. Shorts that barely covered your rather thick ass, and flimsy tank-tops that your perky tits nearly fell out of. He was curious now to what you were hiding in that diary of yours, making him walk further into the girly room.

“Whatcha doing?” He asked, casually as he made his way over to the bed. “Writing down all your dirty little secrets.” He grinned. He could tell you were nervous by the way you quickly avoided his gaze, looking down at the fury white rug.

“No.. I don’t have any dirty secrets.” You told him, voice small as you swung your legs back and forth.

“Yeah? So you wouldn’t mind me reading your diary. We are family after all and shouldn’t hide secrets.” He said as a matter of factly, reaching down to pick up the journal. You tried to grab it from him, but failed due to his height.

Opening the last page you written in, Rafe read the neat writing, his confirmation of what he had heard earlier coming true. “Today, I talked to my best friend about wanting to lose my virginity. I want to have sex so so bad…” He didn’t even need to continue on, seeing your cheeks turning pink.

“Please don’t tell my mom.” You pleaded to him, knowing that she wanted to keep you pure despite the fact that you were 19.

Rafe chuckled, throwing the diary back onto the bed. “Relax, kid. What’s got you so nervous?” He asked. “You need dick that bad, huh?”

The way you looked up at him, eyes so innocent and lips so kissable, nodding your head, had him growing hard in his pants. It took everything in him not to shove you down on your knees and fuck your little virgin throat. He'd save that for another time though, right now he was determined to ruin your tight cunt.

“See, when you lose your virginity, you want it to be with someone special. Someone you can trust. Not one of your little boyfriends.” He told you.

You looked at him confused, with a little curiosity behind those eyes. “Someone like you Rafey?” Your tone of questioning as you bit your lower lip out of habit. His ocean eyes gleamed in excitement, the heat running straight to his cock.

His eyes nearly rolled back at the sight in front of him. His pure little beauty of a step- daughter, completely naked before him. You were still reluctant that this was wrong, even after his fingers had loosened you up a bit and tongue had been on your sweet folds. Now with his cock in hand, lining it up with your plump pussy he watched your face twitch as he pushed in.

“No.. it hurts.” You mumbled, pushing at his now bare chest as the stretch to your untouched hole was burning.

“You are fine, kid. Never had 9 inches up your princess cunt, I know it.” Rafe’s voice cracked as he tried not to ram himself inside the tightest cunt he ever had the pleasure of being in. His thumb found your clit, rubbing it slow circles to distract you from the pain. Poor thing.

Your whimpers turned into the prettiest moans sooner than later as he began speeding up. Eyes heavy, and abs flexing as he thrusted into you. He was Rafe Cameron and he got everything he wanted, including taking his step-daughter’s virginity.

[1800titz]

The vacay piece I teased ages ago. One night stand :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: p-in-v, oral, brief size kink (if you squint), praise kink, this one’s p vanilla.

WC: 2.5K

It starts like this:

A bohemian beach with a high riding tide, where ripples surge and flood the shore. Sand tears from its home, coasting the verge in the breeze like a fog under the overcast, and when the clouds split open, the rays hug her skin. 

She’s sprawled over a chaise lounge in a little red thing that’s all skimp and no cover besides the intimates. When she rolls onto her side and tips to her tummy, he eyes the flash of skin behind dark tint. His arms brace over the porcelain border of the pool that overlooks the beach up ahead — he’s watchful from a distance. Someone swims up to the bar behind him. Chlorine laps at his back, teeming over the grout between the tiles as he wraps his lips over a straw and nurses something cobalt and strong.

By the time he culls a second one, she’s up, all glistening skin in the sunshine, hips swaying as her toes make doughy prints in the sand. She trails to the sea, and the ocean eats her until she’s just a little silhouette in front of his sunglasses with water-slicked hair and lines that cinch and swell in all the right places. 

He sees her like that, outlying his bubble, in brief pieces like the flashes of skin. Fragments in the horizon, like the border of a stranger’s leg in the background of a photograph. He sees her in slivers where eyes interlock from across the room and linger. This bohemian summer is painted in teal, and it’s waves swathing the coast, warm skin coated in cocoa butter. 

It ends on a night where the teal metamorphose indigo, and then nearly denim, with orange on cords, glinting like miniaturized, splintered orbs of the sun have been caught to glare forever on strings in the night. Harry sees her through that indigo, this stranger’s bare leg waltzing in the depths of his touristy snapshot, mingling in the dancing horde. He trails closer, shouldering through the throng and squeezing through in polite gaps, and she twists like it’s fate — just enough to smuggle a glimpse in her peripherals. 

Eventually, Harry leans in to murmur, “What are you drinking?”

The plush of his mouth ghosts over the cartilage there, and his cadence smooths over like honey, low and deep over the pounding bass of the music. Waned tobacco and spice; a warm, pleasant musk in the flurry of scents. 

She doesn’t immediately respond, observant like she’s weighing whether the invitation is worth entertaining. It only takes a second. Then, there’s a hand over his pec, like she’s already made friends with the filth of his intentions. His red-lycra-skimp mystique rolls up on her toes. 

Harry twists his head just enough for her to respond, “It’s a Blue Lagoon.” 

Saccharine — rich and lux and smooth, something that has her skin glowy and sweeps up her throat, tucks behind her ear, enough so that the scent billows off with the motion of her hair as she flips it over her shoulder. 

Harry casts his gaze to the drink. A red straw is tucked into the ice, and the only remnants of the beverage mingle at the bottom. The ice shimmers in faded teal, much like water sloshing over the flat tides. Her fingers cradle over the cup, and that’s where soft, thin lines of gold coil. Despite the broad array, there’s no wedding band. 

“Can I grab you another?” 

That’s when she does the thing; this patently flirtatious, brazenly get-under-my-crocheted-midi-skirt sort of thing, lashes coy in their sweep and eyes innocuous as the tips of her manicured fingers pinch at the straw and siphon it to her mouth. There’s an elegant presentation to the polish — neat, short lines with a nude base and a white tip. 

The remnants of the beverage vanish until all that’s left is crushed ice painted with blue curaçao. Harry watches the straw. He watches her lips, the way they unlatch and the way the pink tip of her tongue offers a glimpse before it hides away behind her front teeth. 

When she pulls the drink away, she tips her head — an inclination for his ear again — and when he ducks his chin for her answer, she tells him, “Can you make it worth my time?” 

A tongue swipes — his — like it’s already hungry and yearning. Dimples form beside the curling edges of a mouth after the pink muscle retreats. Home in its hungry cavern; limitlessly craving. He doesn’t bother going for her ear again, instead opting to fix eyes that have wandered, all week, onto her face. Definitive, close. Mesh of saccharine and spice. 

“I’ll make it worth your time,” Harry assures. 

His eyes are virid, even in the indigo, under all the miniature suns as the lanterns throw them back into a roll of blue — it climbs over the crowd and seeps with the music. They’re virid and intent. They’re virid, and there’s something lewd that dances in the mottled talc. 

She watches him. A set of eyes flits to his mouth and stays, brief like a fragment. She nudges the cup — the fragment splinters and fades — extending it against his chest until he raises his hand and his ring clad digits curl over it slowly, wet with condensation. 

“Blue Lagoon,” sweet mystique reminds him, a little curl to her mouth. 

Harry heads to the bar. He orders a Blue Lagoon and refreshes his tequila. Double. He winds through the half-clad crowd, prodding and slipping through sweat-slicked bodies until he finds her again. 

He makes it worth her while when they’re dancing, when her arms are slung over his shoulders and the tips of her fingers graze at the little curls at his nape, like an intimacy beyond a summer fling, or maybe like a restless hunger — its touches only test the waters with dips of toes under lapping ripples. He makes it worth her while when his hand cups the meat of her hip, and she tips her head up for their mouths to meet, when their dancing slows and the kiss turns feverish, cushiony mouths teasing at the seams until they split. 

He makes it worth her time when they make the stroll back to his room, heels clicking over tile and bouncing off from lofty wall to lofty wall, a good bit of distance between them strictly for the sake of avoiding shagging in the middle of a hallway. He makes it worth her while when he braces his wrist band to the lock over the door, when she’s leant against the wall with her irises lingering on him and her lashes batting coyly. She’s well-behaved, hands tucked behind her back like a combat to handsy temptation. 

It’s a different story behind the door. 

He makes it worth her while when her fingers toy at her crocheted halter, index perusing at the fabric below cleavage and brushing over chalky yarn. He makes it worth her time when he steps into her space all slow-like, face tipped down and the pink below his cupid’s bow worked into a soft curve, lengthy, deft digits working over the buttons of his shirt. An untamed tendril teases over one of his brows. Her hands meander from fondling at her own tits, at rogue pieces of yarn in the stitches, to straying up his ink-etched forearms. That’s when he lets her take over the work, when his arms snake over the vale of her waist. When his colossal hands cup lower, when he nudges forward and their mouths brush again. He licks into her mouth and rolls into the gap between her teeth.

Filthy kisses are shrouded behind closed doors, even in the easy ambience of a resort. Furlough on the greedy pursuit of pleasure, on some secluded island with crystalline waters, plus tequila — that’s practically a petri dish for hook up culture. But filthy kisses are saved for the bedroom, and there it’s taste buds doused in citrus limon and gray goose, a tip of a tongue swiping along a row of teeth, basking in the ridges. 

“What do you like, little minx?” Harry murmurs. He climbs the column of her throat with the ruddy border of a hungry cavern, and her pulse murmurs back under his mouth. “Hm?” 

The blunt tip of his forefinger traces her collarbone, follows a line of cleavage, toys at the cinch in her top; unravels her. It splits down the center, and the straps follow limply down her shoulders. Harry pinches a nipple and scrapes his teeth over her neck, humming again. 

Behind closed doors, his red-lycra-mystique (bare, her tits are bare now, in the backdrop of his picture) gets denuded to flesh when she shimmies the dress down her hips. He helps her and then tears his own shirt over his head. It’s hasty, like disrobing takes too much time from a place where time moves slower, riding the water in leisure. Harry still doesn’t know her name, and she slips to her knees, batting her lashes, and takes his buckle apart like unslotting puts the last of the puzzle pieces together. 

When her tongue rides under the ridge of his tip, delving and dragging over the prominent vein jutting on the underside of his shaft, he cranes his neck back and makes a sound like she’s torn into his chest with the tips of her french-polished manicure. He punctuates every pornographic, wet sound with dialogue.

“Christ, you’re a dream.” 

“Fuck, you’re pretty with cock in your mouth.” 

“Yeah, that’s it, just like that, sweetheart.” 

“—Y/N,” red-lycra-mystique supplies, gaze bouncing from the twist of her wrists at his base to his face, and then sweeps his bubbling head over her bottom lip and swallows him down halfway. 

“Y/N,” Harry mirrors, tone bathed in the same sweetness she radiates at his feet. 

And then she trails the very tips of her blunt nails up his sac, and the shiver that rolls up his spine short-circuits every feasible attempt of formulating something in english. Just… gone. Something splinters. 

Harry doesn’t cum all over her tongue, despite the pretty mental image he’d cherish of Y/N on her knees with ribbons of silky white coating the insides of her mouth. He thinks about the way he’d dip the pad of his thumb against her tongue, the way he’d stir and scrub it in. He thinks about her lips latching and her cheeks hollowing. 

He’s got immense willpower, particularly when she takes him all the way down until her nose nearly brushes the neatly-trimmed tuft of hair the tributary of his happy trail pools into. Because then, she pulls off, chin sloppy with saliva, mouth wide, and stares up at him with this wickedly indelicate curl to the corners of her mouth as she gasps in breaths. Like she wants him to. 

Instead, they make it to the bed. He splits her thighs with his palms and spits where she’s puffy and warm, leaky with longing, toying at the seam of her hole with his digits. Smooths the wetness with his thumb when he tucks two fingers in and laves his tongue at the crease between her inner thigh and her cunt. He bumps her clit with the tip and rolls, and her spine arches like the highest point of her torso peaks at the clouds of nirvana. 

“You’re a good girl,” Harry tells her, and his voice is so soft, like he’s reassuring an animal that’s backed itself into a corner, “Want you to drench my face.” 

And she does, because when he holds a placid, unwavering hand out and talks her so sweetly, lips suckling in a vacuumed ‘o’ between her thighs, what can she do besides roll her hips against his mouth in little, desperate juts, face creased before bliss spumes through every major artery.

When Harry sits back, his chin is sticky, glinting in the buttery cast of the lanterns drilled into the ceiling. He kisses her again until her jaw is stained with her own slick, and despite the entire basis of a one night stand, his tongue meddles into her mouth with the same passion of a man carving a piece of her open. A cozy lacuna just for him in the depths of her chest, something that’ll linger and yearn. A hungry chasm that’ll grumble when her cunt pulses — when he’s not there to fill it. She’ll think of him; a stranger’s leg flitting like a passing speck in the background of her photograph. 

Y/N’s cunt hugs him like it can’t get enough. 

Eventually. 

Because at first, it’s: too big, won’t fit, pleated brows when he’d split her spongy walls apart on the latex-coated tip, stretching to tuck in and hovering to imbibe in miniature ticks of her expression. A twitch in her lashes, a shift in the line of her mouth, a little swallow bobbing down the column of her throat. 

“You’re a good girl,” he’d crooned, smoothing a thumb over a rib and then her clit, just to see her squirm more over his cock. 

Eventually, she clambers over his lap, planting her palms back over inky, firm muscle. It’s leverage as she bounces to fill that starving cavity — the one he’d drilled with his tongue, like the shape of him can fill every square inch of space before they never see each other again. Hungry, hungry, hungry. 

“Come on, baby, come on,” Harry coaxes, a low groan mottled with breathy pants, “—Shit.” 

Momentarily, he pauses the guiding grasp he’s got over her hips to drag the pad of his thumb over his tongue lewdly, smearing spit over the digit and swiping circles over her clit, instead. In response, the rolling pace Y/N has set stutters, knees jolting, and her mussed hair spills off her shoulder as she cranes her neck back. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Yes, yes, yes—“

His eyes flit from her cunt to the ethereal line of her neck, the borders of her shoulders, the shape of her tits bouncing. 

Ultimately, of course, his gaze winds back down to ogle where they connect, because that’s the view — that’s where she swallows his cock, thighs splayed and trembling, gliding from the tip until about midway before rising and repeating the cycle. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. He draws his thumb lower, lets it meddle where they merge, where her hole flutters and rolls over him, gleaning the sticky arousal that coats his shaft and bringing the pad of it back to her clit. His eyes linger. Flicker up. Return to watch her ride and nearly roll back into his head. 

He’s carved the void, and later, when she tips forward and her nails scrape over his pecs, feral, she whittles her own. Later, the space between his thighs aches and heats. Something pulses on the underside of his balls. It yearns for blue curaçao, pellucid, crashing waters, and a skimpy red bikini. 

[caberzatto]

under the sun

thoughts of dry-riding rafe on his yacht on a hot summer day on my mind :/

18+ content mndi

the sun was beating down on your back, making you all hot and muggy and uncomfortable as you sat on your boyfriend, straddling his hips. the scent of husky cologne and suncream filled your nostrils, a direct result of your face being buried right in the crook of rafe's neck.

his hands lazily fiddled with the tie-straps of your bikini bottoms that sat high on either sides of your waist, grazing his fingers languidly over your spf-coated skin as you sluggishly moved against him.

you returned the gesture, your fingernails drawing shapes on his bare back, grinding down on his cock through his swimming trunks in the process. his focus right now is solely on you. on making you feel good. letting you take exactly what you need as you sit atop him, beneath the blazing sun.

"'ts it, princess...jus' take what you need, baby."

hushed moans left your lips at your boyfriend's words, continuing to relieve the clammy discomfort you've been feeling while sitting on the leather cushions of his yacht, pressed against his body.

in one of his hands, he held the string of your bikini bottoms, which was tied into a neat bow, between his thumb and index finger, before gently tugging on the stretchy fabric and letting one side of the garment come undone, fall loosely off your midsection.

you lifted your hips slightly off rafe's, letting one of your hands to snake from his back, down to your pussy, pushing the loose material of the swimsuit to the side. the new lack of coverage on your lower half allowed for much more friction as you settled back down on his lap.

rafe's hard cock bulged through his trunks as you moved back and forth against him, your face still concealed in his neck but now dipping down to pepper kisses along his collarbone. his shorts rubbed against your clit, the friction of the fabric mixed with the feeling of his dick thrusting up into you and brushing against your folds was enough to have you make a mess of his lap, covering it with your arousal in a matter of minutes.

"feels 's'good, rafe...'s'good, gonna cum." you babbled into his neck, continuing to squirm over him, keeping an unhurried pace.

"yeah, princess? gonna cum all over my trunks, huh? 'ts it, pretty girl...make a mess all over my lap, yeah?"

"mhm...gonna-hmm, fuck-"

your back arched at the way rafe's cock bucked up against you a certain way, sending a fluttering feeling straight to your core as you pushed your breasts firmly against his chest. his gaze flickered up from your pussy on his lap, to the full skin of your tits. the suncream you had applied earlier gave them a glowy shine, highlighting their plump, round shape and the way they swayed as you continuously shifted your body.

a low groan caught in his throat as he took in the sight of you grinding on his clothed dick, tits mashed against his toned chest, eyes low and hooded with fatigue from sitting in the sun for far too long. strands of his hair had fallen out from the cap he had on, falling casually over his forehead.

rafe spread his legs further apart, providing you with more access to his large cock and allowing you to sink further down onto it. taking full advantage of the new position, you quickened your pace ever so slightly, drawing out your long-awaited release.

"mmm, gonna cum, rafe," your voice so whiny and distressed and needy. a sound that rafe could listen to on repeat every second of every day.

"c'mon, baby, make a mess on me, pretty girl c'mon, that's it..."

"mmm oh f-ffuckkk-" your steady thrusts over his hips turned into shudders as you slowed to a stop, wrapping your arms tightly around your boyfriend's neck.

you lifted your head off his shoulder to finally meet his gaze, only to find him staring down at the mess you made all over his lap with his mouth slightly ajar. white, sticky liquid coated his swimming trunks, causing wet, sloppy sounds whenever either of you shifted

a soft hum left your lips and you moved your hands from rafe's neck to his chest, lightly tracing circles over his skin. finally, he lifted his to meet your eyes, a small smile playing on his lips, "did s'fucking good f'me, princess."

you returned the smile, pressing a quick peck to his lips before placing your head back on his shoulder and shutting your eyes. no longer caring about the sun beating down on your back.

okayyy, so this is my first time writing a blurb, still getting used to it tbh. I'm a person who naturally writes A LOT, lmao, so I still have to get used to wiring only like 200 words or so for blurbs.

very out of my comfort zone to say the least, but I love me a cute little blurb so I wanna start writing more of them. anywaysss hope you guys enjoy this one, please let me know if there's anything else you'd like to see from me, my messages are OPEN <333.

[the-dixon-effect]

The way back home

summary: While out looking for Sophia, Y/N is attacked in the woods by a group of men. After managing to fight them off, she heads towards the farm and is noticeably... changed.

word count: 1.5k

pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader

warnings: blood, gore, weapons, fainting, usual twd stuff

Your ears were ringing and your vision blurred. Four bodies lay on the ground in a formation that was anything but neat. From head to toe, you were covered in a thick layer of red. Unbeknownst to you, who stood motionless in a bloody trance, you could've easily been mistaken for a character in a cheap horror movie.

You blinked, once, twice. What the hell just happened? You inspected the nightmarish scene and suddenly it was coming back. You had been searching for Carol's little girl... what was her name? Sophia, yes. The last thing you remembered was a dirty hand covering your mouth before you reached for your knife... and the rest was a blur. Upon closer inspection, it became clear that you shot two of the guys with your short-range pistol, one in the head and one in the neck. You scrambled for your knife, which should've been tucked away in its holster, but instead, you spotted it plunged deep into the skull of one of the sickos who came at you. There was a single body left. The largest of the four men bore a filthy grey t-shirt, camo pants and combat boots. You rolled his limp body over to discover a big pool of dark red blood. You had... you had slashed his neck open. Suddenly you felt a pit in your stomach rise to your mouth and- you were about to be sick.

After expelling the only energy you had left in your body, you realised at once what that familiar growling meant, coming from a few metres away. Shit, you thought, you had to get out of here now before the men you killed start trying to kill you again, in a much more gruesome way.

You ran and ran, and could only hope you were going in the right direction. Collapsing beneath a tree, you glanced at your clothes and noticed your loose white tank top was stained completely red. After a little while the adrenaline wore off, and your stomach hurt like hell. Lifting up your shirt, it revealed a nasty cut from one end of your torso to the other. Immediately, the pain spread throughout your whole body and the excessive bleeding was almost unbearable. One of the guys must have slashed at you with a knife in an attempt to get you off of them.

Your thoughts were fading away, and it was getting harder and harder not to pass out right there. Suddenly, you heard a faint voice in the distance.

"Sophia? Sophia!" You could barely hear the voice, let alone tell who it was. Hell, for a second you couldn't remember your own name. A man appeared in your sight, and you didn't know whether to be scared or thankful. Were you hallucinating? As he approached, you noticed that the man was wielding a crossbow... it was- it was Daryl.

"Y/N? Shit, Y/N! Can ya hear me?" you looked up at him, and he could tell just by looking that you could barely keep your eyes open. "Hey, hey, it's alrigh', it's alrigh'. I'm gon' get you back and Hershel's gonna fix you up, I promise."

Hearing Daryl's voice was like a lifeline. Setting down his crossbow on the ground, he helped you up and held you with your arm draped around his shoulder. As you headed back towards the Greene Farm, warm sunlight began to filter through the trees. It felt like your brain was moving at a quarter of the pace it should be, and the sight of the Greene house in the distance, though beautiful, felt like a million miles away as you and the archer trekked towards it.

"Y/N? Oh my God, Daryl, is she okay?" said Andrea as the two of you approached the house. You were a frightening sight to see, especially for certain members of the group that hadn't quite immersed themselves in this brutal apocalypse.

"Rick! She's got a- a nasty gash underneath her shirt. Hershel better take a look at it."

Right in that moment you collapsed on the ground, falling limply out of Daryl's strong arms. The tall grass of Hershel's pasture enveloped your body, and you could no longer hear the great commotion that was taking place. Despite the incredible amount of pain you were just in, sleep was heavenly.

First came a flurry of voices. Then, the white ceiling appeared and several blurred countenances around the room. Strangely, you couldn't remember a thing about how you got here.

"D-Daryl? Where's Daryl?" you asked, innocently. Suddenly, every face in the room turned to look at you. You were pale, very pale, yet you sat upright in the makeshift hospital bed resting on your forearms.

Following a sudden rush of people turning to surround your bedside, you blacked out again.

"Everyone, I would strongly appreciate it if we could give the girl some space," spoke Hershel, calmly.

"Ya think I could stay?" said Daryl.

"Alright, then. Just don't make a big fuss."

This time, you awoke to a cool breeze through the wide open window and noticed only two figures in the room. It looked like... Daryl and Hershel?

Hershel approached you and placed a hand on your forehead, and though you felt extremely hot and clammy, he seemed to deduce that you were going to be fine.

The door swung open and in entered Shane, Glenn and Hershel's youngest daughter, the blonde one... Beth. That was it.

A wave of confusion passed over you suddenly, as if, in a second, somebody has swiftly erased your memory. "Wh- Where am I? What are you doing here?" You sat upright once more and removed the rest of the covers from yourself. Your eyes were wide and a little bloodshot, and your mouth was shaped by a distinct frown.

"Y/N, Y/N, it's alright. Daryl tells me something happened out in the woods. I just need you to tell me the story. It's okay." said Shane, leaning into you.

"What story? What happened?" Tears began to fill your eyes as you spoke and it was like your whole body was consumed in a state of fright. Immediately, you began to hyperventilate as images of mutilated bodies clouded your mind.

"What's happening?" said Beth.

"She's in shock. Everybody out!" announced Hershel.

When you awoke later, you got out of the bed in the back room and entered the living room. Everyone was gathered around, seemingly waiting to find out what on earth had happened to you. Daryl relayed the story countless times to the likes of Dale, Rick, Shane and Maggie. Just like before, they all turned to face you as if you were some lost child, or a deer in headlights. Daryl captured your eyes and noticed how they seemed... different. The same cheerful, good-spirited girl suddenly appeared before him, pale and cold, and with a new thousand-yard stare that didn't go unnoticed by a single member of the group. If they didn't believe how harsh the new world was before, they certainly did now.

"Y/N, sit down," said Dale. His manner was kind yet you couldn't help but feel threatened by anyone who tried to communicate with you.

"Tell us what happened," spoke Rick.

"I- I don't remember..." you declared. Your legs were shaking and you held you face in your hands as you wracked your brain for anything, any trace of a memory of the event that occurred earlier that day.

Bodies.

How many bodies?

"There was... four. Four bodies. Which meant... four guys, I guess?" you looked up at this statement, this time receiving several pitiful looks from around the room.

Shane was about to speak when Rick raised his hand slightly, "Let her talk."

"I don't know- I don't know! There was... blood, there was so much blood," you began, trying to muster up anything you could. "Please can I go back to bed?" At this request, Daryl practically jumped up from his seat to help you and guided you back to the bedroom to rest.

A heated debate had broken out in the front room. How many more of these men are there? Are they dangerous? Is she even telling the truth? For some members, they feared the worst and assumed that this incident would be the first of many to come, involving a new threat; people.

(one day later, at dawn)

You sat with Daryl on the white porch, facing the sunset behind the trees. The trees, in fact, that the two of you had ventured out of the previous day. Although you hadn't known him long, you decided that you enjoyed his company most of all.

"You know, I think I'm going crazy, Daryl," you said, somewhat wistfully.

"Oh yeah, why's tha'?" he drawled.

"I was just walking 'round here, over in the woods. Saw some freak stumbling around. Went to look a little closer, and this sicko was dressed up like some kind of corpse! You know, fake blood and everything. Guess he was just trying to scare little kids or something."

[paranoiastudio]

pairing: Art Donaldson х f!reader

summary: A moment of intimacy with the cutest guy in the world

warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, sub!Art x dom!reader, masturbating

English is not my first language, sorry about mistakes

Cold and still slightly damp arms hug you from behind and you can’t help but snuggle closer to the man. Art is breathing heavily down your neck: he just finished his morning workout, took a shower and was next to you again. All this time you remained in a dark and cool room, wrapped in a large blanket.

- Mmm... Art, dear... - Words are difficult, yesterday you had too much wine and now you didn’t feel too good.

- It's time to get up, it's almost ten. - Art kisses the back of your head, you hear his hoarse laugh in response to your displeased whimper.

You stretch and Art intertwines your arms and legs, pressing you closer. Leaning against his strong chest, you give Art access to your neck and gasp when he immediately finds your pulse with his lips.

- Did we miss breakfast?

- You missed breakfast, my love. - The man smiles, covering your breasts, hidden by the fabric of his T-shirt, with a large calloused palm. - But I brought you something...

- And what is it? - You turn your head and immediately find yourself pulled into a kiss, neat and barely perceptible. It was as if Art was simply touching your lips with his own, standing on the thin line between tenderness and passion. - I didn't brush my teeth.

- I don't care. - Art reaches out for a kiss again, but you roll over and you find yourself face to face.

- I still feel bad... - Flying has always been difficult for you, and next to Art you fly much more often than usual.

- Did you take aspirin? - Concern immediately appears in his beautiful eyes. - Shall I bring you something?

- No, just stay here... - You squeeze Art’s hand and you silently lie together, sharing such a rare moment of peace and quiet.

- I love you. - You knew this, Art had already said this once, you saw his feelings for you, but so far you had never said it in response, deciding that you would only say it when you were absolutely sure of it.

Now, lying in a hotel room on the other side of the world from home, still drunk and swollen, you, listening to yourself, are silent again. You do so much for him. Does it really mean nothing that you dropped everything and went with him?

You kiss Art and move a little closer. Your sweet little boy never pressed you for an answer and you were grateful for that.

- I... - The man stutters as your warm hand touches him through his shorts.

- Hush, just let me take care of you. - You pull back the elastic, lower your shorts, then your panties, and stroke Art’s abs through the T-shirt; his body delighted you every time and you never missed an opportunity to touch him.

Grasping his half-erect member, you gently move your hand and squeeze his balls between two fingers. Art groans and you run your tongue along his long neck, catching a small bead of sweat between his collarbones.

- You shouldn’t strain yourself, there’s such an important match ahead. - You whisper, continuing to move your hand. - The situation is so nervous, I see how tense you are....

Art rests his forehead against yours and thrusts his hips forward, catching your touch. You spit on your palm, making your movements easier and speeding up.

-You can touch me, remember? - You smile at how quickly Art grabs your chest, as if he was waiting for permission. - Do not rush...

The man whines softly and tries to pull your shorts off, you willingly help him, never stopping teasing his dripping cock. It’s already wet between your legs and Art feels it, slowly spreading you apart with his fingers.

- I don't think you should be so overworked. - You take his hand away. - Just let me...

You find yourself close to him and push his penis, red with excitement, between your thighs. The warm friction causes a loud moan from your lover and he immediately begins to move, being squeezed by your legs.

You stroke Art’s head, he kisses your neck and chest, they are right in front of his face and the man continues to fuck himself between your soft and warm thighs.

- Oh God... - Art presses his face to your neck and hugs you much tighter. - I'll cum...

- Come on, baby, please... - Your hoarse voice spurred him on and you felt that he was on the edge.

Pulling back slightly, you take the throbbing member in your hand and insert it into yourself in one smooth motion. Art screams like a wounded bird and you feel him cum copiously inside you.

You move your hips a few more times, taking everything he gives you. The man kisses your sweaty skin, breathes heavily and continues to thrust into you until you calm down completely.

- Thank you... - He always accepted your caresses with such gratitude that it could not help but excite your ego.

You feel him go limp inside you, cum mixed with your secretions running down your inner thigh and dripping onto the bed.

Without opening the hug, you close your eyes and purr blissfully, feeling pleasantly full. All he has to do is cum inside you and you will be glad of it. Isn't this love?

Art doesn’t slip out of you, continuing to bask inside your velvety, warm walls. He clung to you like a child, leaving wet trails of kisses on your skin.

- You need to eat... - He speaks first. - And maybe we’ll go to the doctor?

- No need. I feel better now. - He inhales the aroma of shampoo from Art’s still wet hair and kisses his forehead. - It's always better next to you...

[gurugirl]

The Amateur | Special Preview

sugardaddy!ceo!harry x burlesque!dancer!yn

New Patreon exclusive short series preview! Part 1 out now on Patreon!

Series Summary: Y/n is a down-on-her-luck burlesque dancer sleeping in her car. Harry is a wealthy CEO looking for someone to spoil.

Preview Word Count: 1.7k

Her costume was lost or had never been ordered. She wasn’t sure. So, instead of having her first dance routine that night, she was booked to serve cocktails for a private party. Not how she envisioned her dance career progressing, but a job was a job. She needed the money. She needed to eat.

She was given a basic outfit to serve cocktails in. There were four cocktail waitresses. The little outfit was a bit showy for such a job, but she wouldn’t stick her nose up at it.

She curled her hair and pinned the front back and applied makeup. She adjusted her little outfit and tugged at the hem of the skirt. It barely covered her bottom. The tall heels were a touch too small for her feet but she took deep breaths and kept calm. The private party was in a large room (not the main room) with a small bar, some tables, and a stage.

She stood toward the entrance and watched the room get set up.

When the guests who’d booked the private party arrived, Y/n took her spot as directed and saw a group of ten men with nice suits and big attitudes walk in.

She immediately walked up to the table assigned to her and smiled brightly, “Welcome! Can I get you started off with a drink gentlemen?”

There were three tables for the guests and four cocktail waitresses spread amongst them.

Two beers, a whiskey neat.

Back and forth.

A round of shots for the group.

Water. Don’t forget the lemon.

No ice for the one with the grey suit and pink tie.

Her feet were killing her. She leaned against the bar and slid her shoes off for a moment of relief. The fucking things were an inch too high and a half inch too small, and she was struggling. She took a breather and watched over the table she was working. They had just gotten fresh refills and more water so they would be good for a bit.

The dancers on stage were having fun. Y/n could tell they were fill-ins. Not main stage worthy. Like Y/n, amateurs most likely.

Bethany put her hand on the bar next to Y/n, “Can you take my table their drinks? I need to go to the bathroom,” she told Y/n the order and ran off.

The bartender quickly got the order ready and Y/n reluctantly slid the borrowed heels back onto her feet. Somehow, the short rest for her feet only made putting the tight shoes back on worse. Her gait was affected. Her heels were blistered, and her toes were smushed in. She tried to maintain a natural stride on her way to the table but the only way she could stand to walk was to go very slowly.

“IPA?” She lifted the pint up and a man raised his hand as she placed the glass in front of him.

She handed off the drinks one by one and the last was a bourbon on the rocks. The only man who’d not yet been served was looking at her with anticipation of receiving his drink. She moved toward him and her attempt to not step fully down onto her heel had caused her to lose her balance and she dumped the whiskey onto the man’s nice suit.

She gasped and so did the man. Kicking her heels off she ran to the bar to grab towels and then back to the table.

“Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry, sir! This is my fault. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning…” She got to her knees and placed the towel over the top of his thigh and looked up at his face with worry and noted his surprised smile.

She used her other hand to wipe the table as she blotted the towel over his thigh. She had not expected a smile from him.

“Don’t worry. Happens to us all. I don’t need you to pay for the dry cleaning either,” he said as he took the towel from her.

His voice was calm and deep. He sounded British. She stood up and stared down at the man and realized how kind he looked. His smile was genuine and the dimples poking into his cheeks were boyish and cute. He had crystal green eyes and broad shoulders. He was handsome. She was thankful that he was kind.

“I’m really so sorry, sir. I feel so bad. I’ll get another one for you and make sure to put all your drinks on the house,” she knelt down to pick up her heels and as she turned to go back to the bar the man gently grabbed her wrist, “Another bourbon is fine. You don’t need to comp any of my drinks, though. Please. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s okay.”

She looked down to where he had her wrist. He had rings along his long fingers. His hand was big. She looked back up to his face with a smile, “Are you sure?”

The man with curly brown hair smiled and nodded, “I’m sure.”

The rest of the night was far less exciting. When Bethany returned Y/n went back to her original spot. But she couldn’t stop herself from looking at the other table to the man who’d been so kind to her, even after she ruined his suit. He was attractive and it was clear to Y/n that Bethany also thought so. She gave extra attention to him. Anyone would.

When the guests had left and Y/n could put on her sneakers, the room got cleared and everyone went their separate ways. The club didn’t serve food, which Y/n had kind of hoped it would. She was hungry. She’d barely eaten anything all day long. Her day started off early trying to perfect the routine but then after hours of practice, she learned she wouldn’t be on stage because her costume was nowhere to be found.

Running back and forth in tight heels to serve liquor was just as tiresome as dancing on a stage. And being hungry on top of it all was brutal. Her stomach was growling as she walked out of the club and to her car parked at the side of the building where all the employees parked.

“There you are!” The voice of a familiar-sounding man startled her.

Y/n jumped and lifted her head to find the British guy with the bourbon-stained suit approaching her. Her eyes widened. As nice as he seemed in the club, she was hesitant to give him her full trust at 1 am in a dark parking lot with no one else around.

The man stopped in his tracks, “I’m sorry. I know you probably didn’t expect to see me, but I noticed you walking out and thought I’d just come and, I don’t know… maybe say hi,” he suddenly seemed more timid. Perhaps he realized how scary it could be as a woman to be approached by a man in this way.

Y/n gripped her keys tight and looked around. His soft smile put her at ease a little, “Yeah. I figured you guys all left already. I was just leaving for the night. Everything okay?”

Even in her alert state, she still wanted to make sure the man was all right. She was probably too nice for her own good.

His husky laugh sounded like relief in Y/n’s ears and it made her smile, “Everything’s fine. I was hanging back. I have a friend who works here. Just happened to see you leaving is all.”

Dimples.

Bright eyes.

Dark curls.

Tattoos, that she hadn’t noticed until now with his sleeves bunched up to his elbows.

He was attractive and his demeanor slowly put her at ease. She loosened the grip on the keys in her hand and finally smiled at him genuinely.

“Oh. Who do you know?”

“The owner. Richard. Short guy,”

“Bald,” Y/n spoke with a smile and Harry grinned back at her and nodded.

“Yeah. I’ve known him for years. Always lets me get in for a quick last-minute private party if I need. A lot of my colleagues enjoy the atmosphere.”

Y/n nodded and kept her eyes on the man. They both fell silent.

“Uh,” he lifted his hand up in a waving gesture and rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m Harry.”

Y/n’s smile widened, “Y/n. It’s nice to meet you, Harry.”

Harry nodded and stayed in his spot on the other side of her little car. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by getting too close.

“So, guess you’re headed home, huh?” Harry looked at her little silver car and back to her.

Y/n nodded, “Yep,” she didn’t know what home meant but she would consider her car her home at the moment.

Harry looked down at his feet and back toward the car, “I uh, are you new here? I mean, I only ask because I’ve never seen you around.”

Y/n nodded, “First day. Was supposed to be in the main room on stage but my costume was never ordered or it was lost, or I don’t know… So they had me serving cocktails. I just need the money so I’ll do almost anything at this point,” she laughed and her shoulders relaxed a little more.

Harry’s brows furrowed and he frowned, “Understandable.”

The silence grew loud again and Y/n shifted on her feet. Suddenly the sound of her stomach gurgling in hunger filled in the space in between them and she laughed it off, “Wow. I should uh, go get something to eat.”

Harry kept the small frown on his face, “Well, there are plenty of places open. Vegas baby. Right?” He chuckled lightly, “I guess I should leave you alone, huh? So you can find a spot to grab a meal,” Harry spoke as he backed away from her car, and slowly headed toward the main parking area.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Harry. Thank you for being so kind to me on my first day,” she slid the key into her door to unlock it and kept her eyes on the man.

He nodded and put his hands into his pockets, “It was nice meeting you, Y/n. And I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again. I’m around often.”

A/N: This 3 part series will only be posted on Patreon. If you'd like more of this, I'd be so thankful to you for subscribing! xoxo

[thecynthh]

a little ink - C.S

summery - y/n is journaling in bed but chris gets bored of his phone and begins to play around with y/n's stationary.

notes - fluff <33333, chris is so boyfriend, i thought the fandom needed more fluff, short

a/n - hey yall, this is an apology gift because ive been bad on being active and writing so enjoy this lil thing i whipped up.

——————————————————————————

——————————————————————————

i stationed myself on my side of the large bed with a little tray table on top of my bare legs. my shorts barely covered up to my mid thigh so the vent near me was absolutely chilling. i begin to go slowly when i'm trying to write a title for my next page, i began to journal when my boyfriends brother and my therapist recommended it to me, despite how simple matt’s was, I thought i could take it up a notch and make it a little cutesy. 

my pencil case was jam packed with highlighters, colourful pens and high quality markers, my concentration stays strict on the page in front of me, i tried to keep my penmanship neat while i'm trying to write something in cursive. a warm hand wraps around my ankles as i look down beside me seeing chris look at me with want in his eyes. “hi chris,” i simply say looking at the boy while i put the cap back onto my brush tip marker. 

“hi baby,” he looks up at me with a beaming bright smile, he just radiates good energy and love. he drops his phone beside him now playing a song instead of the various audios from tiktok. 

his hand sneaks up into my pencil case grabbing a yellow marker from it. he uncaps it and i feel the light pressure of it press down onto my skin, the yellow marker glides along my scar, he continues to draw past it to make a star out of the previously hurt skin. chris knew i was self conscious about my scars, it was a permanent reminder of the pain i went through in highschool. 

he didn’t care though. he continued to draw random doodles on my leg, moving on to my arms where more scars lay hurt, he switched out his marker for a different colour the more he explored. little hearts, stars and chris’ signature riddle my legs and arms, i feel his writing getting a bit faster. It looks like a sentence but i couldn’t quite read it.

 i stopped what i was doing a long time ago, now just admiring what he was doing. he was so focused on writing his signature on the larger line of a scar i had on my arm using the line from my body to represent the line through the dollar sign he always made whenever he wrote his name. 

he does a very magnificent heart beside his name, filling it in still trying to be very soft on  my skin as the ink seeps in. he plants a fulfilling kiss onto the scar now covered in orange ink, he looks up at me with a little bit of a knowing look painted on his face. “im sorry, it was only meant to be a little ink but your scars are beautiful, as is the rest of you.” his finger underlines the sentence imprinted on my skin as he reads it out. 

“chris i'm gonna cry oh my gosh. you are so cute, you know that?” i saw trying to hold back a sob. 

a chuckle escapes his smiley lips “i love you so much y/n” his lips make contact with the star that started the rest of the pseudo tattoos. i wish i could keep this image in my head forever, because this was a moment too precious to let go of.

taglist - @westwiing13 @comet235 @mayhem73

[dhampling]

the kitchen 18+ gn!reader x potwasher!astarion au, 2k

He‘s not the sort to linger among the rabble of the kitchen at the end of the evenings. The fact you were barely aware of his existence prior to now speaks volumes. - based on a discussion with @bhaalism. he's a potwasher. you want to fuck the potwasher. this started as a joke and now i'm obsessed. enjoy. cw: 18+, astarion is a potwasher, this is an au, you work in a shitty chain restaurant, sex, reader smokes, astarion vapes, creampies, oh no, gn reader i think

Before he’d caught you short of smokes, you’d never paid him much mind. 

Hair back in some messy swoop - grey, although you could swear under the fluorescent light of the kitchens it shone a bright white. Some age to his almost-crimson eyes but nothing too notable. 

Your pockets empty, patting down a food-encrusted apron in a tired resignatory furor - and he’d offered his vape silently under the back-door shelter. Minty. The familiar clouds in the walk-in, the occasional lingering menthol smell from his station. Your smoke breaks rarely align but this evening the stars shone between the fuzzy gaps in soaking clouds overhead and they gave you something new. Nicotine, chewed mouthpiece. 

There’d been a small exchange at the doorway following his outreach. 

He watched you with an inquisitive head tilt, eyes sharp with a dark smudge of lash - as if he were seeing you for the first time in this haze of heavy rain. Looked out to the bins with a deep breath and snorted at the overflow.

Astarion. Pot-wash extraordinaire, announced with a churlish eye-roll and some quiet clack of his tongue in your direction. He’d never so much as looked at you prior that you’d noticed, but now his gaze was locked on your inhale as if to watch the clear liquid leave the tank in real time. Lids flickering up to etch your side profile somewhere in the silver span of his mind. Another name to know. Another person to potentially cover his Sunday lates if he can get through to you, though.  

The name sounded far too beautiful, too distinct; but the pallor suggested local blood in those thick bluish veins. No freckles nor warmth in his ridiculously high cheeks, just the breeze of an oft-downturned nose and a passing fondness for the half-full bottles of red left by your tables, chugged (naturally) in a messy snorting huff over the running sink. Dribbles of dry red down that statuesque marble chin and a cack handed holler from the weekend porter - who would just as quickly be walloped over the head with the neat strike of a folded tea-towel.

His sniff at your thanks, the brief noncommittal nod before he tucked the vape back into his trouser pocket and dived back inside.

Camaraderie. That’s it.

-

It’s a week later when you both find yourselves outside again, falling through the back door out into another dark downpour to find him huddled to your left; drowning in an oversized outdoorsy coat with vape in hand. 

He catches your eye once more with a small smile

“Astarion, right?”

“Well remembered.”

You fish in your jacket pocket and pull out a disposable vape box, handing it over with a hurried smile.

“For the other night.”

“Could’ve just got the juice, you know.”

He hesitates on taking it, holding your stare. 

“I know. This was easier though. I’m not going to a vape store.” You grin and he snorts, taking the box from your hand.

“Well. Thank you. Most unexpected.”

You stand in amenable silence for a few moments, lighting your poison whilst he puffs away into the night. 

“How long have you been here, then?” You ask, flicking the ash into the wet and folding your arms.

“Too long. Far too long. You?”

“I’d say the same, but we haven’t really crossed paths before; have we?”

“Shame.”

He bristles as he says it. Some easy poke at wooing, you think. 

You could be swayed.

He is pretty. Really pretty. With those looks you’re almost surprised he’s not the rake of the joint, but your co-workers seem ridiculously oblivious to him - and he isn’t too endeared with them either, from what you can tell. He‘s not the sort to linger among the rabble of the kitchen at the end of the evenings, nor is he one of the roaring personalities that carry all the way through to the bar counter in their jovial roaring. The fact you were barely aware of his existence prior to now speaks volumes.

“What do you do when you’re not here, then?”

He looks back at you in a guarded ponder, eyes narrow.

“I spend the odd day off on my yacht, obviously; but only when my sprawling country mansion is undergoing renovations.”

You offer a laugh and he smirks. The humour is poor but salient.

“Ah! We might be neighbours, you know.”

“The mansion?”

“No, the dock. My weeknight yacht was newly refurbished there!”

“Oh, what luck!”

“We’ll have to host a dinner party or something. It’s only proper.”

Astarion gives you a laugh you’ve never heard before - loud and airy, almost comical if it weren’t for the sincere rumble toward the end.

“Dinner party! Oh yes. Absolutely. With little vol-au-vents and hors d’ouvres.”

“A must have.”

“I agree, darling. It’s a date.”

As he puts his vape back in his pocket and bids you farewell with a small wave of those pale hands, you lean back on the closed door with an uncharacteristic light-headedness.

-

Darling.

You’re given too much time to stew on it, the slight exuberant lilt of his voice. The roundness of his eyes as he spoke with you in jest. The fact he didn’t smell like kitchen grease but instead some warm note of vetiver and menthol. The fact you even noticed how he smelled.

As a new evening rounds off you find yourself with little else to do but search for him behind the service window, and you’re quietly delighted by what you find.

The smattering of white-shock curls - back arched as he leans over the empty prep station, ass high in a light nonchalant sway as your fellow servers dash to visit the kitchen in search of dead plates to devour. The quirk of a brow as the head chef gives freely to those who ask, whittling down a single stale fry with small bites as he observes.

You hadn’t expected things to change after your encounter, and to that point, they definitely haven’t.

You’re just more aware of him now. 

When he catches you watching almost immediately from afar, you offer him a small grin whilst he shifts to wholly capture your gaze. A challenge. The corner of his mouth lifts as he moves to hold your stare, calm and cool; with that fox-like tilt of his head to the side. 

You could picture it. 

The linger after lock-up, satchel on his shoulder as he catches you waiting for him. 

The slight moment of bewilderment before it becomes easy banter - even though restrained - once more. A quip on his part, maybe; some query as to what you’re waiting for as he hangs onto your every word in focused anticipation.

Maybe a drink at the bar down the road - but more likely in your mind a stop at the nearest off-licence to pick up a bottle or two of that wine he likes, as you dance around each other in a waiting quiet, bristling. Fluorescent corner-store lights giving his hair that unnatural sheen while he prowls the aisles and heads to the till, head turned back to see you waiting; eyes on him at the door. He’s heavy lidded the whole walk to his, hands kept to themselves for the walk up the stairs. The rattle of keys in the lock.

You reckon his flat - it has to be a flat, he couldn’t keep a whole house on your wage - is littered with burnt incense sticks and plush rugs and cushions in every jewel tone you can possibly imagine yet it feels so very him. He ushers you through to the living room and the awkward dance begins with the sofa, but he keeps you at ease. Collects wine glasses from the kitchen and pours with a flourish before settling back onto the seat and encouraging you with some typically witty output to do the same. 

Candles. You didn’t see him lighting them, but they’re lit. The air is heavy with orange flower, patchouli; musk - vetiver and menthol as he exhales, insisting you’re okay to smoke if you like, but passing you his vape wordlessly as you reach for it. Fingers brushing as you do. You talk for a small while, but you both know why you’re here.

His eyes move to the open buttons of your chest as he deftly wets his bottom lip, and you take it as your chance to place your glass on the side table and ask if you’re okay to shed the shirt completely. It’s far too warm in there. 

The candles, obviously. That’s why.

His coy nod, the languid blink as he watches your fingers dance your shirt open and pry the black shirt from your chest. Your deep exhale as you settle back into the sofa, lying slightly back with your legs angled toward him; glass back in hand.

His breath hitches. You notice it. He’s practically purring.

When he sets his glass aside in a pretence of pouring more wine, you reach for his arm to halt him from filling yours - now empty - and like a tense spring, he snaps. 

Time slows as he reaches for your wrist and tilts his head once more, your enthusiastic nod giving him the permission he seeks; and brings your hand quickly down the solid span of his torso to the achingly hard bulge of his cock, letting your palm rest over the top of his trousers. 

Wet. Fuck.  

His slow-primal groan as you gently stroke at the sodden patch of precum, cupping to warm him through his clothes whilst he bucks lightly toward you. Towards the pressure, the warmth you can provide.

From then, you can feel yourself growing sticky. Shuffling as you race to disrobe. You picture the stony length of his cock freed from those awful work trousers and glistening something bulbous and glassy in the low light, your own fevered want reaching its peak as you bare yourself and he pulls you into a kneeling hover over him.

To feel the soft velvet of his tip brushing your arousal. There’s no need for foreplay. No need for any preparation of the sort, you’re both craving the relief. He offers his hand to catch a pool of your spit and lubricates his length in long, steady jerks. 

Even they can’t mask the shudder of his breath. The fluttering of those smoky lashes as he rubs himself onto your waiting hole, watching; allowing a slip inside every few moments and waiting for your eager gasp each and every time.

Then, you sink onto him - and it’s bliss. Complete and utter bliss. You’ve never felt so full nor so weak in your whole entire life and for a moment you’re worried he’s ruined you. His heady moans of pleasure as you adjust around him. The space where you meet, where he impales you; runs soaking with arousal and sweat. 

You move to ride him like your life depends on it. You’re his sweet little thing, his angel; and you are being so very good for him as you take his cock. His palms remain glued to the fat of your ass whilst his cool fingers dig deep into the ripe flesh and he bounces you up and down on his forearms with some remarkable strength.

His. 

His, his; his. His beautiful thing. He’s perfect under you, with his pathetic desperate whimpers and the face of a wanton adonis; sturdy shoulders your anchor, for fear you’ll simply float away with sheer unbridled pleasure.

When he cums, he makes a point to do it inside you. Holds your thighs down so you can’t hop off nor be tempted to ride him through his peak; so you can feel him twitch and pulse inside you, ropes and ropes of his thick, hot spend painting your insides. His.

He’s called back to finish the last few pots on the side, and you silently rejoice in your sticky save as he winks goodbye through the bar window; eyes lingering on his ass as he walks slowly back to the service sink.

Fuck.

[witchywithwhiskey]

Hey hey! How about...

16. trying something new

With...😏

first-time plant parents

pairing: husband!ari levinson x female reader

warnings: domestic fluff, referenced smut (not really 18+ but i'd always rather minors do not interact!), kissing, little bit of dry humping, non-graphic sex, pet names (sunshine)

word count: 1,500ish

a/n: thank you for sending in this prompt Navy!!! i have no excuse for this except i just think starting a vegetable garden with ari would be neat 🤷🏼‍♀️ this is so so so so self-indulgent but i hope y'all enjoy ♡♡

You were surprised by how good it felt to get your hands dirty, your fingers sinking into the rich soil as you scooped some up and patted it down around the tomato seedling you’d just planted. Sitting back on your heels, you looked down the row of tomatoes you’d finished planting, a sense of accomplishment settling deep into your body and making you smile to yourself. 

But it seemed you weren’t the only one to take pride in your efforts, as a warm, familiar voice called, “Lookin’ good, sunshine,” from the other side of the small vegetable garden you and your husband had set up in your backyard. 

Lifting your eyes from the row of tomato seedlings you’d carefully planted, your gaze collided with that of your husband, Ari Levinson, his brilliant blue eyes sparkling in the bright spring sunshine. His grin was wide as he used a hand to push his golden brown hair back from his face, pride and affection shining in his gaze as he looked at you. 

Your smile widened in return, and you raised a hand to shade your eyes so you could see his progress. “How’re the herbs coming?” you asked, your eyes skimming along the basil, rosemary and mint you’d decided to plant. They were in their own planter boxes to ensure they didn’t overrun the garden, and it looked like your husband was done with the task. “They look good.”

You’d never had a vegetable garden before—at least, not one of your own. Your grandmother had one when you were little, your father taking you into the impressively large garden to show you where they’d planted spinach and tomatoes and green beans and rhubarb. 

But with that garden long since gone and both your grandmother and father having passed, you’d told Ari you wanted to try your hand at growing some veggies of your own. Your husband had been excited to try it, even though he had less experience than you.

But he’d jumped into it as eagerly as you, digging up a little plot in your backyard and setting up a fence so that the animals didn’t get to your herbs and veggies. The garden was bigger than the meager crop you’d decided to plant that first year—just the herbs, your tomatoes and some spinach—but Ari said the two of you would grow into it.  

“Do they look as good as your husband?” Ari asked teasingly, drawing you out of your thoughts and back into the moment. 

You couldn’t help but smile as you got to your feet, brushing your hands off on your shorts and picking your way across the garden to your husband. You bent down to look at the planter boxes, making a show of assessing his work in planting the herbs. When you’d drawn it out long enough, you stood back up and looked to your husband, having to stifle a laugh when you saw he’d somehow managed to get streaks of dirt across his forehead.

“They look better than you,” you said, barely contained laughter making your voice waver as you reached up and tried to brush the dirt from Ari’s forehead, asking, “How did you manage to get dirt here?” However, since your hands were also covered in dirt, you only managed to make things worse. Ari laughed at your wince of apology. 

“I think you’ve got a little something, too,” he said playfully, brushing his dirty fingers over the tip of your nose. You were certain you didn’t have any dirt on your nose, which meant he’d just gotten you dirty for no good reason.

Gasping in mock outrage, you jumped back as he reached for your face again, knocking his hand away. “Don’t get me more dirty than I already am!” you cried, but you were laughing as you fended off your husband’s filthy, reaching hands. 

You danced around the garden, trying to avoid Ari and your plants, but after a few moments, you decided to go on the offensive. “Let’s see how you like getting dirty!” you yelled, darting close to your husband and swiping your fingers across Ari’s cheek, leaving behind a new streak of dirt above the line of his beard. 

However, Ari didn’t let you escape, wrapping his strong arms around your waist and hauling you up against his chest. “Do your worst, sunshine,” he challenged, laughing right along with you. 

Since his hands were busy holding onto you and yours were free, you brushed even more dirt on his cheeks, giggling as you got him even dirtier. But it wasn’t long before your giggles died down and the two of you were left pressed against one another, your chests heaving as you caught your breath and stared into each other’s eyes.

You could feel your body warming, which seemed to be a natural reaction to your husband’s closeness, your nipples tightening and heat sinking low to settle in your core. Squirming in Ari’s arms, you could feel your expression change, your eyes turning pleading as an aching need built up in your body.

“Stop looking at me like that, sunshine,” Ari rumbled, a gruff warning in his tone. You could feel his body responding to you, his arousal digging into your belly and making your legs tremble beneath you. “Or I’m liable to take you right here—garden be damned.”

Ari’s words sent new tendrils of heat curling through your body, even as they knocked some sense into you and you managed a playful gasp, pressing a hand to your chest as you pretended to be scandalized. “Not in front of the plants, Ari,” you scolded, your tone more flirtatious than chastising. 

Your husband grinned, squeezing you tighter, and ducked down to capture your lips in a searing kiss that had you melting against his chest. Your fingers dove into Ari’s beard, clinging to him and holding him close while you devoured each other. When you whimpered into the kiss and rocked your body against Ari’s bulge, he pulled away with a groan.

“Sunshine,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours and drawing in deep, heavy breaths that pushed his chest against yours in the most delicious way. “If you don’t want our little seedlings exposed to our dirty deeds so early in their lives, you’re gonna have to let me take you inside now,” he murmured in a serious tone, but you could see the corners of his mouth flickering with his need to grin. “Because the idea of seeing you blissed out and satisfied in the garden we made is sounding better by the second.”

“Then take me inside, husband,” you said huskily, a smirk tugging at the edges of your lips, “because you are not fucking me the dirt.”

Wrapping one of his hands around the back of your neck, Ari held you still while he kissed you again, his tongue plundering your mouth until your mind was fuzzy and you’d mostly forgotten where you were. You knew that had been Ari’s intention when his lips trailed along your jaw, nipping and kissing your skin until his mouth brushed the edge of your ear.

“What if I made love to you in the grass?” he rumbled teasingly, bending down to grab your leg and hitch it over his hip so he could press his bulge into the apex of your thighs. His grunt was loud in your ear, but it didn’t drown out the low, filthy moan that slipped from your lips.

Still, you weren’t so far gone that you’d let Ari have his way with you just anywhere. “What about the shower?” you countered, your voice high-pitched and breathy, making your husband chuckle as he kissed down your neck. 

Then you were shrieking in surprise and delight as Ari hauled you off your feet and threw you over his shoulder, carrying you into the house to finish what you’d started. He took you in the shower, the two of you laughing as much as you kissed, taking turns washing the grime of dirt from each other’s skin before sinking into the familiar rhythm of your bodies coming together.

Later, when you were both sated and clean and the sun was sinking lower toward the horizon, you stood in the grass outside the fence of your humble little vegetable garden. Ari stood at your back, his arms circling your waist and holding you close as you both took pride in the work you’d accomplished that day. 

“Do you think we’ll be good first-time plant parents?” you asked softly, your fingers trailing idly through the hair on Ari’s arms. Tilting your head to the side, you wondered if you’d watered the newly transplanted seedlings enough to make the transition easier for them.

“I think we’ll do our best,” Ari murmured, curling his body around yours and pressing a kiss to your temple while he squeezed you tighter in his arms. “I think we’ll give them all the love they need, and I think they’ll flourish because of it.” 

A pleased smile curved your lips and you hummed in agreement, leaning back further against Ari, knowing your husband spoke the truth. After all, you’d done the same with each other—you’d given each other all the love in your hearts and both of you had flourished. Ari was your partner, your husband, the love of your life, and you wouldn’t want to be first-time plant parents with anyone but him.

[allfearstofallto]

Initiate

Male (Pure) Sydney x Fem! Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

TW: 18+ MDNI, dub-con, exhibitionism, chastity cage, oral (f. receiving)

An initiate who hasn't been seen in the temple in weeks, Sydney wonders what happened to you. Your visits to the church lessened and lessened, until one day you just stopped showing up. Your presence wasn't forgotten quickly, not just by him, but by all other members of the church. Whispers would flow through the walls, whispers of impurity, of falling into lust.

At school you were the pinnacle of kindness and popularity. Loved by all, and sweet even to those who aren't to you. He finds it hard to believe what the other initiates say. Yet you still never visited the temple.

Sydney knows it's wrong to follow you, he asked the goddess for forgiveness, but curiosity gets the better of him. What would keep someone formally so committed to the church away from it? And what it was, was a strange building. Only a few streets away from the shop his father had purchased, he watched you enter that unmarked place, the filthy metal grey door closing behind you. It was in an awful part of town, and sketchy as well. After hours went by, his worry for you grew.

Grasping at his cross, Sydney followed you inside. He was met with an awful scent, similar to the communion wine, but stronger, loud pounding music, and worst of all, a plethora of people, none of them looking as if they had good intentions. In the middle of the room was a stage, and on the stage was you. In a state of undress, you were only covering your modesty with a pair of underwear. So thin it could barely be called fabric, more like strings on your groin, not leaving much to the imagination.

He flushed beneath his thick glasses, wanting to say something, but also finding himself entranced with the crowd of people. Your dancing was mesmerizing, your body…Sydney gulped and gripped his holy pendant tighter. Your body was heavenly, even as sweat soaked between every crevice of it. Your plush thighs gripping the polr in front of you, your heel clad feet making you twirl, showing off all your assets.

The voice in his head that's telling him to leave is drowned out by the feeling in his shorts. For the first time in his life, his chastity cage holding his cock is uncomfortable, it's too tight, it's painful as his hardening length presses against the confines. He tries to leave, but he can't. Not when you're on the floor of the stage dancing, money cushioning the hard wood as more wads of cash are thrown at you.

The people around the stage are like ravenous animals, hands clawing for just a touch of your skin. Their lips spew such venomous words of what they want to do to you, objectifying your body in ways he's never heard before. Some are even…fondling themselves. It's a sight that makes him gasp in shock, turning his head away before forcing himself to look back. Sure enough it's true, as you dance lewdly across the floor, they're touching themselves. It's disgusting. But he doesn't feel himself growing softer in his pants.

You sit with your legs open, already towards the crowd with a mischievous smile. Your finger dips inside your thong, hooking around the fabric. Slowly, tantalizing, you pull it down your body, down your thighs, down your shins, and last your heels. You hold the thong up with your legs still spread, your pussy dripping as you toss it out into the crowd, where they practically tackle each other to take it.

Up on that stage where you sit naked, body bare for everyone to see, money being tossed at you left and right, you finally lock eyes with him. It's be hard not to notice him, clearly out of place in a grimy area such as this, and still wearing his neat school uniform. A look of shock forms on your face when you see him there, shock and shame, but it's gone before any of your patrons can notice. You're back to being a temptress, an erotic dancer of the night, you curl your finger at him, beckoning him closer. Like his body has no mind of his own, he steps to you.

You ease yourself closer to the edge of the stage, the height of it meaning he's face to face with your dripping core between your legs. He's never been so close to something like this before, not outside the church. It's glistening beneath the flashing lights and only getting wetter as his hazel eyes look upon it. The smell is intoxicating, sweet like honey, he wonders if your nectar tastes the same.

“C’mon, lick it,” your voice so sultry it's like a song, you gesture for him to come even closer, until he can feel the what of your cunt against his face, “Give them a show.”

He looks around at the room of peopy, all eyes on him. They're hungry. They're ravenous. They're waiting patiently. With shaking hands he reaches up to spread your folds, begging the goddess for forgiveness once again. His hesitant tongue slithers from his mouth and he traces a reluctant lick all the way from your hole to your slit. The taste is…delectable.

Sydney pulls away from a second, thinking about what he'd just done, but when he looks up and meets your eyes, your cheeks flushed as you pant, he can't find it in himself to care. He dives back into your cunt, lapping away at your folds messily. His tongue finds it's way inside you, his hand reaching up to rub at your clit. If you're putting on a performance, it's a good one, moaning and squirming against his ministrations.

He can hear the way the crowd cheers, hear their filthy words and disgusting comments. He can hear it all, but if sounds like nothing to him. Nothing matters to him. Not when you're tangling your fingers in his hair and dripping down his chin, coating his face in that delectable, honeyed wetness. His glasses grow foggy, but it doesn't matter. His fingers dig into your thighs as he sucks at your clit, making your hips buck off of the stage.

“Ahh…yes…yes Sydney, just like that,” you moan for him, body trembling beneath his touch.

You cum for him beautifully, a sense of pride filling him as you yank your body away from his touch to spasm on the stage. Your twitching cunt dripping down on all the bills below you. The crowds burst into cheers as Sydney’s mind looses it's cloudiness, as realization hits him. You pick up your clothes to leave the stage, but he's already rushing out the door before you can even dress. Our the door and down the street, he pants while wiping his mouth, trying to collect himself and think of what he did.

He'll have to stay on his knees for hours to pray for salvation and hope for forgiveness, it's only fair that he does. His chest heaving he looks down at his shorts, they're damp to the touch. He steps in an alleyway to the side to check on himself, opening his pants he sees his caged cock, covered and smeared in a white fluid.

[cillivnz]

TRICKSTER

pairing. anakin skywalker x f!reader

trope. best friends decide to fuck? idk.

synopsis. when you decide to flex your tricks with a keg-stand on anakin, he decided to drink with you, but not the liquor— your pussy.

warnings. NSFW. 18+. modern au. porn without plot, alcohol consumption, brief dubcon (turns consensual), cunnilingus, brief ass-eating (return of analkin), outdoors, cursing, mention of alcohol poisoning, pet-names, slight degradation, vaginal fingering, breast-play, cum-eating.

a/n. i need both things incorporated here; a keg stand and anakin eating me out. i’ve used a picture of sam monroe here, i just felt like it fit the au better, let me know if you guys maybe would wanna read something for him? twirls hair, bats eyelashes at you.

“ANI, WATCH THIS,” you ask him, for the third time in a row to watch you cannonball into the lavish pool. anakin feigns faux pride in you, clapping sarcastically when you swim up to the surface to see his reaction.

the clear poison coursing through your veins, the bittersweet smirnoff that you’ve been chugging neat, had began working its magic into your senses.

you were home alone, your parents’ place left to you all by yourself as they left for business outside of coruscant. with the sun shooting heatwaves directly at your city, you decided what better way to make peace with your solitude than to invite your childhood best friend over to drink the day away?

ANAKIN SKYWALKER WAS MORE than happy to oblige to your “pretty please’s,” pulling up to the house in nothing but black trunk shorts, while you were in a black, skimpy bikini.

he’d been ogling at you the whole time, too.

you pretended not to notice the bite of his lip when your cleavage would come into sight, and shrug away the feeling of his eyes devouring your ass whenever you had your back towards him.

with his help, you had set up a keg-stand, eager to impress with some tricks up your sleeve.

“hey, anakin,” you called out, a mischievous half-smile tugging at your lips. “hm?” he looked up to you. the liquor trickling down his stubbled chin, his brows furrowed at the feel of his tastebuds dying at the hands of the alcohol. using the back of his large hands, he wiped off his face.

you squirmed at the sight.

he was your best friend, but you had eyes.

anakin’s always been a gorgeous boy, the perfect man to have. easy on the eyes, funny, attentive, possessive, and just so, so good to you.

and only you, it seems.

nobody else gets this princess treatment, none but you.

you smiled triumphantly, you were fawning over a man that wasn’t even yours, but you’d be damned if you cared to stop.

“check this out!” you raced over to the stand, getting in position to start chugging.

WAS THIS A BAD IDEA? probably.

would you care to stop? fuck no.

anakin looked over at you, amused. he raised a brow at your current state; ass in the air, tits flopping in the barely covering bikini top, your form slightly wavering, causing him to walk over to you.

“very impressive, trickster.” he tried not to chuckle. “need help?” he asked, snaking his hands around your waist to steady you. your heart skipped several beats at the gesture, now realising how awkward this position is.

his face so close— too close to your ass— that you felt his hot breath on your wet skin.

his hands began to roam, kneading the flesh— whatever flesh he could touch, massaging your waist and hips, before making his way to your chest. you nearly choked on the beer shooting up your mouth when he untied the strings of your bikini, letting the top fall to the ground.

“hey, sweetheart,” he mocked your earlier tone,

“SWEETHEART, WATCH THIS!” he grinned devilishly before shifting your thong to the side and shoving his face between your folds.

your legs instinctively wrapped around his shoulders, trying so hard not to choke on the relentless liqueur shooting through the pipe.

anakin was cruel, what if the liquid went down the wrong hole and you choked to death?

speaking of the wrong hole, his tongue now licked the tight rim of your ass, smirking to see you writhe in discomfort.

“anakin, what the f—” you gasped for air as the pipe left your mouth.

“shh,” anakin spoke against your drooling slit, sending shivers down your spine (or up, since you are hanging upside down?) “don’t waste, and show me all the tricks you’ve been talking my ear off to show.” his arm wrapped around your slim waist to steady you, while the free hand traveled down to your chest to pinch and pull at your nipples.

you moaned, gushing around his face. his little stubble pricked at your skin, while his tongue sent sharp jolts of pleasure through you when he taunted your clit with the tip; the sensation, delicious, much like the taste of you for anakin.

“such a sweet cunt, i can’t believe it took just one bottle of vodka to get you laid out for me.” he slurred against you, sucking harshly on your clit, easing a finger into your walls.

you moaned pornographically, gagging on the pipe.

for your sake, and his, he better finish what he started before you die of alcohol poisoning.

but with the fervency with which he was assaulting your poor pussy, you ought to rest assured.

“cum on my tongue, slut. i wanna taste you in my mouth, not the booze.” he grabbed you by the hips and began grinding your entire body on his face; drenched in your juices, but not once stopping, he sucked the soul out of your swollen clit, while his fingers curled against your g-spot.

you clenched your thighs around his head, not that anakin minded, struggling to drink beer while anakin was doing just fine drinking your juices.

with one final lick on your clit, and one final thrust of two of his fingers, he had you coming undone in his mouth, like he wanted.

he helped you down, but wouldn’t leave you alone. he groped your breasts roughly, shoving his tongue into your mouth. you weren’t even given a jiffy to yourself to breathe.

when he broke the kiss, he had that mischievous look on his face; the one that gets you into the best kind of trouble.

“ani—” you said his name in a cautionary tone, but it was too late; he swept you off your feet and headed indoors.

“anakin, let go of me!” you chuckled, flopping around like a fish out of water on his shoulder.

“not a chance,” he tsk’ed at your request, like it was the stupidest idea ever.

“unless you want me to fuck you outdoors?” he looked over at you, a hopeful glee in his eyes.

your tricks have come around to bite you in the ass, little trickster. now, brace yourself for a hell of a pounding.

main masterlist. more of anakin.

[tacticaldiary]

Heyyy just wanted to ask if maybe you could write a ghost x reader with fluff and comfort maybe where the reader comforts ghost after he has a nightmare

Night Terrors

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

It's a bad idea to touch a soldier in the midst of the haze of panic, but even between the haze, Ghost knows to associate her touch with a soothing calm.

"Simon." She says calmly, gritting her teeth as his hands tighten around her wrists. "Simon, you're safe."

His eyes clear, the iron-clad panic slowly fading as he comes to his senses

Masterlist

The person in the mirror stares back at her, clean and freshly showered. Droplets of water drip from her hair onto her neck, her eyes following the trail towards the bandages wrapped tightly across the expanse of her right shoulder all the way across her upper shoulder.

They hide stitches. Fifteen on them in a neat row earned after taking two bullets to the shoulder whilst on their last mission. The soft cotton of her shirt slips over her, hiding the itchy bindings out of sight.

Three short raps on the door startle her out of her thoughts.

"You alright in there?" Simon's gruff voice flows through the wooden door separating them.

"Fine." She says after a moment. It's not far from the truth. Physically, aside from the ache in her shoulder she really is fine.

She full well knows that her life isn't assured with what she's chosen to dedicate her life to. It didn't bother her most days, she knew the risks and loved her job. She loved her task force, loved her boys, loved the good she does for the world even if it meant getting her hands dirty.

She loved Simon.

It's something about the sombre stillness after the heat of going headfirst into a gunfight, the silence after the storm that still seems to be swirling in her mind, the ringing of gunshots echoing in her ears, and the scent of gunpowder and blood lingering on her skin.

Pulling the door open she's faced with her boyfriend, a furrow in his brow as he looks over her. It's rare to see him without his mask, but right now he bares himself to her fully, the strong line of his jaw and the dirty blonde hair dishevelled.

The exhaustion in his eyes mirrors her own.

This was why they were here on leave. She had been put on a month of medical leave for her shoulder to heal up, and Simon had silently followed her back to their apartment.

A burst of warmth had cut through the grey cloud hanging over her shoulder when he'd shown up on the helipad with his own luggage, ready to follow her back. They'd gotten here this morning, and even though she'd fallen asleep against him on the way here she still felt the persistent tiredness nagging at her to close her eyes and rest.

"Your shoulder?" He trails off, gaze flickering to the hidden bandages.

"They're fine, Simon." She assures him, offering him a tired smile. Grabbing his hand, she squeezes affectionately and leads him to the bed nearby. "Just tired, y'know? Getting shot takes a lot out of a girl."

"You're not funny." He deadpans, allowing himself one last look at her.

The warm covers are comfortable, the mattress much easier to sink into than the cold hard ground the team had been camping out in. You get used to it, but coming back to something other people consider normal knowing that it could have been normal to you too is strange.

"Wasn't trying to be." She yawns, letting out a long, slow exhale when Simon wraps an arm around her, pulling her closer. Legs tangle together, her head on his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady. All of it slowly takes the tension out of her shoulders until she's loose and soft against him, breathing deeply.

His hands brush gently over her wound, making her shiver.

"You shouldn't have gotten hurt today." He says quietly into the air. Simon's not sure if she's awake or not, but the words fester inside him like a poison he can't expel, they push themselves out of him without his permission.

"We were on opposite ends of the building." He feels her lips move against his chest, her breath fanning over his skin. "It's not your fault." She whispers.

He hums, not agreeing or disagreeing. She leaves it alone for now, too tired and on the brink of sleep to argue. Tomorrow she'd show him that he wasn't to blame, convince him the way she always managed to do.

But for now? The hand gently carding through her hair knocks her unconscious almost instantly.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

An instinctive intuition honed from years as a soldier is the only thing that makes her eyes flutter open halfway through the night. Tangled in the sheets, she frowns, a nagging feeling of wrongness tugging at her mind.

She had rolled over in the night, pried herself away from Simon at some point instead opting to sleep soundly on her stomach.

A small noise, almost indistinguishable over the creak of the bed as she moves.

"Simon?" She mumbles, sitting up slowly. The lack of reply makes snaps her to attention. Reaching blindly to her side, the lamp on her nightstand is clicked on. The light washing over the room makes her squint but when she finally cracks an eye open, her stomach drops.

"Simon!" Eyes widening, she throws the blanket off, kneeling down next to him on the bed.

There's a thin sheen of sweat over his face. Jaw clenched hard, his body is wound tight like a spring. Silent. He's silent aside from the heavy exhales that leave him and the slight tremble of his body.

Asleep. He's still asleep, she realises with a start. His head moves slightly side to side, as if trying to shake something off. This was...new to her.

Simon was someone unshakable in her eyes. Yes, he'd gifted her with more vulnerability than he'd ever shown anyone, but that did not change his image in her mind.

This...this was all wrong. He looked almost small.

Looking back, this was the worst thing she could have done but still half asleep and frazzled her first instinct is to reach out, to touch and comfort and assure.

Her hand lands on his shoulder, shaking gently as she leans down to call out his name. "Wake up!"

It works.

His eyes snap open with a strangled gasp that catches in his throat. Panic-glazed eyes latch onto her and before she can blink or speak, she's pushed roughly down, flipped onto her back.

Stifling a cry as her injured shoulder jostles painfully, the grip he has on her wrists pinned over her head is uncomfortably tight. She's strong, but with him straddling her, bearing down his weight to pin her in place it's a little hard to breathe.

"Hey-" She gasps when his grip tightens. His breath fans over her face, hot and harsh as he stares down at her hackles raised.

He was awake, but he wasn't seeing her. He was still stuck in whatever nightmare had been plaguing his mind.

Taking in as deep of a breath as she could, she tries again, smoothing her voice to be as gentle and steady as possible.

Simon wouldn't hurt her, she knows that deep down even his subconscious wouldn't do her any true harm. He was just jarred right now, merely on edge and acting on instinct.

"It's me. Just me, see?" She says calmly, gritting her teeth as he presses her harder against the bed. "Simon, you're safe. It's alright, I promise."

Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes clear, the iron-clad panic slowly fading as he comes to his senses. She watches him come back in real time, sees him blink and register his surroundings properly.

When his eyes land on hers this time, they're wide and seeing.

"Fuck." He breathes out sharply, immediately pulling himself off and away from her. "Fucking hell, I'm sorry." The distance between them grows as he stands.

It takes a second for her to respond while she catches her breath, drawing in the oxygen that was denied of her, calming her racing heart.

Silence wraps around them while they both come to terms with what just happened.

Simon runs a hand down his face, eyes raking over her to find any injuries, any sign of hurt. "Are you alright?" A hoarse voice dripping with blatant guilt.

"Are you?" She says, shifting to the edge of the bed, closer to him. "You were having a nightmare, I think."

He visibly clams up at that, tensing. It'd clearly happened before because surprise was not one of the emotions he held at the moment.

"Your shoulder." He says tightly, clearly upset and angry.

Confused, she look down and...oh. Oh.

Crimson stains her t-shirt, seeping into the fabric sluggishly. "Must have ripped my stitches." She mumbles. Now that it's been brought to her attention, the ache in her shoulder is sharper, most intense. Yeah, she definitely ripped them.

Simon curses under his breath, disappears into the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit.

The atmosphere is tense.

"Off." He demands as he kneels in front of her on the ground, pulling out gauze and an antiseptic ointment. Obeying silently, mind still lingering on the image of his quiet, shaking form from before, she discards the shirt, letting it slip from her fingers onto the floor.

His fingers hesitate in touching the ruined blood soaked bandages, almost as if he's...he's afraid to touch her.

"it's alright." She says. "I shouldn't have touched you like that so suddenly-"

"And I shouldn't have ripped your fucking stitches." He snaps back, pulling away immediately. Dropping his head into his hands he takes a deep breath, willing his anger away. He's not upset at her, never at her.

It's himself that he's pissed at.

With hands not entirely steady, he unwraps her shoulder, inspecting the damage. His stomach sours at the realisation that half the stitches were ripped, not unsalvageable but still damaged.

The silence stretches, heavy in the air as he goes through the motions mechanically, spreading the ointment over her wounds and rewrapping it. She doesn't know what to say. He was the one that needed help a second ago, but here she was now, being that one on the other end. She knows guilt weighs down on him, that he'd blame himself for this as well.

"Night terrors." He admits into the quiet, his sudden voice startling her.

"What?"

"They're night terrors." By the tight way he reveals the information, she guesses he's never spoken it aloud to anybody else before. "Had them ever since I was a lad."

"That's terrible." She frowns, catching his hand as it ties the last knot to secure her new binding. The ache fades slowly, more bearable than before. "Do you...have you had them while I'm around before?" The thought of her sleeping soundly while the man she loved suffered inches away from her made her feel sick, an iron band clenching her heart painfully.

His lack of response is enough of an answer.

"Fucking hell." She breathes, yanking him into a hug. "I'm sorry I never noticed."

"I didn't want you to." The answer is just as immediate as the arms that bands around her, pressing them together tightly.

"Tell me next time." She demands. At his silence, she pulls back. "I want you to wake me up when you have one. I'm serious." The fiery determination in her eyes warms his cold heart. "I don't give a shit if it's the ass crack of dawn, Simon. I want to help you. I want to give you the same comfort you give me." A soft hand cups his jaw, her thumb brushing over his cheeks slowly.

"You already do." His lips brush against the pulse point in her wrist as he kisses it. "I used to..." He falters, and so it's unlike him that it only makes her hurt more. "They used to be about...my past." He keeps it vague on purpose and she knows better than to press it and prod now, not when he's opening up on his own. "But now they're about you."

That, she had not been expecting.

"Me?" She echoes, confused.

A tight nod, his head dropping to press against her good shoulder. "You, love." He confirms. "Always you. You dying in my arms. Me watching from a distance unable to reach you as you get shot." He presses them together tighter as if taking solace in the heat of her body. "You dying at an order I told to you carry out. You get the gist of it." A dry, humourless bark of a laugh.

She swallows, taking in the information. "I'm not going anywhere." Gently carding her hand through his hair helps him relax. "I'm right here, okay?"

"I know." He breathes. "I know you are."

"I don't plan on leaving anytime soon."

"You better not."

"Wake me next time." She pleads. "Let me make it better."

"Can't promise anything." He mumbles into her skin, pressing his lips against the crook of her neck. "I'll think about it."

She sighs, knows that he wouldn't crack so easily. The way to Simon's heart was slow and rocky and dangerous, but she'd gladly risk getting crushed in the landslide if it meant there was a sliver of a chance she'd reach her final destination.

He reaches the bandages on her shoulder, lips hovering over the rough fabric. She shivers as his breath fans over her. "You shouldn't have had to see that." He says quietly, before pressing a kiss to her injured shoulder, a gentle brush.

"I know." She matches his voice, tipping her head back. None of them deserved this. Simon didn't deserve it, she didn't deserve it, yet their line of work, who they were and their past, was inevitable.

Life didn't care about the 'should not's' just about the 'what is'.

For now, she allows him to hold her right there, his lips trailing up and down her neck in slow, sweet and silently apologetic kisses. He mumbles three words into her neck, words that make her smile and melt.

"I love you too." Tugging at his hair until he lifts his head, she brings their lips together sweetly one last time.

Requests Are Open! Reblog, Like and Comment!

(18/07/2023)

[ghouljams]

Hey Ghoul ! I hope you’re doing well.

It’s not really an ask about your writing, but I wanted to know if you had received the last three asks I sent you ? They were about Keegan (maybe demon!AU ? I’m sorry, I don’t really remember), Roach (no specific headcanon idea, just that I loved the way your wrote him and needed to see more of your takes on him) and ghost!Ghost on Halloween (I think it was about how they would spend the night, like with movies or something).

I’m sorry I could not be more specific, I’m a bit scared of sharing my name in asks unless it is about writing about someone’s AU or headcanons, and I actually sent them quite a while ago (the last one was ghost!Ghost, I sent it on Halloween I think - and I think there was one with Fae!Price ?). I feel like Tumblr likes to eat some of the asks I send to people a lot, so I just wanted to make know if this devilish app had been naughty again. Feel free to ignore the ideas mentioned above, this is just about the Naughty Tumblr Check.

Anyway, I’m still melting every time I see a new post from you. Your last AU with Ghost (forgot the name, I’m not familiar with era at all and my memory is poop) is just *chef’s kiss*. I can’t help but think about Ghost having a few drinks and still getting annoyed at all the guys trying to hit on the reader, and just goes to stand in front of her like « I’ll fill your dance quota of the night. Dancefloor. Now. »

And he is not sorry about the broken fan, at all.

Lots of love and inspiration on you, Friend 💚

I have your asks love! I just have 160 asks and a million ideas in my brain all the time. I'm adoring Ghost as a period romance protagonist, what a dashing gentleman he is.

It's strange, you hardly even shiver when his shadow envelops you, though you see your friends clam up tight. The lothario kissing your hand pulls back abruptly and excuses himself. You make a mental note that your escort is good for something, as you turn to face him. He doesn't look happy, but when does he ever. Ghost holds out his hand.

"Dance card," He demands. You place it on his palm and he inspects it. You think you've done rather well for yourself all things considered. All first sons and no one less than a Count. He tugs a short pencil from his breast pocket and scratches it against the card quickly before drawing a neat line. He hands it back to you and takes your hand as you look to see what he's done now.

"Simon Riley" is dragged in tight cursive along the last of your openings.

"This is ridiculous," You tell him, "You can't-"

He tugs you close, his hand firm on the small of your back, and you realize you're already on the dance floor. Huh? What? How did that happen? You glance back at your friends who all look as surprised as you are, and Ghost spins you along with the music. He's a shockingly good dancer, coordinated and strong enough to corral you away from trying to lead. His hand moves over your back, keeping you just on the wrong side of what's proper. Too close. A few older women fan themselves with their eyes narrowed as you glide past.

Not that you notice, you're too busy watching Ghost. His eyes hold yours, challenging you to pull away, to find another partner. His grip on your hand is loose, but the one on your back tells you there's no escape. When the dance is over he lifts your gloved hand to his masked lips and somehow that covered kiss feels warmer than anything bare could ever compete with. You can feel his lips against your hand as clearly as you can see his eyes dropping respectfully. You never want to dance with anyone else.

Which is perfect because he's scratched out half your dance card.

[beenbaanbuun]

PLS ELABORATE ON TOO SWEET WITH COUNTRY BOY MINGI 🙏

OKAY SO!!!

country boy mingi is definitely the type to think that his whole life is all doom and gloom. he’s stuck in this tiny town working as a farm hand for some rich guy that hardly pays him enough the amount of work he does on that farm. he has a truck that barely runs and every night he drives it home to his shitty apartment that just so happens to be above the local bar. he spends his hard earned money on a whiskey, neat, before dragging himself upstairs to bed, only for the same exact day to repeat tomorrow.

it’s no wonder the man is a cynic…

but then one day, maybe a month or so into working at the farm, he meets you; the groundskeepers daughter. clad in a beautiful white summer dress and a pair of beat up boots, you might actually be the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. it makes him feel small at the side of you, like he is somehow less than you. he’s never doubted his social standing before, yet something about the way your beauty radiates from you has him feeling insecure.

but then, in a twist of fate, he sees you walk right up to the fence that borders the horse paddock. you climb it, jumping over the top and landing on both feet when you hit the ground on the other side. it looks like you’d had practice doing it, and maybe you have. after all, mingi’s only been working there for a month or so.

“hello,” you call from across the field as you start to walk towards him. there’s a wide grin on your face that has mingi’s heart stuttering in his chest. he can’t quite believe this angel is talking to him, a lowly farmhand covered head to toe in dust, straw and horse muck. he gulps down the anxious lump in his throat as you grow closer to him, trying his hardest to don his usual cocky persona before he shows himself up in front of you. the last thing he wants is for his voice to crack or something…

“hey there, doll,” he calls out, mentally patting himself on the back for keeping his composure. it’s a lot harder than he makes it seem, “what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?”

“a field?” you tilt your head in confusion. mingi scolds himself for saying something so utterly stupid, “nothing much; just thought i’d finally come and introduce myself to you!”

you stick a hand out, your perfectly manicured nails glistening under the hot southern sun. mingi’s eyes flicker down to his own hands, scuffed and calluses from hours of hard labour. he knows his nails are black with dirt and his fingertips are blistered from shovelling horse manure for hours on end. it’s nothing he’s ever been embarrassed about before but you’re just so ethereal that for some reason he feels bad about even being in your presence.

still, he was raised a gentleman. he takes your hand in his, shaking it once before dropping it again. not quite quick enough for him not to realise just how soft your skin in, or how warm your tiny little hand feels in his own. he shoos away the daydreams that flutter around his mind like butterflies. it’s not like they’ll ever come true, so why waste the time of day thinking about them.

“you’re mingi, right?” you speak up again, your voice sounding like music to his ears. it’s like the sound of a stream on a hot summers day, or the birds that sing when the sun first rises. it reminds him of childhood summers, so carefree and tender. they seemed to last forever; mingi wishes he could hear your voice forever. “my daddy was telling me about you, but he never mentioned how handsome you are.”

mingi’s mind short circuits at that. you say it so innocently but he’s sure you’re flirting with him. you! flirting with him! this is better than christmas. better than all those childhood summers stacked together. his heart soars and his stomach erupts in a flurry of butterflies.

heavens, you’re sweet…

like a little cube of sugar in his coffee that he normally takes black. a little honey in his neat whiskey. he never really liked sweet things, preferring things to match the bitterness of his life. not you, though…

you he doesn’t quite mind being so sweet…

[kitty-tea]

Distracted

Link to masterlist

NSFW 18+ only!

Paring: Student!James Potter x Teacher!Reader

Warnings: smut, sexual content, oral sex, sex dreams, extremely filthy, small age gap (James is 18, reader’s age is early twenties,) teacher/student relationship

Summary: Your student James Potter doesn’t seem to be able to concentrate in class and you want to know why.

WC: 1.7k

A/N: Hello, I just want to say I don’t support student/teacher relationships in real life and this is just fictional, but this was interesting to write!

James can’t concentrate in class today even though he knows the material that’s being covered in his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. He usually prides himself to be one of the best in the subject. It’s been that way in the past. It wasn’t like being cocky was his entire personality because James made sure to study as much as possible during his free time. After all, who doesn’t want to impress their favorite teacher? Especially if the teacher happens to be a young and pretty woman.

He can’t ignore the twitch under his trousers everytime you look in his direction or turn around, the natural swaying of your hips emphasized by the way your skirt hugs your body. He was never one to think these thoughts in class about anyone. Until you started teaching in his last year of school.

Even though you weren’t much older than him, James barely remembers you from your time as a student other than that you didn’t have much in common with him other than being in the same house.

At first James didn’t know he had it in him to fantasize about doing such lewd things with you while you were right next to him. The first time you called him out in front of the whole class for not paying attention, his face went bright red while his friends laughed at him. Then it kept happening again and again. At this point he’s almost too afraid to find out whether you’re skilled at Legilimency.

James mentally plans out what he’ll do about his failing grades as he sees the other students pack up their things, and he hastily follows their actions.

Once he sees the last students other than himself close the door behind them, he swallows a thick lump in his throat as he takes slow steps towards where you are standing in front of your desk with your back to him, too busy arranging papers.

As quickly as James comes to a stop behind you, you turn around gasping with a hand to your chest.

“Sorry, Professor.” James tries to sound as sincere as he can. “I apologize for startling you.”

“That’s alright, Jamie.” Your voice comes out sounding as soft as your lips look, and he is alarmed at how his trousers suddenly feel tight around the crotch area as you shorten his name. Please, please don’t look down. He silently prays, as he regrets not wearing his robes over his uniform to help hide what he didn’t want you to see.

“What can I do for you?” You ask.

It takes a bit too long for him to answer even though he knows what he wants to say. “I… was wondering i-if you have a moment to talk about my grades?” Why was that so difficult to get out? And why is he always stammering like a damn fool everytime he has to talk to you?

“Of course. Why don’t you take a seat?” You give him that same familiar smile that he spends many nights thinking about as he gives into his filthy thoughts about you after his friends had long gone to sleep in their shared room.

Being as hypnotized as he always is by the sound of your voice, he does exactly as you say, and takes another gulp of air as he sees you sit right on top of the desk crossing your legs, your ass right next to where his hands are folded.

James doesn’t know what else to do other than to look up at you, being reminded of your position of authority over him. He lets his eyes trail from head to toe, starting with the neat bun on top of your head accented by the short strands of hair framing your face, to your glasses which emphasizes your eyeliner, before his eyes dip down to your white, form fitting blouse that if he squints long enough he’s convinced he can see the outline of your bra. He can’t help but to admire how you’re wearing all black on your lower body, your skirt already riding up, letting him see your thighs that were covered with black nylons, making the silhouette of your legs look sleek and elegant along with the matching heels which you casually let dangle off one of your feet.

“I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been distracted today, Jamie.” You say, leaning back on one hand while resting your other hand on your thigh. From an outsider's perspective, it looks like you’re trying to seduce him, and he’s almost convinced that’s what you’re doing. “I’m glad you came to me for help. I know you’re one of the best students in your year, and as your teacher I wouldn’t want you to fail this class. Especially because it’s your last year.” You say in that soft tone that makes him feel dizzy, and his breathing comes out shallow.

“What’s wrong Jamie?” You scrunch up your eyebrows in a way that looks innocent, but James knows better than to think you don’t know the effect you have on him.

“I’m sorry I got distracted. I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you.” James looks down as soon as his cheeks redden.

“Be honest, Jamie.” You take your hand that’s resting on your leg and gently place it on his chest, right where he feels his breath being sucked out as his heart beats faster than ever. “Am I the reason you get distracted in class?” You lean forward even more as you wait for him to answer. In the meantime, your eyes don’t leave his as you trail your hand from his chest to his shoulder before rubbing circles over the tense muscles.

“I… Yes?” James breathes out, almost grunting. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying or agreeing to just that you’re so close to him and touching him so lightly yet making him feel so much.

“I thought so.” You smirk as you bite your lip and bat your eyelashes at him. “Are you gonna be a good boy for me?”

Yes, he is. Because James wants nothing more than for you to praise him and keep calling him a good boy as he gets high from the scent of your perfume and the feel of your hands on him.

You don’t say anything as you let go of his shoulder and stand up. You then hold your hand out for him to take, which he does. Even with your high heels he’s still taller than you, so you have to balance on your toes as you place both hands on his shoulders this time.

You look up at him as you place a gentle kiss on his lips. He moans deeper into the kiss as you move your lips in sync with his before letting go.

“Have you ever kissed anyone before?” You ask him. He shakes his head. “Did you like it?” He nods thinking of how dumb he must look.

“I can give you more. Don’t you want me to make you feel good, Jamie?” Fuck. He doesn’t know how many times you can call him that until he feels like cumming just from you talking to him. He lets out what must be the millionth shaky breath as he feels your delicate fingers slide from his shoulders to somewhere dangerously close to the spot that’s evident of his desire for you.

Your eyes look down to where the tent in his trousers are before going up to his flushed face and giving him a smirk.

“What do you want, Jamie?” You ask him. “You want me to fuck you with my mouth that you can’t stop staring at?” He’s so shocked at hearing you use a swear word in front of him for the first time that he can’t move any of his body parts besides his neck which he uses to nod.

“Ugh, you’re so hard and ready.” You sigh as you get down on your knees and unbuckle his belt. Your hand gives his cock a once over before taking it out of the confines of his boxers.

“Be a good boy and stay still.” You tell him as you wrap your small hand around his length and stroke the tip with your thumb.

As if it couldn’t get any better, James looks down and sees your soft lips bobbing up and down on his hard cock, and he almost loses it. He doesn’t know if he’s losing his sanity or his ability to talk, maybe both. He knows he wants to cum so badly, and he can’t get enough of you.

With every breath James takes, he can feel himself get even more dizzy until he almost can’t take it anymore.

“James, James. Come on, wake up. Class is over.” Your hand gently shakes his shoulder.

James groggily opens his eyes as he lifts his head up to the sound of your voice. “Wh-What’s going on?” He rubs his eyes under his glasses.

“You fell asleep while everyone else was doing their writing assignment. Everyone else is gone and I’ve been trying to wake you up for a minute.” You tell him. From the lack of ink on his paper, you can tell he didn’t even start it at all before dozing off.

“Are you alright?” You ask him, genuinely concerned for his well-being.

You can tell he really is an intelligent person, but his head always seems to be somewhere else when he’s around you. You don’t know what it is about him that makes him act the way he does in your class when you’ve only heard the other teachers rave about him being one of the best students.

“How about you stay with me for a bit before you go to lunch? You can tell me what’s going on. And help me grade papers for extra credit. It seems like you had a nice dream, though.” It may be very subtle, but you catch the way James widens his eyes and tenses his jaw, like he’s scared of you finding out something. You don’t know what the big deal seems to be. You’ve made it clear that you’re not one to judge, you just want for him to open up to you, let him know you’re here for him.

“Sure.” James scratches the back of his head as you give him a smile.

You’re very curious as to what’s going on with him, and you’re determined to find out.