#those are barely scraping the surface

[bookwyrminspiration]

okay i have a question Why did you decide to read 50 shades of grey like of ALL things

hangs my head sighing in resignation. It's because of Twilight. 50 Shades of Grey was originally twilight fanfiction, and as the local twilight mutual (I've got a Twilight special interest) I've been burning with curiosity for years--and it's so obvious when you read it. Like EL James didn't even change Christian's hair color from Edward's copper.

So I'm reading 50 shades because I have a twilight special interest. And because 50 shades is so infamous I wanted to see for myself what was up. Why now specifically? Not really sure, just did it on impulse.

So far I can confidently say I think Twilight's better and 50 shades is rather uninspired. It's basically just Twilight, but exchange the vampires for sex. With stereotypical characters--there's one line about Jose's like "all-Hispanic-American smile"?? and another about this one woman's "bustling germanic efficiency"??

The only point of 50 shades seems to be sex. There is nothing compelling about the characters the whole point of the book is them fucking--and nothing against anyone who enjoys that. I simply prefer better smut, smut with well-developed characters, an actual draw to the story, better writing. To quote Ana for a moment, I want more.

Anyway, that aside, the short answer to your question is: because twilight :)

[idkaguyorsomething]

The Problem of Susan Fic Recs

For many reasons, The Last Battle is probably the most contentious addition to the Narnia canon. The standout, though, has to be the infamous Problem of Susan, wherein the Pevensie children are all killed in a train crash and brought to Narnia 2 Electric Boogaloo aka heaven, then declare that Susan is no longer a friend of Narnia because of her interest in “lipsticks and nylons”. Hardly any time is spent on this, but the implications have been the ground for a lot of argument and discussion. What exactly would happen to Susan, and should it have happened? Over the years, dozens of fic writers have thrown their hats in the ring and weighed in on the subject, making the Problem of Susan almost a prism for the fandom: everyone shines through it a bit differently, resulting in a wide spectrum. Here’s some of the highlights under the cut.

http://shedletsky.com/blog/the-god-who-loves-you

Starting with the fic that coined the term, written by Neil Gaiman himself, this fic is a reflection and deconstruction of the idea that Susan would be able to find Narnia again by delving into the trauma that the experience of losing all her family at once as well as the social injustices that a young woman of her time would’ve faced, something that the narrative of The Last Battle never really addresses. It took off for a reason, as it presents a lot of good food for thought, but it’s also got some pretty weird shit that can feel like it’s conflating adulthood with edginess. Well worth a read for all the points it raises, but if you’re fond of canon you probably won’t like the way it takes a hammer to it.

Now this one is exactly what you’d want to read if you wanted some feel-good time. This story is probably the closest to how C S Lewis would’ve written Susan’s return to Narnia, detailing her rediscovering all the things she put away as well as what led up to her rejecting Narnia in the first place. It falls more to the end of being almost uncritical of canon, with the focus on Susan basically having the same sort of religious rediscovery that C S Lewis himself had in his life. Because of how she was treated in canon, that can be pretty frustrating, but the ending feels nothing short of joyous.

Swinging back to the other end of the spectrum, this fic is very critical of the idea of The Last Battle being a pretty happy ending for everyone, unambiguously stating that life is always worth living for all the Pevensie kids. It explores what their lives could’ve been like if they didn’t die, being a rebuttal of C S Lewis’ themes rather than a continuation of them while feeling equally as happy as the fic directly above.

And this story feels like a midway point between the above two. It dives really deep into the emotional damage that Susan would’ve suffered before and after the train crash in some absolutely gorgeous prose, showing both her and Aslan with great sympathy while maintaining that what happened to her is not a punishment in any way. Bittersweet and very, very good.

Heading back towards the more critical end of the spectrum, this fic presents a Susan who is not interested in finding Narnia again, only her family. She is very much a character straight out of an ancient myth rather than a teen trying to make sense of a senseless situation here, filled with determination as much as desperation. It’s probably the closest fic on here to having something close to a plot as well as a character study, with the exception of The Queen’s Return and one other:

Being a crossover with what’s pretty much the antithesis of the Chronicles of Narnia, His Dark Materials, it’s probably easy for you to guess which side of the spectrum this story falls on. It’s more of a HDM story than a Narnia one, but the two worlds blend together surprisingly well, and it gives us a rare look into a Susan who’s lived decades of her life when the story picks up. She’s pretty much the Professor and it is fascinating, as is everything left to interpretation by this gem of a fic that is ambiguous yet deeply satisfying.

¡And here’s Susan as a Doctor Who companion! This isn’t directly a Narnia story so much as it is one about two people much older than they look mourning the loss of their worlds, with a Susan who is a queen wise beyond her years. Reading it is like taking an ice shower. It doesn’t hold back on the grief, and as a result it manages to feel honest as it reaches a warm ending.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/24311

Despite also being a crossover, this is in some ways the opposite of touch the sky with two arms. Susan is more of an everyday young woman than a queen, and [SLIGHT SPOILERS] Narnia itself does feature directly. But y’know, that’s part of what makes fandom so interesting. Not everyone is going to have the same take on everything, and the ending of this leans more happy than melancholy.

¿A shipping fic that’s also a crossover with Peter Pan that features neither Neverland or Narnia? Yes, this one probably has the least to do with Narnia or Aslan, but it tells a very compelling story about living life and growing up, something that isn’t perfect but can be good if you find someone you want to spend your life with. Susan Pevensie and Wendy Darling are a really good couple, pinky promise.

Technically more a series of ensemble oneshots, but Susan features very prominently in a lot of them, and they will make you feel every feeling that everything else on this list might’ve given you. Satisfaction, devastation, simple joy, just go give it a shot.

[locria-writes]

You're like an infinite trash man generator (compliment)

😭🤧🫡

[holeforzenin]

Hiking with Kento <3

The air is crisp, practically biting at your cheeks and exposed skin as you brace yourself against the cool surface of the rock, its jagged edges digging into your delicate palms. The view stretches out in front of you—endless mountains, blue sky, birds cutting through the breeze—but all you can focus on is the way Kento’s cock is buried deep inside you, the loud plah! plah! plah! of his hips colliding with your rippling ass echoing loudly in the air, it’s almost embarrassing.

“Look at that beautiful view, Darling,” he murmurs behind you. His hands are heavy on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh in the greediest way possible as he fucks into you like he’s permanently trying to connect your bodies together. “Incredible right? But I’m guessing you’re enjoying what I’m doing to you waaay more”.

You try to focus on the view, you really do—but the way his cock drags against your walls, stretching you open and filling you up completely has your eyes fluttering shut instead. “K-Kento…” you breathe out, barely above a whisper. He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your back as he leans over you, his larger body pressing you further into the stone, and ending up lifting you off the ground so that you’re just standing on your tippy toes because of his sheer weight.

“Come on, eyes up,” he commands, one hand sliding up your spine to grab a fistful of your hair, gently yanking your head back just enough to make you gasp. “Told you to look, didn’t I?”

Your eyes snap open, catching the sweeping landscape—the distant peaks, the endless stretch of green, birds soaring above—but the only thing you can really process in your head is the lewd way your husband’s brutally pounding you in broad daylight, purposely rolling his hips deep, making you feel every fat inch of his girth. It’s so nasty, the way you’re bent over the rock in the middle of nowhere, your pants pooling around your ankles with his cock stuffing you full, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the quiet.

“Kentooo—” His name falls from your lips in a broken moan, and he just hums in that patient, attentive tone he always does, one hand slipping down to rub tight circles over your throbbing clit. Your back arches, eyes rolling back as he bullies that spot inside you, making you squirm and whimper against the rock.

“That’s it—Look at you. So pretty when you’re taking me like this, what a good girl,” he grunts, his pace quickening, hips smacking your poor ass hard enough to echo. “Bet those birds are getting a nice show, huh? Watching you get fucked stupid out here”.

His words make your cheeks burn, your walls fluttering around him so tight he has to bite back a groan. “Oh, you like that?” he coos with condescension. “Like knowing anyone could look out and see you spread out for me? Letting me fuck you like this?”

Your knees start to buckle, legs shaking as his thrusts grow rougher and more desperate. He’s practically slamming into you now as if you were just a Gloryhole stuck in the rock, his cock punching deep with every snap of his hips, pulling fucked-out moans from your throat. “Gonna cum, sweetheart?” he pants, his voice strained. “Gonna soak my cock while you stare at the mountains like a good girl?”

You can’t even respond, too lost in the way he’s tearing you apart, pleasure coiling hot and tight in your belly. Your fingers dig into the rock, nails scraping uselessly as you clench around him, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that makes you cry out.

“Theeeere it is” he moans, hands tightening on your hips as you spasm around him, milking him for everything he’s worth. His hips stutter, and then he’s burying himself to the hilt, grinding deep against your cervix as he fills you up, the warmth flooding your cunt and making you shiver.

You’re both panting, still bent over that rock with your legs shaking and his seed dribbling down your shaky thighs. He leans down, pressing a rough kiss to the back of your neck, voice husky and out of breath. “Told you hiking was good for the soul”.

[dabihaul666]

also the way i need to fucking pick up korean bc there's so many fucking korean settphel/league fans

[reignpage]

Merman!Nanami saw you. 

Merman!Nanami watched you remove the cloth from your body, leaving you more bare than he had ever seen a human be. The slopes of your body, the smooth appearance of your skin, and the knowledge, derived from his more adventurous merman friends, of that hot and wet hole between your long bottom limbs sent him flushing with shame and fascination. 

When you left, so did he, straight to his favourite place in the sea.

Merman!Nanami’s fingers rub the rim of the slit on his tail. They tickle the opening, sending blood rushing down to the place so often abandoned. The scales there are thinner and more reactive, needing to be stroked to swell up and part. Being a member of a pod, he rarely ever has the privacy to hide away in a bed of seaweed as he does now. So, when he’s able to obscure his scaled body from any prying eyes, he allows those fingers to delve inside the slit ever so slightly to tease out the sensitive limb in there.

With his other hand, he flicks his own nipples, loving the way it sends jolts of pleasure down his spine. When his nails scrape the bud, his abs tense, forcing his head back and his gills gaping. The fins lining his spine vibrate, glowing an embarrassing dark blue, the only source of light in the depths. Grateful for the grounding tether the weeds of the sea provide, Merman!Nanami can rest his tail and focus solely on reaching his peak.

Cock pushing out, he hurriedly squeezes the base, lest the water pressure forces his cum out prematurely – no, Merman!Nanami wants to enjoy this as much as he can whilst he hastens his pace. Plucking a slithering seaweed, he ties one end around the root of his cock, tightening it to stop the cum spraying out, and uses the other end to rub against his tip. The smooth sensation feels amazing against the slot, sparking dizzying pleasure through the length and up his torso. Rubbing it in a sawing motion, he grunts from the way it presses into the pink skin there. 

Bubbles leave his lips.

Fuck. If he can’t keep his cool, he’ll signal his location to other mermen. Carefully, he takes another seaweed, thicker, and bites onto it, tying a knot around the back of his head to keep his mouth muffled.

Your hands would probably feel better than his own hand. You’d probably rub tight and fast just as he does, tongue sliding along the sensitive opening on his tail and digging a little deeper into the cranny. The other mermen boast about their ability to find their way around the human pussy; he'd love to search for this magical button that hurtles you towards your orgasm faster. Merman!Nanami imagines the way you'd bounce in his grip, how your long limbs would wrap around his body, baring yourself to him and his sharp teeth. The mounds of fat on your chest would rub against his length just right, squeezed tight between them. He'd kill to feel the tight heat of your pussy wrapped around his cock.

Growing close, he releases the seaweed wrap from his base and lets it float away. Images of your face, your hair, body, and smile fill his head, stealing his breath and threatening to drown him in his own overwhelming desire. If he could get his hands on you, could speak to you, seduce you with his song, he'd dive right in, suckling on your skin, suffocating your mouth with his. He'd make you his until you feel just as manic with obsession as he is.

You'd love him as he does you.

Merman!Nanami cums hard at the thought, spurting ropes of his cum into the sea and rivalling the saltiness around him. The seaweed gag's torn off with his punishing grip, disappearing into the abyss. Body spasming, he dreams of your warmth, of your laugh, and the sweetness he might never get to taste.

Flushed and dizzy, he scoops up a drop and sucks it into his mouth – he wonders if you’d like how he tastes, if it’s different to the surface men and if it would bother you. Floating down and down and down, he slumps against the seabed, cock softening and shrinking back into its home just as his eyes flutter shut with the image of your bare body frolicking in his home, tempting him to steal you away. 

Maybe one day he will. 

[fxrheisenn]

Andrus Laansalu talked about making Disco Elysium at EKA (Estonian Academy of Arts)

"Initially, the church wasn't a focal point. There were certain characters that needed to visit this location, and I asked, "Seriously, what do we have in our church?" The others replied, "Nothing at all. Our church is completely bare—just a wheel, really. It's quite basic."

That's when I decided to unleash my creativity in the design. For example, they chose to install a glass structure at the top of the church to create a reflective surface. It was like placing an optical clock up there. Therefore, one of the most crucial aspects of designing the church was ensuring the lighting was just right to create the desired atmosphere."

"Let me show you an example of Baroque architecture, which is rich in detail. We're also designing the interior of the church based on large cathedrals. However, the foundation you use might not yield the expected results, because the church itself doesn't require such intricate details. Sometimes, it's about simplifying the design."

"I used Articy for the initial scriptwriting of Disco Elysium. The image only represents a tiny fraction of the text and choice variables involved. This system was also the reason I eventually abandoned the project after a year of outlining the script and shifted my focus to becoming a sound designer. My mind struggled to keep up with the dynamic graphic rules, but fortunately, a more talented writer took over afterward."

"In terms of sound design, it's essential to develop different layers to bring out the charm of the church as a cohesive space. Although this represents only a small portion of the overall design, each layer actually requires a significant amount of time to compose the whole....... Whenever there's a shift or a change due to the dialogue itself, you need to adjust the background sounds. Each time you modify the details in the dialogue, I have to refine the background audio, ensuring that these elements build upon each other like an intricate layer of work."

"It's funny how many scenes involve characters getting smacked in the face. My job was to recreate those, so I locked myself in the bathroom with a recorder and hit my forehead until it turned red.

As a sound designer, I really dig those unsettling, drill-like sounds. So, I mixed in creepy lectures, metal scraping, moans, and cries of pain—because I just love that stuff! (laughs)

Players will be moving through all kinds of areas, so it's super important to make the sound transitions feel natural, trying to create a more immersive vibe in certain spaces.

With all the scenes featuring big cranes, you can hear them from far away, and I wanted to capture that eerie ringing in your ears. That's going to be a thing throughout most of the game. I've found ways to really mess with players while they're playing!"

"I've come across a lot of old objects (like phones and radios) that I needed to perfectly replicate the sounds. I started to become a bit of a hoarder, buying up different models of old phones whenever I found one to add to my collection. The sound effects I can simulate from them are really impressive."

"Some of the devices don't actually exist in real life—just a mix of architecture and tech. When I need to create sound effects, I first look for something similar that exists in our world, then I try to simulate what the sound and appearance of that thing might have been like a century ago.

Towards the end of the game, there's a character carrying a fuel canister. We needed the sound of the canister, so we dug one up from our garage—it had been sitting there since it was five! I realized this would make the sound perfect. So, it had been there for 50 years, and after 40 years, it finally found its purpose.

In some places, I needed unique sound waves, and recreating them was a real headache until one day I happened to walk by a swimming pool and stumbled upon an old wartime torpedo. You can rotate the torpedo's probe, and it slowly rises up, like a proud zombie head. The sounds it made were exactly what I needed!"

🙋How did you manage to get funding?

"Well, since we're in Estonia, you just need to know a wealthy person. You don't need five people—just two who can network, hang out together, and convince them to keep investing! (laughs) Back then, we constantly ran out of money and would tell them, 'Oops, looks like we spent it all! Can you invest a bit more?' That's how we made it through!"

🙋How did you all come together to make the game?

"Luck. It usually doesn't happen this way, and that's the key difference. It has to be. If not, you couldn't create a game of this scale - well, I mean in terms of budget. But creatively, Estonia definitely has writers and artists who can pull it off. With such a small population, there are a lot of quirky folks who are good friends. We were really lucky, though - lots of fortunate circumstances came together. It brought the right people together, allowing those talented fools to collaborate with us. They had experience but hadn't tackled projects of this magnitude before. So yeah, luck is pretty important!"

Lecture experience shared by 白兔YIYANG SUN on 小红书, reposted & translated by me with her permission.

[bunnis-monsters]

The harpy farm is pretty hectic, but at least your schedule is neat and organized.

Today you are tasked with visiting the Cherry acres where the type 1 harpies live.

The type 1 harpies are the most human like, having bird feet and wings as their only inhuman features. They are rather affectionate and playful, always wanting you to stay there forever.

Currently, there are only four harpies that reside in the Cherry acres.

The first is Robin, a cheerful red headed harpy that runs to greet you, nearly tripping over his own talons.

“(Name), you’re finally here!”

His arms pull you into a hug, and his wings wrap around your body as he chirps happily. “You’ll be here all day, right?”

You nod, rubbing your cheek against his in an affectionate gesture. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be in this section all day. Where are the others?”

He huffed, his wings fluttering a bit. “They’re busy sunbathing, just stay here w-“

“Hey, stop hogging (Name)!”

Finn, a green finch harpy stepped forward, scratching the ground angrily with his talons. “Jay and Dove are sunbathing, but I knew something was off when you wanted to stay here this morning even though you always steal the warmest rocks!”

The little Robin harpy puffed up his chest, his wings fluffing out in annoyance. “Can you blame me? You guys always get all of (Name)’s attention!”

You rubbed your temple, stepping between the two before a fight could start. “Come on, there’s no need to get all fussy. Take me to the others, today’s preening day.”

The two immediately stopped, perking up at your words as their wings fluttered with excitement. “Preening day?

You nodded, holding up the bag of various supplies to clean their feathers and talons. “Mhm, now let’s get going. I’m sure you two don’t want to wait.”

They led you out towards the lake where the other two were warming their feathers in the sun.

Dove was a beautiful dove harpy, with delicate wings and long white hair. He smiled when he noticed you, calling out. “(Name), it’s nice to see you. Jay just too a dip in the lake.”

He came over, reaching out a talon to hold onto your leg. “You’re still so warm and soft, little mate.”

Dove squeezed the soft flesh of your calf lightly before pulling his leg back. “Those are the preening supplies, which means today is going to be a good one, hmm?”

You brushed the dirt from his talon off of your calf, then crouched down to get a good loom at everyone’s feet. No one seemed to be injured, but your little daredevil wasn’t there quite yet.

“(Name)!”

Jay, a Blue Jay harpy swam towards the rocks, using his talon to grip onto the textured surface and clime up. With one look, you could see his talons were all scraped up and torn again.

“Jay, sit down and I’ll tend to you first.”

The rest groaned, surrounding you as they complained. “You always preen him first!”

“Jay, you get hurt on purpose, don’t you!?”

You laughed, taking out the first aid kit. “You think Jay can think that far ahead?”

Your words seemed to settle them down, and it took Jay a moment to register them. “H-Hey, don’t be mean, I just like to have fun!”

“Yeah, and you’ve hit your head so many times that even (Name) isn’t sure what to do with you anymore.”

Jay puffed out his cheeks, being pouty as you cleaned and bandaged his talons before filing his nails into a point. “That’s not true, Robin. Don’t be so negative, Jay is a free spirit.”

The Blue Jay harpy perked up at that, fluffing out his wings as he gave the others a cocky smirk. “See? I’m a free spirit.”

Dove sat down, rubbing and nuzzling against you as you began preening Jay’s feathers. “How are the others doing? I heard the newest harpy in the Peach acres is still rejecting you.”

You paused, your hand settling onto Jay’s wing. “Yes, his name is Raven. He isn’t like any of you, he’s a rescue.”

Finn clawed at the dirt, searching for worms. “A rescue? What happened to him?”

You continued your work, Jay whining slightly and leaning into your touch as his hand moved down his bare body and to his hardening cock.

It was normal for harpies to tend to their sexual needs in public, so none of you were surprised. “As you know, harpies like you are descended from wild birds. Humans are only permitted to buy and own domestic harpies, like parakeets and pigeons, for example.”

You moved Jay’s hand away, taking over jerking Jim off as he cooed and buried his face into your neck. The others gathered around, a bit jealous of all of the attention he was getting.

“In his case, his owner was neglectful and ended up killed by Raven. The owner didn’t truly know how dangerous wild harpies are.”

Dove pulled to closer, opening your thighs a bit so his cock could settle between them. “Ah, I guess that makes sense… h-hey, I wanna play with (Name) too!”

Robin whined and scurried over, abandoning the fishing pole he had been using. Unfortunately, you had no more hands to jerk him off with, your free one was preoccupied with Finn’s cock, so you opened your mouth and took his tip between your lips.

Between bobs of your head, you’d pull away momentarily to speak again. “You’ll be getting a new member soon as well, boys. I hope you’ll be nice.”

Dove chirped as he began to preen you back, nuzzling against your pulse point. “We’ll try, but it’s already hard enough sharing your time among the four of us when you’re here…”

You squinted, eyebrows furrowing when Robin held your head in place and fucked your throat, cumming down it while letting out a little cry.

After swallowing and wiping your mouth, you scolded the younger harpy. “Robin, I told you to be gentle. You’ve lost your mouth privileges.”

He whined and lowered himself to the ground, burying his face into your belly as he tried to appeal to your more motherly side. “(Name), it’s hard, I can’t help it… you just feel so good…”

His wings fluttered and rubbed against you, and you patted his head when he hid his face in your breast if it were his mother’s plumage. “Hey, I don’t fall for the baby bird act. You’re a fully fledged harpy, keep that up and I won’t play with you anymore.”

Robin sulked, his wings covering his body as you preened everyone. He was the youngest of the group, so you tried your best to be gentle with him, but he was also cocky due to his youth.

If you didn’t train him now, he’d end up being a cruel and dominant male that didn’t care about others feelings.

After everyone was preened and taken care of, you spent the rest of the day keeping them company, and eventually Robin cheered up enough to cuddle with you while you read them stories.

As you stored your boots and changed out of your uniform shorts and shirt, you glanced down at the schedule.

Tomorrow you’d be visiting the Peach acres… and you weren’t looking forward to meeting with Raven again.

The scar on your upper thigh came from that harpy, after all.

Note: I have a 20% discount on your first month on Patreon, code: hunni

I plan on writing about the harpy farm a lot, so please send asks and questions about these characters and ideas for future characters from the other types’

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi @flamefoxx @sandramalikstyles-blog @breathingstarlight

[just1cefor4ll]

—Darling you’re glowing

James Potter x f!reader

summary. you intrigued the James Potter. now he’s trying to get you out of your shell

warning. not proof read

Transfiguration, middle of the week, had started like any other class— the room buzzing with quiet chatter as McGonagall set up a demonstration on cross-species switching spells. You sat a few rows behind the usual Marauder formation, watching with mild interest as James Potter lounged sideways in his seat like he owned the room. He always acted like that—comfortable, cocky, clever enough to get away with all of it. But you noticed something different today. He wasn’t as loud. Not as sharp with his jokes. He kept glancing toward Remus, who looked paler than usual, shadows under his eyes like he hadn’t slept.

You knew what tomorrow was.

You always noticed the patterns others ignored.

McGonagall’s chalk scraped across the board as she launched into the complexities of Animagus transformations. And that’s when James opened his mouth—casual, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Turning Snape into a raccoon wouldn’t be a bad idea, no? He fits the description and might finally be of use.”

It was “normal” to see James or Sirius tormenting the poor slytherin boy, however no one made too much of an effort to stop it due to being scared or not caring.

But this time, you didn’t let it slide.

You leaned forward slightly, not loud, not sharp—just clear enough for him to hear.

“Useful, sure. Especially if you’re trying to keep a werewolf company at night.”

James froze.

Just for a second.

Then, slowly, he turned in his seat, eyebrows raised. He didn’t say anything, but the way he looked at you—really looked at you—was different than before. Like a switch had flipped.

Sirius leaned halfway out of his chair, blinking. “Wait, what?”

You tilted your head calmly. “You four aren’t as subtle as you think. Disappearing from the common rooms every full moon, and then Remus not returning for a few days afterward.. strange, don’t you think?”

Sirius’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

James just blinked at you, stunned—then finally, slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not his usual cocky grin. Something smaller. Curious. Almost impressed.

“You’ve been watching us.”

“Someone has to,” you said, eyes flicking between him and Sirius. “Merlin knows the professors aren’t.”

Remus, from beside them, looked like he might vanish under the desk. James noticed, and his smile faltered just slightly. He turned back to face forward, voice quieter now.

“You’re not going to tell anyone.”

It wasn’t a question.

You shrugged. “Why would I? Not my secret. Not my business.”

James didn’t respond right away. Then; “Most people would’ve run the second they figured that out.”

You met his gaze, steady. “Most people aren’t me.”

And that was the end of it. At least, for now.

After that day, James started to notice you. At first, it was just little things. You sat alone in every class, always in the back. You left the Great Hall early, books in hand, head down. You walked the castle corridors like a ghost—there, but never really with anyone. It was strange, and a bit unsettling. Hogwarts was loud and chaotic and full of chatter. You were none of those things.

James didn’t really know what to do with that.

You were outside walking along the Great Lake, the morning fog barely beginning to lift, adding to the mysterious atmosphere that always seemed to cling to the school grounds. The water was still, a sheet of silver glass stretching toward the horizon, disturbed only by the occasional ripple from something just beneath the surface.

As you made your way along the winding path, the silhouette of the castle loomed through the mist—familiar, yet distant in the haze. The chill in the air nipped at your fingers, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet out here, peaceful, the kind of quiet that let your thoughts wander.

You stiffened slightly as the sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence behind you. Turning your head, you saw him—James Potter strolling toward you with his usual group trailing behind: Sirius Black smirking, Remus Lupin looking vaguely amused, and Peter Pettigrew struggling to keep up.

“Didn’t expect to see anyone out here this early,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. You glanced at him, then quickly back at the lake. “I like the quiet.” He nodded, stepping beside you. “Yeah.. it’s nice before everyone’s up and shouting about homework and Quidditch.” He nudged a stone with his shoe. “You come out here a lot?” “Sometimes,” you replied softly, unsure why he was talking to you at all, especially with his friends watching. James didn’t seem put off by your short reply. “It’s kind of cool though, isn’t it? All the fog. Looks like something out of a ghost story.” You gave a small nod. “It does.”

Sirius whispered something to Remus that made both of them snicker, but James ignored it.

“I don’t think we’ve ever really talked,” he said, tilting his head. “You’re in my year, yeah?” You hesitated, then glanced at him. “Yes.” He smiled like that was a win. “Thought so. I’m James.” “I know.” That made him laugh. “Right, of course you do. Everyone knows. Sorry—stupid thing to say.”

“How’s Remus?”

James blinked, then turned to look at you more carefully. “He’s okay. Bit worn out, but he always bounces back.”

You nodded slowly. “Good.”

James looked at you properly now, brow furrowed. “How do you—? I mean.. I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

“You haven’t.”

He smiled faintly, curious now. “Right. Mysterious.”

You didn’t return the smile. “You take care of him.”James sobered at that, nodding once, serious. “Always.”

You gave a small, almost invisible nod and turned slightly, ready to leave.

Then, like he was trying to keep you there just a little longer, he said, “I’ve got a match this weekend. Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff. Should be a good one.”

You stopped in your tracks, humming in response.

“You should come,” he said, bold now, easy with it. “It’s more fun when there’s someone interesting in the stands.”

You raised a brow again. “Is that your way of inviting me?”

“Is it working?”

A pause. Then, quietly: “Maybe.”

James smiled, a little softer this time. “I’ll look for you.” He turned to leave and waved. “See you there, ghost girl.” “Wait— Potter.” You raise your voice a bit, cheeks warming at the sudden attention all four boys put on you. “It’s Y/N.” James smiled, nodding before going off with his friends, Sirius shaking his form and smiling excitedly while the other two boys watched, amused.

You didn’t know why you decided to go. Maybe it was finally time to get out of the common rooms for the weekend instead of spending it rotting in bed, studying, or sleeping for hours on end.

The students and professors were in a competitive mood, filling the halls with a tension you hadn’t quite experienced before—this was your very first match, after all.

You tugged your scarf tighter around your neck as you stepped out onto the grounds, the wind catching at the edges of your cloak. The crowd ahead was already gathering, voices loud and buzzing with excitement, a sea of red and gold clashing against yellow and black. You kept your head down, threading your way through the throng with quiet determination, trying not to look like you didn’t belong.

The match played out like a storm—fast, chaotic, impossible to look away from. James flew like he’d been born with a broomstick in hand, weaving through bludgers and bodies with the kind of recklessness that made the crowd scream in delight or horror, depending on their colors. Hufflepuff held strong for the first half, but once the snitch was spotted, it was all over in a blur of motion and gold.

Gryffindor won.

You hadn’t planned on waiting, but somehow you found yourself lingering by the edge of the pitch after most of the crowd had cleared. The adrenaline was still in your veins, buzzing under your skin like static, and you didn’t want to go back just yet. Not when your heart was still thudding from something you couldn’t name. You weren’t there long before you heard footsteps pounding across the grass behind you. James, of course. Still in his Quidditch robes, hair a wild mess, cheeks pink from wind and glory.

“You stayed,” he said, half-surprised, half-relieved.

You turned to face him, arms crossed, but your face betrayed you—lit up with a kind of breathless energy you hadn’t felt in ages.

“I—” You hesitated. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

James blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah?”

You nodded, and then it all started spilling out, quick and animated.

“It was so fast. One second you were up, then down, then—you nearly got taken out by that Bludger, by the way—and then you just dodged like it was nothing? I thought you were going to fall right off the broom, I genuinely stopped breathing. And the way you looped around the pitch when you saw the Snitch? That was—like—how did you even do that?”

He stared at you, absolutely floored. Not because of the words—though there were many—but because it was you. Talking. Really talking. More than the usual quiet, clever one-liners. Your eyes were shining, hands moving to match your words, like the match had flipped a switch in you.

“I mean, I knew Quidditch was big here, but I didn’t expect that. It was exciting, but also stressful, and I think I might actually have heart damage from watching it. Is that normal? Do people just live like that?”

James laughed, breathless and stunned. “Merlin, you’re adorable when you talk this much.”

You blinked, suddenly aware of yourself again. The words cut off mid-thought. He held up his hands, still grinning like you’d just handed him the moon. “No, don’t stop. I just—it’s nice. Hearing you.” You looked away, suddenly self-conscious, but the warmth didn’t fade. If anything, it spread. “I guess I just.. got caught up in it,” you murmured. “It was kind of incredible.” He stepped a little closer, eyes still on you like you were some rare thing he’d never seen before. “So does that mean you’ll come to the next one?”

You tilted your head, considering.

“Only if you don’t almost die again.”

“No promises,” he said, eyes glinting. “But I’ll try. If you’re watching.”

And this time, you didn’t hesitate.

“I will be.”

© just1cefor4all— I don’t consent to my writing being reposted to other platforms or fed into AI. Translating it is also strictly prohibited. 🚫

[fireya-x]

heavy, dirty soul

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ After a long mission, John is exhausted, bruised and distant. You take care of him. ✦ 3.7k words ✦ tags/cw: hurt, comfort, emotional intimacy, intimacy without sex, nsfw but no smut, nudity, injuries, showering together

He looks like hell.

Grimy, worn out, and the kind of tired that settles in a man’s bones and makes him older than he is. His shoulders hunch beneath the weight of his tac vest, stained from whatever hellhole he clawed his way back from. Dirt crusts the hem of his sleeves, and a dark smudge clings stubbornly to his jaw, half-hidden beneath the unkempt mess of his beard. His eyes – those deep, sharp blues – barely flicker when you step through the door.

You set the takeout down and say nothing.

The scent fills the office quickly: warm rice, spiced meat, a trace of soy and citrus curling up from the sauce. Something hearty. Something grounding. The kind of meal you knew he’d need after a mission like that. You’ve seen it before – how he gets afterward. How he forgets to eat, to breathe, to let go of the op and come back to himself.

The room is dimly lit, blinds half-shut to keep the afternoon sun from glaring off the tablet screens scattered across his desk. Papers are messily stacked, half of them likely reports left untouched. The takeout’s aroma gradually overtakes the faint smell of cigar smoke.

He sits across from you, staring at the food like it’s the first real thing he’s seen all day. 

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t even shift in his seat.

You pull the container open for him, the heat unfolding slowly. Your fingers brush against the flimsy plastic cutlery as you fish out the fork, which bends slightly in your grip as you spear a piece of chicken, dripping with sauce.

His gaze follows the motion, but his body stays slack and unmoving.

So you lean forward, holding the fork right to his face.

“Seriously?”

His voice is low and dry, scraped raw from disuse – or maybe too much yelling. There’s a rasp to it, the kind you’re used to hearing when he comes home after long briefings or training days that stretch well past what anyone else would consider reasonable.

His brow twitches, eyes flicking up to meet yours with something close to disbelief, though it’s dulled at the edges.

“Eat, John.”

It’s not a request.

He stares at you for another second, then exhales hard through his nose. A faint smile tugs briefly at the corner of his mouth, but it dies quickly as he leans in and takes the bite.

You hold the fork steady as his lips close around it. He chews slowly, jaw tense, like he doesn’t trust that the first real food he’s tasted in days will stay down. He swallows. Licks the corner of his mouth, where some of the sauce clings.

“Good?” You ask, softer this time.

He nods but doesn’t look up. Instead, he pulls the takeout container closer and starts eating like a starving animal, like his body just remembered it needed food to survive.

Something in the way he moves tells you he hasn’t eaten properly in days. Like feeding himself was too far down the list.

You move around the desk without a word, crouching beside him, hands already going to the buckles of his vest. He doesn’t stop you, just tilts his head slightly to give you better access. 

You slide it off his shoulders, careful not to tug too hard where you know he’s probably sore. It slips free with a bit of resistance, then drops to the floor with a heavy thump.

Underneath, his shirt clings to him like a second skin: sweat-darkened, stretched too wide at the collar, the fabric worn thin in places. There’s a patch of blood on the sleeve – old, maybe his, maybe not. You don’t ask. You never do.

Your hands move to his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the muscle there, working over the tight knots hidden beneath the surface. His body responds slowly, with a slight shift and a barely-there sigh, but his eyes close, and he leans into your touch with the kind of trust that always takes you by surprise – that quiet, unspoken surrender.

And somehow, that’s what nearly breaks your heart.

Not the blood. Not the bruises. Just that – how rarely he lets go, and how much it means when he does.

“That tough?” You ask, even though you already know the answer.

And the silence answers for him.

So do the little things – how his head dips forward slightly under your hands, his fingers curl into fists, and he breathes a little deeper with every slow pass of your palms over his shoulders.

This is routine. Nothing new.

You’ve done this countless times. Brought him food when you heard they were back on base, sat beside him in silence until the weight of it all began to slip off his shoulders, piece by piece. You don’t mind. Not for a second. Because he lets you see him like this. Because he trusts you with the aftermath.

And that means more than anything ever could.

Then his hand comes up slowly and covers yours where it rests on his shoulder. His thumb begins to rub slow, lazy circles into the back of your hand, and the movement is so gentle, so unlike the man you imagine he has to be out there. There’s no pressure, no urgency. Just a quiet ‘thank you’ – a wordless gesture of gratitude.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, your fingers trailing down the nape of his neck, massaging in slow, steady circles. The skin is warm, a little damp. His hair is ruffled from his hat, sticking up in odd places, flattened in others. You smooth it without thinking.

“Don’t remind me,” he murmurs back, and there’s no bite in it. Just exhaustion.

Your hands skim lower between his shoulder blades, thumbs pressing in, and you feel him unravel slowly, like a spring wound too tight, finally loosening. 

You pause, resting at the hem of his shirt, toying with the edge. “John,” you say softly. “I’m serious. You need to get out of this. All of it. It’s disgusting.”

He hums low in his throat. “You volunteering?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you strip the shirt over his head and drop it to the floor, revealing the full expanse of his back.

You suck in a breath.

His skin is a patchwork of bruises, old and new. Faint yellow blooms along his ribs, a fresh violet welt at his side, a jagged scrape near his shoulder. There’s dried blood near the collarbone, a rough streak of grime trailing down his spine, and the smell of smoke still clings to his hair. You’ve seen him like this before – battered, filthy, freshly returned from god-knows-where – but somehow, each time still cuts a little deeper like a bruise under your own skin that never quite fades.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

He exhales hard, and it almost sounds like a low and shaky laugh. “S’not as bad as it looks.”

“You always say that,” you murmur, your palm brushing lightly over the discolored skin, dusting off some dirt. “You need to get this shit off you.”

“I’ll shower later.”

“No,” you say, firm but not harsh. “You need to shower now . There’s blood on you. You reek. You’re not just gonna sit in it.”

He stares at the takeout box, jaw tight, like he’s weighing whether to push back or let you win this one. You ease closer, fingertips brushing his forearm, voice dropping with it.

“I’ll come with you.”

That makes him glance up. Something loosens, not in surrender, but in trust. That’s what this has always been with him. Not letting go because he’s weak, but letting you in because you’re the only person he lets see past the grit.

He nods, barely more than a breath of movement. But it’s enough.

You don’t say another word as you reach for his hand, and he takes it without hesitation. The trip down the hall is silent, his steps just slightly heavier than yours.

Inside the single-use washroom, he stops just inside the door while you lock it behind you. His shoulders slump in that particular way he only lets happen when no one else is watching, like the last thread holding him upright has finally snapped.

You step toward him, hands going to his belt. You make quick work of it – there’s no seduction here, not meant to be – just the firm, practiced touch of someone who’s done this before, who knows he’s hurting and wants to get him out of his own skin before it closes in on around him.

You open the belt, unfasten the button, and guide the zipper down. The fabric is stiff with dirt and sweat, heavy as it slides from his hips. You crouch to help him step out of the cargo pants and briefs, easing them over his bruised legs, and you try not to wince when you catch the red-scraped line along his thigh.

He says nothing. Just lets you do it.

You undress after, folding your clothes on the bench. His eyes are already on you when you straighten, not with hunger, but with that same wide-eyed exhaustion. Like you’re the only still point left in a spinning world.

You reach for his hand again and step beneath the warm stream of water.

The water flows down between your bodies, hot enough to sting, to chase the ache from your joints. It splashes off his shoulders in thick rivulets, soaking the floor at your feet and catching in the creases of old scars and bruised muscle.

You move slowly, your hands gentle as they glide over his skin.

You start at his collarbone, lathering some soap until it turns slick between your fingers, then work your way down, tracing over muscle, bone, scar. You now know each line of him – the ridge of his sternum, the subtle rise and fall of his ribs, the old scar that curves beneath his pec.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to. His eyes are closed, lips parted, breath steady but slow, so deliberate, like he’s trying not to miss a single second of it. Like if he keeps still enough, this moment might last longer.

You ease your hands to his waist and turn his body gently until his back is to you.

And there it is.

The map.

You know it by heart now. The constellation of healed-over bullet wounds, the pale ghosts of shrapnel near his lower ribs, the raised, silvery slash across his left scapula – the one you first traced with trembling fingers months ago, when he finally let you see it in the daylight.

But there are new stars on the map tonight.

A black-purple bruise like a boot print blooms over his lower back, raw around the edges. Two smaller, thumb-sized bruises sit along his left flank – grip marks, maybe. His right shoulder bears a scrape that looks half-healed, dirt still stubborn in the raw skin.

You press your palm lightly to his spine, just between the old scars, grounding him.

He doesn’t flinch.

Your fingers skim over every mark, cataloguing them silently. You don’t ask what happened. You already know. You’ve learned the language of his body, the different hues of pain, the quiet story written in scars and skin.

You dip the soap in your hands again, rich lather clinging to your fingertips, and move down the line of his back. He’s quiet, letting you tend to him like he’s something sacred. Like he knows he can’t hide anything from you here.

You drag the suds across the worst of the bruises, careful not to press too hard. Your hands work lower, over the curve of his hips, the muscle of his thighs. You handle him like someone would a broken thing. Not because he’s fragile, but because he’s been through too much to be treated with anything less than absolute care.

“Turn around for me.”

He does, slowly. Steam curls around the line of his shoulders as he faces you. His eyes open – heavy-lidded and damp – tracking every motion you make, gaze quiet and unreadable.

You take him in like this: bare, open, bruised and battered, and beautiful in the most brutal way. His chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths. The water sheets off his skin, trailing down the ridges of his ribs, catching in the hollow beneath his throat, darkening the thatch of hair on his chest.

You lift the soap again and step closer.

Your hands move over his chest, gliding through coarse hair and the slick heat of his skin. You know this terrain just as well as his back – that faint scar under his right pec from a close-range shot, the shallow dent near his collarbone where bone once broke clean through. 

You drag the lather lower, across his abdomen, the ridged muscle beneath softening under your touch. 

He just watches you. Jaw slack. Eyes impossibly soft, like he’s still trying to understand how this moment is real.

You lather the soap again and reach between his legs.

Your touch is slow. Careful. Not teasing. Not meant to arouse. This is different – gentler than anything else, more intimate than sex. You wash him the same way you’ve washed every other part of him – thorough, tender, respectful. Like this is just another part of him you want to take care of. Another place where the world left its mark, and you’re here to make it clean again.

His cock rests heavy against your hand, softened by exhaustion and heat, twitching only faintly when your fingers glide down the shaft to his balls. You cup him delicately, run the soap through every crease, every fold. 

His breath catches once – barely a sound – but it’s not from pleasure. 

It’s from the way you hold him like he’s something worth cherishing.

When you rinse him, your fingers guide the water with the same reverence, making certain nothing is left behind. 

No blood, no sweat, no grime. 

Nothing of the outside world. 

Only the clean, worn-down man standing in front of you.

You glance up at him, and the look he gives you guts something inside you.

He’s looking at you like you’re the only person who’s ever touched him like this.

Who has seen him like this.

And loved what you saw.

You reach for the sprayer again, adjust the angle, and wash yourself. He doesn’t look away. His eyes follow every motion, how you drag the soap across your chest, over your hips, down your thighs. You scrub briskly, working through the fatigue now also settling deep in your limbs, but his gaze never strays.

He watches like he’s memorizing you all over again.

With nothing but awe.

Like the steam has made everything holy. Like he’s standing in a church, and you’re the only thing on the altar.

You rinse clean, slick and glistening under the dim light. 

When you step out, you grab the towel and wrap it around yourself, water still trailing down your legs. Another towel is pressed into his hands. He takes it without a word.

The silence between you now is different. It’s heavier. Thicker. 

Full of everything you haven’t said. Full of everything that doesn’t need to be said.

He dries off slowly, watching you the whole time. His hands move a little clumsily, like he’s not entirely sure how to be in his own body anymore – like he’s still trying to catch up to the tenderness he’s just been given.

When he’s done, you cross the small space between you and place your hands on either side of his face. Your thumbs sweep gently beneath his eyes, brushing away the dampness there. It’s not really tears.

But something fragile. Something honest.

You press your forehead to his. For a moment, neither of you move. The world narrows to this: damp skin, quiet breathing, the pulse beneath your fingertips.

Then you kiss him.

A slow, careful press of your lips to his. 

He doesn’t pull you closer, doesn’t deepen it. He just lets it happen – like he understands exactly what it is. Like he knows it isn’t meant to spark anything but stillness. A stillness he can’t give himself, but craves all the same.

Without a word, he hands you one of his sweatshirts, and you pull it over your head. It swallows you, the sleeves brushing your fingertips, the scent of him baked into the fabric – clean laundry, cigars, and something warm beneath it all that’s just… him.

It’s comforting. Familiar.

Something that makes you feel closer to him, even when exhaustion has pulled him somewhere distant and quiet inside himself.

You followed him back to his office under the pretense that he forgot something – the tension already rebuilding in his shoulders. Each step is heavy, like he’s pulling against some invisible chain, drawn back into the familiar orbit of responsibility he can’t seem to escape, no matter how many bruises or wounds he carries.

You almost don’t believe what you’re seeing.

Like a machine, he walks back to his desk, as if the shower never happened. As if your hands hadn’t just touched every broken inch of him, hadn’t washed the blood and dirt from his skin with reverence. Like none of it reached him. It was as if the threshold to his office reset him, and all it took was one look at the desk for the weight of the world to settle back on his shoulders.

He sinks into his chair with a sigh, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight, and immediately reaches for the paperwork scattered haphazardly across the desk. 

“John,” you say quietly, gently, but not without an edge of warning.

He glances up, meeting your eyes briefly before he sighs, already anticipating your next words. “Don’t start,” he mutters, turning his gaze back toward the paper. “This won’t take long.”

“Right,” you scoff. “We both know you’re lying. You’ll be here all night. Again.”

He huffs, trying for irritation, but it barely carries any weight. “You’re relentless.”

“Only because you’re stubborn,” you counter. You tilt your head, watching him carefully, aware of every lingering bruise beneath his clothes. Your voice softens, concern seeping through. “Come on, please? Lie down. Get some rest, or I swear to God, I’ll drag you to bed myself.”

That finally makes him look at you properly, a flicker of amusement surfacing behind the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Bet your team would pay good money to see me try,” you add, a grin forming despite your seriousness.

He snorts, shakes his head, a smile tugging briefly at the corners of his mouth. But his shoulders remain stiff, and his voice drops again. “Can’t yet. There’s still work –”

“Bloody hell, John, that can wait,” you interrupt. “You’re barely awake as it is.”

His jaw tightens briefly, that familiar flicker of pride flashing in his eyes before giving way to weary resignation. 

“I’ll stay if you want,” you offer, meaning it. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes and reaching for his hand across the desk. “John –”

“You never sleep well here,” he says, voice rougher now, protective frustration bleeding through. “Those bunks are shite, and you always wake up sore. It’s not happening.”

You laugh softly, stepping closer. “I don’t care.”

“I do,” he says without hesitation. The fierceness in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“John,” you murmur again, just his name – but it’s enough. A soft plea, steady and warm, tugging him toward you even as he tries to hold his ground. “I’m staying with you tonight. And if you don’t move right now, I will drag your stubborn ass down the corridor.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but the look in your eyes seems to drain the fight from him, replacing stubbornness with reluctant acceptance. He sighs deeply, head bowing slightly, and finally allows you to tug him gently from his chair. 

You lace your fingers tighter with his, feeling the calloused warmth of his palm pressed against yours, and lead him out of his office into the empty corridor outside.

It’s late enough that nearly everyone has left for the night, and the low buzz of lights overhead is the only sound accompanying you both as you slowly walk toward his quarters. Beside you, each step John takes feels heavier, slower – like the exhaustion is finally catching up to him, dragging at his limbs, weighing him down with every breath he takes.

When you finally reach his quarters, you push the door open and guide him inside, flipping on the single lamp beside the bed. The soft yellow glow spills gently over the sharp edges of his tired face, brightening the deep shadows beneath his eyes.

You lead him silently to the bed, nudging him down until he sits at the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the floor like he’s not quite sure how he got there.

“Lie down,” you demand, your voice soft as your hand presses gently on his shoulder. He lets you guide him, shoulders easing back until they finally meet the pillow. The mattress dips beneath him, but his body remains rigid, like he’s waiting for something. A call. Another demand, another battle. An alarm that never stops ringing in the back of his mind.

You climb into the bed and shift toward him slowly. You barely fit onto the mattress beside him, so you let your arm slide carefully around his waist. Your chest is pressed against his side, and your head finds that familiar spot tucked perfectly against the curve of his neck. 

His muscles remain locked tight, like part of him doesn’t believe he’s allowed this. You. 

You sigh softly, pressing closer, and lift your chin to kiss the line of his jaw. A familiar gesture, one you’ve done countless times when words weren’t enough to reach him.

It’s a promise: I’m here. You’re safe. You’re with me.

And the moment your lips touch his skin, something in him finally breaks.

He exhales – long, deep, a breath dragged from somewhere buried. The sound carries the weight of the entire day, or maybe, of too many days. His arms come around you slowly, then fully, wrapping you in a firm, unspoken need. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, the words carrying more than simple gratitude – they’re heavy with trust, with love, with quiet awe at the simple gift of your presence.

You smile softly against his chest, pressing closer still, your fingers drawing slow, soothing circles along his side. 

And only then, with you wrapped safely in his arms, your heartbeat anchoring him, does he finally, quietly, drift into sleep.

[snail-day]

Hush Now, Sweet Lamb

Sum: When the spankings won't stop unruly darling lambs, perhaps a lobotomy will.

Yandere! Geto x Reader

WC: 3.9k

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Lobotomy, Body Horror, Non-consensual medical procedure, Gore, Non-con/dub-con, Drool, Vore/Cannibalism (idk he licks the needle), Mental Regression, Death, Unreliable Narrator, ANGST, No happy ending, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. MDNI

a/n: Hugggeee shout out to @pink-cakes-and-treats for hearing me ramble about this for like what seems like months. Thank you for being my buddy and yapping with me about horrific ideas <3

“I love you.” The words managed to scrape from your throat as if broken glass, torn from the depths of you, raw and trembling, drowned beneath sobs that had started as fragile whispers - please don’t do this. Please. But pleading never worked with him. Not anymore. Not now that he believed in something greater than mercy.

I love you.

Three little words, simple on the surface. But words like that, they grow claws in the wrong hands. Those are words that dig deep. They change shape. Once, they meant comfort. Now, they meant surrender.

A slow blink of your eyes, vision awash with salt and candlelight, and tried to look at him clearly.

Geto Suguru.

The man who stood before you cradled your face like a lover - not the monster delivering your demise. Those violet eyes, once soft and bright with life, were now eclipsed by the sermon room’s dim, flickering glow, like stained glass in a cathedral set aflame. Somewhere within those depths, buried beneath devotion and delirium, was a love that hadn’t died. Instead, the love had festered.

You wanted to close your eyes. But even the darkness behind your lids pulsed with memories of him. The boy next door with pink, sun-kissed cheeks and chubby fingers that always curled around yours. The boy who kissed your scraped knees after washing them clumsily with water that was always too cold. Who made a whole ceremony out of applying Doraemon band-aids, pressing the softest kiss on top of the bandage, despite your complaints about cooties.

He used to say, “I’ll protect you.” You had, foolish and small at the time, believed him.

You remembered your mother’s fingers ruffling his inky, silken hair, laughter spilling from her lips like sunshine on a summer's day - He’s so strong, isn’t he? Like a little guardian angel.

But angels don’t whisper in tongues only curses understand.

Angels don’t weave bindings made of curses around the people they claim to love.

Angels don’t press needles into soft, trembling skin and call it mercy.

The curses - grotesque, sinewy things born from nightmares and grief - curdled in the air around you like sour smoke. They slithered closer, tighter, their slick, obsidian tendrils humming with quiet, predatory malice as they coiled around your limbs, your throat, your wrists. They weren’t angry. No. They purred. Like obedient beasts, eager to serve. And their master, well, he wanted you still as a sacrificial lamb. Fitting for his little nickname for you. His little lamb.

Suguru - who had always moved with the effortless grace of a man both adored and feared - looked almost divine in the candlelight. A priest cloaked in ritual and reverence, lit from below like a god born of scripture and shadows. Or perhaps a martyr - beaten holy by his own devotion. His shadow stretched across the altar like a veil of ink, falling over you where you lay: trembling, meek, and bare as birth, reduced to little more than breath and bone.

Not a woman. Not even a body.

Just a vessel. Just a lamb. Who had become soft. Submissive. Shorn of will. A beloved offering, cradled in ritual, smothered in grace. Something holy only to him. You tried to run in your mind as he stepped closer, tried to fold yourself into some memory where he was still safe to love.

You remembered the summer festivals, when fireworks lit the sky and he bought you watermelon-flavored ice you could barely finish. You remembered sitting on his porch, legs kicking in sync, cicadas screaming so loud it almost drowned out the silence between your hearts. You remembered the way he used to almost hold your hand. Always almost. Until he didn’t.

You remembered that day at the train station - he was leaving for that strange religious school. His shoulders had grown broader. His smile softened. “I love you. Stay safe,” you had said, like you knew something was already being lost.

He stared at you through the closing doors, lips parted in surprise. And then his hand rose, maybe to hide a blush. Maybe to keep from reaching out.

You blocked him after that. His messages grew too much. The words were too insistent. Desperate of sorts. You didn’t know why. You only knew your body was warning you, whispering in every nerve: This love will consume you.

And now - here you are. On the altar. Bound and beautiful in his eyes. A sacrament. He still reaches for you with that same tenderness from your childhood; the same hands that once held juice boxes and glow sticks now steadied a needle. The metal glinted as he lifted it gently, reverently. Not like a tool. Like a gift.

Like he was about to free you from something as a chilling smile curled upon his lips. Soft. Adoring in more ways than one. That left an unshakable unease rippling through your skin.

“Don’t cry,” Suguru whispered, brushing a tear from your cheek with the roughened pad of his thumb. “You’ll feel so much better soon. I promise. Then you won’t have to be afraid anymore.”

Your gaze flickered to the ceiling. Candles flickered like stars. The kind you used to wish on together.

It's funny how you used to think monsters lived under the bed. But the real ones? They grow up beside you. They kiss your wounds. They fall in love with you. When they finally snap, they smile as they make you forget everything you ever were.

You didn’t scream, just a shallow gasp. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because screaming no longer belonged to you. Nothing did. Not your voice, not your body, not your memories. Not even your pain.

It all belonged to him now.

The first prick of the needle behind your eye slid in with a sickening certainty - too precise to be mercy, too gentle to be anything but intimate. You felt it bloom inside your skull like a flower made of splinters. It slipped past flesh like it was always meant to find you there. As if your body had been made for this moment. As if your skull had been carved to cradle his madness.

And in that stillness, something warm trickled down your temple.

He wiped it gently with his thumb, kissed the damp skin with trembling lips. “Shhh, my sweet little lamb,” he whispered, low and soft, as if you were a child crying over a scraped knee. “I know. I know it’s frightening. But I promise you - it’s all for your own good.”

His voice trembled not with guilt but with awe. Like he couldn’t believe he was finally holding you like this. Like he was performing communion - your blood, his wine. Your silence, his scripture. You wanted to move. To recoil. To bite. But your limbs were tangled in a lattice of cursed tendrils, slithering just beneath your skin now - stroking you, soothing you, restraining you. They purred when he touched you. They loved you because he did.

You blinked. Or tried to. The world fuzzed, then snapped. The light was far too bright. Or maybe it was inside your head now, blooming behind your eyes like rot disguised as sunrise. He hummed under his breath, some soft, low hymn that no god ever asked for. And you thought or at least did your best:

This is the boy I loved. The one who carried your schoolbag when it rained. Who tucked tissue in his sleeve just in case your nose ran in the cold. The boy who picked you flowers with dirty hands and whispered, One day, I’ll marry you.

You remembered the shape of his laugh. The way his cheeks would puff when he was sulking. How he used to stand too close, hoping you’d notice. You remembered the way his hands used to shake the first time they touched yours.

They weren’t shaking now.

His hands were steady as death as he adjusted the needle, guiding it deeper with the devotion of a priest performing holy rites. You felt it slip - inside.

Your vision shuttered. The pain was distant now. But the wrongness, that had the luxury of staying and growing in the pits of your stomach.

“You were too soft for this world,” Suguru murmured, pressing his cheek to yours. “Too delicate. That’s why I had to take you. The world would’ve broken you. Used you up. But I kept you safe. I preserved you.” He smelled like incense and iron. Like sweat and sanctity. You could feel his smile against your skin, stretched wide, trembling with overwhelming joy.

“And now… now you’ll finally be perfect. Pure. Still. A lamb in the arms of her shepherd.” Your lips parted, but no words came. Your tongue felt thick. Like it didn’t remember language. Something fizzled - snapped. You twitched again. He caught your jaw in his hand and steadied you, looking into your eyes like he was watching the stars flicker out one by one.

“I used to wonder,” he said softly, “why you kept trying to run. Even after I gave you the twins. Even after I gave you a purpose. A family.”

He tilted your head back. A trickle of blood slipped down your nose. He didn’t wipe it away this time. He watched it.

“You were just scared, weren’t you?” he whispered, nearly too soft compared to the ringing of bells in your ears. “Still clinging to the old world. But that world is gone, my love. I burned it down - for you.”

You remembered the smell of it. The fire. The smoke. The wet, coppery heat of your mother’s blood soaking into the hem of your pajamas.

You remembered him cradling your body as your knees buckled, stroking your back as you retched. Whispering into your ear like a lullaby, “Don’t cry, little lamb. They were wicked. They would’ve turned you against me.”

And then he had carried you through the carnage like a bride.

He took you into the cult’s sanctum and gave you a bed, a brush for your hair, and two scared children who clung to you like reeds in a storm. Girls whose names you didn’t even know until they started calling you mama.

He carved a home from your prison - a gilded cage lined with velvet and rot. Kissed you goodnight like a good husband would.

He called you blessed. In front of his followers, he praised your existence like a miracle, declaring it a divine mercy that a non-sorcerer like you still drew breath within his arms.

As if your survival was a gift. As if your captivity was sacred.

Every time you fled, every time you clawed your way toward freedom, gasping for air outside the pretty cage he built - he found you. Forgave you after he had the luxury of breaking you.

With the kind of love that tasted like blood in your mouth. The kind that turned screams into moans as he dragged you to the dirt, pinning you down on cold, splintered floors in whatever half-lit corner you thought might hide you.

With chains that bit deep into your wrists as he forced your legs apart, lapping at you like a beast in heat - obsessive, starving, single-minded - until your cries melted into gutted whimpers, soaked in shame and submission.

With arms that clamped around you as he rutted into your limp, trembling body, whispering filth like worship against your throat. He liked to hold you close while he took you. Said that’s what good husbands do. Said it made him feel close to your soul.

“I could’ve punished you,” he whispered now, nose brushing yours, dragging you from your thoughts. “I could’ve let them tear you apart. But I didn’t. I saved you. And now, I’m saving you again.”

The needle pushed deeper. A strange warmth bloomed through your skull - thick, slow, unnatural. Then cold. Then silence.

Something vital inside you didn't have the grace of death, instead, the fight in you burned out. It gave up as you tried to gasp outwards. Your chest rose, then failed. Your throat strained, but no sound came, just a trembling echo of what used to be a voice.

The motion hitched halfway through your lungs and collapsed in on itself like wet fabric. Your throat made a sound, but it didn’t belong to you. Not anymore. It dragged out garbled and raw, something caught between a sob and a death rattle. Like your body had already started mourning itself.

“There now,” Suguru sighed, almost dreamily. He sounded like a man slipping into silk sheets, not someone pressing steel into brain tissue. “It’s working.” You felt his breath against your cheek, humid and reverent, as though your suffering was a sacred thing to be exhaled over. His fingers moved through your hair with that same obscene gentleness he used on the twins when they cried. Like he believed he was comforting you. Like this wasn’t desecration.

“You won’t need memories where we’re going,” he whispered, fingers sticky with whatever he’d pulled out of you. “You won’t need thoughts. Or fear. Or doubt.”

You blinked, at least, you think you did. Your eyes were open. Or partly. But the light fractured, soft, too gold, too much. The world stuttered and blurred around him like a fever dream unraveling into a nightmare.

His voice curved into a smile. “You’ll only need me.”

You weren’t sure when it happened. When your eyes dulled. When your breath fell into someone else's rhythm. When the needle slid out, smooth and glistening, red and glinting like something freshly birthed.

You didn’t feel it. But you heard it. A soft, wet pop - like something precious giving way inside your skull. A balloon rupturing in thick fluid. He hushed you as your body spasmed, more out of instinct than resistance.

“Don’t move, little lamb,” he murmured. “Don’t scramble what’s left.”

You couldn’t have moved if you tried. Your limbs had forgotten themselves. Your muscles were pudding beneath your skin, twitching without coordination. Your mouth hung open uselessly.

That was when the drool began. Thick, ropy strings of it, tinged pink and metallic, sliding down your chin in slow, shameful drips. It clung to your lips like it didn’t want to leave. Slid over your teeth. Fell in beads to your collarbone.

You tasted it as the saliva filled your mouth - thick and warm, crawling slow over your tongue like something alive. Copper. Meat. Rot. And something else. Something wrong. Something slick and electric, like licking the edge of a live wire soaked in acid. Your mouth tasted like what you used to be. Like memory liquefied. Like identity spoiled into nectar.

And Suguru… watched. Watched like he was witnessing a miracle unravel. Like your unraveling was the miracle. His gaze devoured you, eyes wide, glassy, rapt. Worshipping the mess of you. The way your lips hung open. How your drool pooled like syrup along your chin. The way your body, even now, still gave. His fingers trailed adoringly along your jaw, collecting the viscous spill of drool-blood-spit that clung there like a sacrament. He brought it to his mouth.

There was no hesitation as he licked the obscene liquid from his knuckles slowly - slowly - as though savoring something rare and precious. Letting the fluid coat his tongue. Letting your essence melt into the heat of his mouth like the candy he used to feed you.

He swirled it across the roof of his mouth like wine, eyes fluttering closed, lashes trembling. Releasing a soft, breathless sound close to ecstasy from his lips as his gaze flicked to the needle. The needle was still warm and glistening, still wet with the remnants of your mind. With a reverence that bordered on religious delirium, he leaned in and dragged his tongue along its length, slow, unhurried, adoring.

Suguru licked it clean the way one might lick honey from a spoon. Red. Silver. Viscera-smudged. He moaned, quiet, breathless. A sound that would be beautiful, if he wasn't such an insane bastard. Oh, how he moaned, like the taste of you, your thoughts and ruin, was from one of his holy sermons. As if your suffering was something sweet.

He lifted the object of demise like it was precious. Sacred. Like it belonged in a reliquary, not his hand. But Suguru never did worship like the others did. No, he needed to taste divinity. To consume it. To consume the fight you're leaving behind.

So he brought it to his lips.

Opened his mouth.

And lowered his head.

His throat welcomed the steel like it was communion. The glinting metal disappeared inch by inch, his lips stretching, jaw relaxing as he swallowed it down. Past tongue. Past teeth. Down, down, until the hilt kissed his lips, and his throat bobbed around it. Pretty, violet eyes that rolled back, lashes fluttering, a soft groan slipping from deep in his chest.

It wasn’t pain.

It was rapture.

He held it there for a moment - the instrument of your undoing lodged in his throat like a holy relic, his breath trembling around it. Then he pulled it back out - slow, glistening, wet. No longer coated with your blood, but his saliva.

Suguru looked back at you with something like ecstasy, and everything inside you screamed to recoil. But your body didn’t move. Couldn’t. You could only watch him watching you. His teeth, once pearly white, were now stained a soft pink as he spoke.

“I’ll always love that little fight in you,” he said, crouching beside your slack, drooling face. His thumb dragged your lip down slightly, just to watch it bounce back up uselessly. He smiled. “But in my new world…”

His voice lowered, thick with affection.

“…pets like you don’t need to fight.”

He cupped your face between his palms, cradling it like a fragile fruit, kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips - smeared in drool and blood, the flavor of your mind still on his tongue.

And then he kissed you deeper.

Your jaw didn’t move. Your lips didn’t purse. It didn’t matter. He kissed you like you were kissing him back.  Like your silence was consent. When he pulled away, strings of spit - your spit - clung between your mouths like a web. He licked them away. Didn’t waste a drop of the sweetest nectar known to man. 

-----

The air was warm today.

Cherry blossoms fluttered like slow snowfall across the temple courtyard, sticking to your hair, your lashes, the white fabric of your dress. The wind teased them loose from the trees, scattering them like blessings. You didn’t move when they landed on you. Didn’t blink when one brushed across your cheek and stayed there.

You just sat on the stone steps, knees tucked to your chest, head tilted toward the sun. A trickle of drool slid from the corner of your mouth, glistening in the light like nectar.

And you were smiling.

Suguru stood just behind you for a while, watching. Breathing. Listening to the soft rustle of petals and the small, wet click of your throat when you swallowed.

You looked so content. So quiet.

So loved.

He approached slowly, letting his sandals scuff against the stone so you’d hear him. Not that it mattered. You no longer startled when he moved. You no longer stiffened under his gaze.

When he knelt beside you, your head turned - just slightly, slow as honey dripping from a spoon. Your eyes fluttered toward him, soft and unfocused.

And then you smiled again.

That was the worst part. The best part. The part that made something in his chest crumple and swell at once.

You smiled like you loved him.

“Hello, my sweet little lamb,” he murmured, brushing a blossom from your hair. You didn’t react, but you leaned ever so slightly into his palm as it cradled your cheek. The skin beneath his hand was warm. Damp with sweat. Or maybe just the sun.

Your lips parted. “Sun…” you said, voice slow and syrup-thick, your tongue barely moving. “...pretty.”

It nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Yes,” Suguru whispered. “So very pretty. Almost as much as you.”

He sat beside you and wrapped his arm around your waist. You didn’t lean in. You just… folded. Like your body recognized the weight and allowed it, welcomed it out of some primal muscle memory. Like an animal curling into its pen. He pressed a kiss to your temple. The scar was healing. Still red. Still swollen. Still a reminder.

Of what he’d done. What he’d chosen.

Sometimes, he dreamed of the needle. Of how your body twitched when it pierced the soft tissue behind your eye. Of how the drool began, slow at first, then steady. Of how your voice choked itself trying to say his name one last time.

And sometimes, in the rare moments when guilt crept in - when he remembered the way you screamed and kicked and begged him not to - he would look at you now.

Look at this.

The sun glowing on your skin. The way you tilted your face toward the warmth. The way your hand twitched faintly, as if reaching for him. The way you smiled when he touched you.

And the guilt would go quiet.

How could it be wrong, when you were so peaceful now? When you smiled at him like he was everything?

He whispered into your hair, “You’re happy, aren’t you?”

You blinked slowly. Your head lolled toward him. Another strand of drool slipped down your chin, caught on your collarbone. A blossom landed there. You didn’t notice.

“Pretty…” you murmured again, eyes glassy. “Suguru…”

His heart hammered once, twice. Pounding against his chest. The sound of his name - spoken like a lullaby. Like a sacred word. Not with fear. Not with rage. Just soft devotion. He swallowed thickly. His hands trembled as he pulled you closer. Pressed his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much it aches. I’d do it all again, you know that?”

You stared past him.

“I had to,” he said, his voice cracking, guilt peeking through like weeds beneath stone. “You would’ve left me. You did. Again and again. I couldn’t let you. You understand that now, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. But your hand - slow, clumsy - found the edge of his sleeve. Your fingers curled around the fabric and stayed there.

His breath hitched. That touch, that tiny act of agency, undid him. It didn’t matter that you no longer understood who you were, who he was. That you barely spoke, barely moved without prompting.

What mattered was this: you reached for him.

“You love me now,” he whispered, and it sounded like confession. “Even if you don’t know it. Even if you can’t say it. I made it true.”

A breeze passed. More petals fell. Your dress fluttered gently against his leg, and your head dropped against his shoulder.

Suguru held you tighter. As the twins ran around the garden barefoot and full of giggles, collecting flowers for their mama's flower crown. A mama that will no longer run away. You smiled as you watched, and Suguru believed - truly, deeply - that you were happy with this makeshift family.

"I love you," He whispered, pressing another lingering kiss to your temple. Three little words that made his heart swell for his little lamb.

[ruinix]

Quinn, eating your pussy at his own pace, for hours.

Hello, lovely. I didn't expect to receive another ask for another drabble. I am not ready (actually panicked when i received this). Anyways, I may have gotten overboard with the details before what you requested. Once more asking you to put the bar down🧎🏻‍♀️because.... i'm crying 😭😭😭

Treat

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Lots of kisses, Oral (fem receiving...as requested), Q just wanna eat you up--🙂‍↔️🙂‍↕️

Count: 1,499 words | Masterlist | Taglist

You’re a treat. A fucking delicious one. Every time Quinn looks at you, his mouth instantly waters.

He always makes sure that you’re not doing anything that could be dangerous like chopping vegetables, cooking, or hopping over the counters to reach the highest cabinets. He will never endanger you. Though, work calls, phone calls with your friends or family, watching TV, watering plants, on your way out for errands, walking around the house because of boredom…those things aren’t dangerous. Important, sure but those can wait, right? You just look so delectable. Like a treat that’s just for him.

Quinn is sane enough to be wary, yet he could barely control himself when he pulls you for a kiss, pushing you against the nearest surface—the wall adjacent to your home office. He must kiss you and taste you mixed with your flavored lip balms. It's vanilla. Fuck. His. Life.

It would always be, “Oh, Quinn. I need to answer this call.” “Quinn. Sweetheart, I’m busy.” “Quinn, I need to go out.” “Quinn, we need to finish doing the laundry.” “Quinn, I need to do the dishes.”

Right now, it's, "I'm waiting for a call, Quinn."

Bla-fucking-bla. Everything can wait.

Quinn needs you. He’s always so fucking busy with hockey—practice, media, the games. He wants to be with you and taste you whenever chance he gets. And it’s now, now, and always now. It doesn't matter if he has an optional skate that he must prepare for. It doesn't fucking matter.

So, he kisses you deeper, holding your cheeks after he turns off your phone, relishing on your taste, making sure to deepen the kiss so both of you forget when one starts and one ends.

Do you know he could still taste the gum you chewed on an hour ago? Do you know he could still taste the caramel lollipop you were sucking on just now? God, he wants to taste everything mixed with you. You’re his favorite flavor. He wants something more. By the way you’re panting and grinding against his thigh, you want it too.

He’s getting drunk on your tongue, your taste, your touch that he could barely lead you to your bed. When you two part, a string of saliva connects you. Your eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown. Your lips are red and swollen. Your hair is fanned out beneath you like a halo. He nearly shudders when your hands find his cheeks.

“Can I?” he asks, while your thumb traces along his lower lip.

“Yes,” you would reply without hesitation, already knowing what he’s craving.

That’s all he needs. He’s kissing you again. Your lips. Your chin. Your cheek. Your jaw. Your earlobe. Your neck, taking his time to suck the fading kiss marks. Your collarbones. He almost tears your shirt open—too many buttons, fuck he just wants to touch you—but he knows better. For every inch of skin he exposes, he kisses and licks.

So divine. You smell like him. Fuck, you used his body wash again.

This is unfair. He feels like he’s losing and falling into your trap. Quinn wants that though. He wants to be trapped with you and nothing else. He wants it so fucking badly.

He could feel your silent chuckle, could feel the scrape of your nails on his scalp. You’re laughing at him, so he pulled down your bra. His lips find your nipple. He sucks, turning your laughter into tiny gasps. That’s it. He can’t have you laugh at him. Not right now.

He takes his time teasing your pretty nipples, licking and sucking your breasts’ undersides from time to time. Relishing his smell on you. His sweet treat. You make him so fucking hard. He knows he’s leaking—pre-cum staining his gray sweatpants—for you. All for you.

Your whines and pleas only make him want to tease you more. Your hips keep pushing up, thighs squeezing around his torso. Your hands that were busy tugging at his hair are now pushing down on his shoulder. You need more. Quinn knows that, but the taste of sweat on your skin is making him hold onto you tighter, making him lick every bead of your skin. Just a few more taste of your skin.

You’re trembling now. The first time you tremble when he touched you, he panicked. But now, he understands your body like the back of his hand. It’s your anticipation, isn’t it? You want all his marks. You want him. You need him. He understands that. Oh, so well, because he feels the same.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your skin, his eyes flicking to yours.

Your cheeks are flushed as you bite your lips. Your eyes shine with tears. Your eyebrows drawn together. Sweat drips down from your temple. “I love you,” you whisper.

Quinn swore his heart skips a beat. His stomach flips. Hearing those three words always makes him fall for you harder.

He almost drops this, like he could just appease his craving by kissing you. He could be satisfied with that. However, the moment his fingers slip over your panties, feeling how soaked you are, he can’t just stop. He yearns for your pussy. So, he continues. He goes down and down and down, hands expertly removing your skirt—which looked heavenly on you, by the way.

Now you’re just left with nothing. Totally bare. You look so majestic. All spread out for him. He sees your quivering hole, your arousal oozes, almost dripping.  What a sight. A delicious sight.

Quinn just dives for it, tongue licking from entrance to clit, making you mewl. He can’t stop the moan that escapes him. You taste so divine. His favorite aphrodisiac. His elixir.

Lick after lick, he revels in your taste. Your arousal coats every swipe of his tongue. It’s making his head spin, his cock aching. Yet he’s only tasting. Just tasting. Nothing more. Nothing yet. He has time. He has to savor this.

Fuck, he’s so hard. So fucking hard that when he dipped his tongue in your quivering hole, he almost comes as your wall tightens. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He could feel it through his cock. It’s always like this. It’s like you’re fucking him when he only has his tongue in you.

Your taste. Your smell. Your wetness. Quinn needs all of it.

He grips the back of your thighs, making you rest them over his shoulders, as he feasts on your pussy, hips rutting into the bed. Everything feels so good for him. The feel of your thighs squeezing his head, threatening to asphyxiate him on nothing but your pussy. That's one way to die, isn't it? Quinn doesn't have any complaints. As long as he's tasting you. As long as your pussy clenches around his tongue. He could just die like that.

When his nose grazes your clit, he feels your pussy throb, squeezing so tightly. Yes. Fuck yes. You’re cumming around his tongue, your thighs quivering, your hands ruthlessly tugging on his hair, your hips grinding on his face. Quinn firmly held you, slurping and sucking your cum. Tastes so fucking good. He holds your hips down. He doubles his efforts, devouring everything you have given him.

“Quinn,” you pant, trying to push him off. “'m sensitive.”

He knows. He fucking knows. He shamelessly doesn’t care. More. He needs more. You can give him more.

Your curses for him to slow down stutters when he sucks around your clit, his fingers replacing his tongue. He could feel your surrender as you grind against him, back arching when he hooks his fingers to your sweet spot. Your whines get louder. So much louder because you’re coming again and Quinn is already there, tongue deep inside your pussy, taking everything. So exquisite.

He takes and takes until you come down from your high, panting and quivering, but Quinn still wants more. He fucking needs it. He wants your taste to last until the next day. He wants to feel you come again and again around his tongue. It’s not fucking enough.

“Quinn,” you say in a broken plea.

“One more, baby,” is all he says. “One more.”

You answer with a whimper, head nodding.

You both know he’s a liar.

It’s never ‘one more’. Never even when he gets you to come twice more. Even when he comes in his pants—cum making the gray dark which only makes him more feral. Even when you get overstimulated as well as his dribbling cock. Even when his phone rings for that fucking optional skate. Even when you two are dripping with sweat. Even when exhaustion takes hold of you.

He would just slow down, but never part from you like your pussy is the only thing keeping him alive. It fucking is.

Quinn would eat you out for hours. He could do it for days, but you would always slap him off you after two hours. But today, he’ll go for three.

[fawnindawn]

Death Has No Right To You (arkham knight!jason todd x reader)

Summary: You're severely injured, but he's not letting you go. Even if you're not his to lose anymore. (a/n: angstcomfort? not even death can try to drag you away from him. tw: mentions of blood/near death)

Jason has not felt such fear since his time in the warehouse, where the very thought of metal scraping concrete conjures phantom stings in his scars, and a gutting-drop in his heart. After him- after everything he's been through, he was close to believing nothing could ever be worse than the past he buried deep down, which he stifled with hatred-filled revenge.

Shaking fingers cradling your limp head, he can't believe he was ever foolish enough to think life had enough of him to let its dreaded claws loose. He had thought he was done with attachment to his past, to his mantle, to Bruce, to you.

"Please, don't take her away from me." He pleads to no one, because no one ever listens to him when he begs. Not when he was caged in that warehouse, not when he pleaded to be found, not when he pleaded to die.

He knows the scent of death like the back of his hand, coated on his hands when he kills, coated in the haunted look that stares back at him in the mirror. You- you're covered in the scent of it.

You're barely holding on, your grip on his neck falling looser only for him to snap at you to wake up whenever your eyelids shut, forcing you out of your stupor. Stay, stay, stay- his voice commands you.

When he reaches the base, he's barking orders and there's a flurry of movement as his militia move aside for him, all eyes on the limp body in his arms. "Get a fucking doctor- or I will make sure everyone in this room pays." His modulator renders his tone cold, but he can hear his desperation echoed back to him. Thankfully, no one notices and someone finally listens and makes a move.

He places you down on a flat surface, heart dropping when he can finally see how much blood you've lost under the fluorescent light. He grips your hand that reaches out for comfort. "You're going to make it." He mutters to himself, because he simply refuses anything other than your survival. "Because you're not someone who gives up. You're a fighter, you can fight this. I won't let you go under, you understand?"

You wince and heave with every breath, but there's confusion etched into your expression when you listen to his words. You try to find familiarity through his altered voice, something of memory to his armour, but you find none.

"Was I someone- were you someone to me?" You finally dared to ask.

There is no sound from his modulator, no flicker in those illuminating eyes, but somehow, you can sense the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath stops at your question.

"No." He answers. Not anymore.

The silence stretches, and footsteps are nearing.

"Then." You struggle through your next words, vision blurred till he leans in. "If I don't make it," You notice his fingers tighten around yours. "Will you bury me near Jason Todd's grave?"

The Arkham Knight is a powerful figure, with connections and a motive no one understands. Yet, if he was willing to put all this effort to save you, maybe he would listen to your final request.

"I promised him." Tears filled your eyes. "I'd always be by his side. I failed to before- Promise me, that you'll let me."

Jason stares at you, and he fights back the urge to scream. Don't you know, that by finding your Jason, you'll be leaving him? He had thought that whoever he became the day he escaped Joker's grasp couldn't possibly be something you could love, so he had left you alone. Or at least, he had convinced himself that it was the right decision. Now, even on your deathbed, your last words are of him, for him. Wrongs after wrongs after wrongs, it seems to be all he's capable of. But not this time.

He's not letting you go.

"I promise."

When you wake, you feel a strong hand covering yours. Your head pounds, and you try to recall what happened. A gunfight, a crossfire, a stranger, a promise-

The Arkham Knight. He saved you, didn't he?

You turn your head to see who was sitting beside the bed, expecting a robotic suit and glowing eyes, only to meet pale blue. Your heart recognises the colour before your mind does, seizing uncontrollably as if possessed.

"Am I dead?" You ask, laughing humourlessly. "Is that why you're here, Jay?"

He gives you a sad smile. Your Jason smiles at you. It's solemn and heartbreakingly haunting, unlike anything you've dreamt of since his death.

His hand moves to rest over your pulse, which beats over his calloused thumb. Life. Then, you're.. alive? You notice then, how he's not really the Jason you remember. There's a deep scar engraved into the skin tissue of his cheek, a crookedness to his nose from a punch gone wrong, and how his eyes hold secrets you can't uncover.

He's not your Jason, but he still looks at you the same way.

"I told you I'd keep my promise." He finally answers. "And now it's your turn to keep yours."

[writeriguess]

Hi pookie! Can I request Reader and Katsuki, pre-relationship. They dance around each other, flirting, stealing glances, but never do anything about it, so she gets fed up, invites him over to her place, feeds him dinner and wine and they finally get to making out and having sex 💙

Slow Burn, Fast Fire

Katsuki Bakugo was a menace. A walking contradiction.

One second, he was an untouchable force, sharp eyes and sharper words, grumbling and scowling his way through life. The next, he was something softer—just a little—stealing glances when he thought you wouldn’t notice, standing a little too close, his fingers grazing yours for a second too long.

It had been months of this stupid, aggravating dance. Teasing, bickering, those rare smirks he sent your way that made your stomach flip. But nothing ever happened.

So, you decided to make something happen.

That’s how he ended up at your place, sitting at your dining table, scowling at his wine glass like it had personally offended him.

“Didn’t peg you for a wine guy,” you teased, pouring yourself another glass.

“Tch. Ain’t.” He sniffed at it, swirling it in his glass like he was some kind of connoisseur. “Just don’t trust shit I can’t see through.”

“You don’t trust wine?”

“Damn straight.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not gonna kill you, Bakugo.”

He raised an eyebrow, finally taking a sip. His scowl deepened. “Tastes like fuckin’ juice.”

You laughed, warm from the alcohol and the way his voice always did something to you. He was so rough around the edges, but you knew better. Knew the heat behind his glares wasn’t always anger.

“You like the food, at least?” You nodded toward his empty plate.

He grunted, which you had come to learn meant yes when it came to Bakugo. “You didn’t tell me you could cook.”

“You never asked.”

He clicked his tongue, setting his glass down. “Damn good.”

Something in his voice made your breath hitch. Maybe it was the slight rasp, the way he was looking at you now—lazy, heavy-lidded, his usual guarded walls slightly lowered.

Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it was just him.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and his gaze flickered downward for the briefest second before snapping back up to meet your eyes.

Enough.

“I’m done waiting for you to do something, Bakugo,” you murmured, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table. “Are you gonna sit there all night, or are you gonna do something about this?”

His fingers flexed against the table. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Then, he moved.

Fast. Chair scraping back, one hand gripping your jaw, tilting your face up to his as his lips crashed against yours.

You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his other hand finding your waist, pulling you up and into him. The kiss was hot, messy, desperate—like something that had been simmering under the surface for far too long.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, his breath heavy. “You—” Another kiss, this one deeper, rougher. “Shoulda done this—fuckin’ forever ago.”

You grinned, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. “So do something about it now.”

He growled, hoisting you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you toward the bedroom.

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me twice.”

Katsuki practically kicked the bedroom door open, lips never leaving yours as he carried you inside. His hands gripped you tight—one pressing into your lower back, the other squeezing your thigh, fingers digging into your skin like he was trying to brand himself into you.

You barely had time to gasp before he dropped you onto the bed, hovering over you, his body caging yours in. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing heavy, chest rising and falling as he looked down at you like he was starving.

"Been waitin’ too fuckin’ long for this," he muttered, voice thick with heat.

"Then stop waiting," you challenged, tugging at his shirt.

A smirk curled his lips. "Bossy."

Then he was stripping—jerking his shirt over his head and tossing it aside before his hands were on you again, tugging at your clothes, peeling them away piece by piece. The warmth of his palms was scorching, mapping out your skin, rough fingers trailing along your curves, down your stomach, across your hips.

His mouth followed, lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, down your chest, teeth grazing, tongue flicking. He sucked a mark into your skin, groaning against you when you gasped, your back arching into him.

"Fuckin’ perfect," he murmured, voice low, reverent. "Knew you’d be."

You shivered, fingers threading into his hair, tugging him back up for another kiss—hot, messy, all tongue and teeth. His hands slid lower, gripping your thighs, pulling them apart as he settled between them, pressing himself against you.

You could feel him—all of him, thick and hard through his jeans, grinding slow against your heat. The friction sent sparks shooting up your spine, a needy whimper slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

Katsuki groaned, forehead dropping to yours, his hips rolling again, slow and deliberate.

"Fuck," he rasped. "Say my name."

"Bakugo," you breathed, fingers digging into his shoulders.

He growled, biting at your lower lip. "Try again."

"Katsuki," you gasped as he rocked against you harder.

"Good fuckin’ girl."

Then he was moving, reaching between you, making quick work of the last bit of fabric between you. You barely had time to process the cool air against your skin before he was there, hot and hard against you, his tip dragging through your slick.

You whined, hips bucking up. "Stop teasing—"

He cut you off with a kiss, swallowing your moan as he pushed in—slow at first, stretching you, filling you inch by inch. Your fingers clawed at his back, legs tightening around his waist, pulling him in deeper, making him curse against your lips.

"Shit," he groaned. "So fuckin’ tight—"

You clenched around him at his words, and he nearly lost it, snapping his hips forward, bottoming out in one deep thrust that had you gasping, pleasure shooting through you like fire.

Katsuki didn’t give you a second to adjust—he couldn’t. He pulled back and thrust again, setting a pace that was hard, deep, relentless. Each snap of his hips sent shocks of pleasure curling low in your stomach, each movement pressing him against that perfect, devastating spot inside you.

Your moans filled the room, mixing with his ragged curses, his groans, the slick sound of him moving inside you.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he muttered against your neck, his teeth scraping, his breath hot against your skin. "Like you were fuckin’ made for me."

Your body was burning, pleasure coiling tight, ready to snap. You were close—so close—

"Katsuki—"

He gritted his teeth, reaching between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, precise circles that had you shuddering, moaning his name like a prayer.

"That’s it," he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "Come for me, baby. Wanna feel you—fuck—"

His hips stuttered, his pace turning desperate, chasing his own release. And when he thrust just right, you broke—pleasure crashing over you in waves, your vision going white, body trembling as you came apart beneath him.

Katsuki groaned, burying himself deep, hips grinding as he followed right after, spilling into you with a shudder, his breath heavy against your skin.

For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing, his weight pressing into you, grounding you both.

Then he let out a soft, breathless chuckle, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw.

"Shoulda fuckin’ done this forever ago."

You laughed, still trying to catch your breath. "Yeah. You should’ve."

[littlelamy]

the mountain spring shimmered like poured glass, cold and humming with snowmelt, tucked deep in a cleft of slate rock where only the hawks and mythical dragons lived. you—bare bodied—laughed as you waded in, arms lifted as if embracing the cloud covered sky itself. your hair clung in wet coils down your spine, hips swaying with that careless innocence you had.

rafe saw too much.

he stood at the edge, armor off but duty cinched tight around his chest like a second skin. you turned, water dripping off your lashes, and beamed.

"rafe! you're going to make me scold you again if you just stand there sulking." you waded backward, waves blooming from your thighs like petals, and dipped until the surface kissed the soft curve beneath your collarbone. “you act like you haven’t seen me nude before.”

that made his jaw clench—his hand twitched near the hilt of a sword he hadn’t worn today.

“i shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice hard and gravelly. “not like this.”

“but you are.” your smile went sly, twisting into something he hadn’t earned but had been given by you over and over anyway. “you always come, even when you say you won’t. that is your duty, isn't it?”

he stepped down—boots crunching grit, shedding his tunic in a moment too deliberate. the covered sun shone slightly across the scars of his shoulders, those hard-earned things you used to trace when curled against him in moonlight, whispering stupid things like “tell me again how many men you killed for me.”

but after months and years, you were growing—riper, bolder, speaking to visiting dukes with honey in your voice and your chin tilted just so.

he hated it, completely.

you floated closer, breasts brushing the surface, nipples tight from the cold. you stared at him with those wide, infuriating, charmed eyes. “you used to look at me like i was a woman. now you barely look.”

rafe’s eyes snapped to yours. "don’t tempt me, your highness.”

“why not?” you said, playful, mouth a wicked curve. “you scared of the king? or scared that i’ll beg you again, and you’ll give in?”

he exhaled like it hurt and stepped into the water.

it swallowed him up slowly, and his body responded like it always did around you—blood hot, cock heavy, aching before you even touched him. the space between you shrank and you closed the last of it, hands at his waist.

“you remember the last time, don’t you?” you whispered, fingers skating up his chest. “you had your mouth between my legs and you said if i ever let another man touch me—”

“stop,” he hissed, grabbing your wrists, but his grip trembled. “you’re still a girl—”

“i’m a woman and princess,” you cut in, a breathless bite to your tone. “and i chose you, way before i ever knew what my cunt was for.”

he groaned—actual, helpless, gut-deep—and kissed you. it was fierce, messy, almost like he was dying of thirst.

you gasped against him, clinging to his neck, water sloshing around your waists. his hand found your ass, squeezed like he was checking to make sure it was still his. you giggled breathily against his mouth, nipping his lower lip before diving down his chest with your tongue, slow little kitten licks that made his thighs twitch. your nails scraped the lines of his abdomen. his cock stood hard against your belly, though he still held back, holding you by the shoulders like he needed to remind himself of something.

“you keep running,” you whispered, rubbing yourself against him with a sweet little whimper. “but you always come back.”

his forehead pressed to yours. “because i’m the only one who won’t hurt you, my star.”

“but you’ll still fuck me?”

he bit back a moan. “gods help me.”

“then fuck me,” you purred. “but make it mean something.”

he grabbed your hips and hoisted you up, thighs parting around him in the cool spring, his cock pressing up between your folds but not yet in. not yet, he mind whisper to you. just close enough to feel the heat of you, the needy little flutter of your walls already clenching around nothing. your eyes fluttered half-shut.

“you’re mine,” he growled against your throat.

“always.” you purr before he sank into you. the water did nothing to hide the way your cunt clenched tight, slick and greedy around him. your head dropped back with a moan so sweet he wanted to bury himself in it. and he started moving, slow and deep, water rocking with you, his name spilling from your lips in breathy gasps between kisses like a prayer you’d say even if he left you.

but he wouldn’t. never would, not when you wrapped around him like this: heart, body, and soul.

ᡴꪫ tags below

taglist𑄽𑄺: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @st8rkey @nemesyaaa

[ateliersss]

TOP GUN #2

…is part of The Bookshelf.

⇨ This is a collection of my favorite fanfics/oneshots on Tumblr I love to re-read once in a while. None of those works belong to me! Feel free to use it as well.

⇨ My own works are here

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Left at the Altar Summary: When you get left at the altar, a familiar face swoops in to save the day.

Can't Let You Go Summary: When you and Jake broke up, it hurt both of you more than you could handle. Now, after three months of barely seeing or speaking to one another, Jake walks in on the surprise of seeing you in a wedding dress, and it brings past memories and ruined dreams to the surface.

Wanting It All Summary: Hangman ends up in the hospital from a very similar Phoenix/Bob/birds situation, and you suddenly regret keeping a big secret from him.  

Drunken Words, Sober Thoughts Summary: You and Jake had a history of flirting and occasionally kissing if too much time was spent at the bar, but it never went any further than that. One night, after showing up at your house and passing out on your couch, Jake wakes up the next morning only to learn he had drunkenly confessed his feelings for you.

Less Misery, More Company Summary: Jake has feelings for you but you don’t believe it, so you play a little trick to get back at him for all of his flirtatious teasing. But that little trick fails miserably, and as the weight of your mistake settles in, you realize you owe him an explanation, one that requires you to admit some things you’ve long denied.

Scrapes and Bruises Summary: Basically, Rooster is not thrilled about your relationship with Hangman, and their issues with one another bring up some fears of your own.

Good in Bed Summary: Jake has made it crystal clear to you that you're only friends with benefits, so why did he go and delete your dating apps?

Cross Summary: The four times you captured Jake Seresin’s attention and the one time he did something about it.

There's a Honey Summary: 3 times your aunt penny sees herself and maverick in your relationship with jake and 1 time she doesn’t.

So Funny Story (I'm Fucking Your Daughter) Summary: You've had a thing with Jake for a while now. The thing is, your dad doesn't know and your brother is desperate for you to tell him.

All You Had To Do Was Stay Summary: Six years ago Jake hit your life like a hurricane. In and out in a matter of weeks. You thought after you get over the disappointment of him leaving without saying a word you’d never think of him again. But then two pink lines change your life forever. Now he’s back and still has no idea that the little girl by your side is his daughter.

Revelation

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw

Three Generations Summary: Rooster is married. Maverick found out when the paperwork got filed with the Navy, but he doesn’t have a chance to ask Rooster about it until after the mission

Endings and Beginnings Part 1, Part 2 Summary: It's Maverick's retirement party but Rooster's far more concerned about you, his pregnant wife, than anything else.

Wrong Number Summary: Bradley was planning on a quiet night at home with a beer and a basketball game on TV. When he receives a text from a wrong number, he's left looking at a beautiful photo of you. Now he just needs to persuade you to ditch the guy you meant to text and focus on him instead.

Robert "Bob" Floyd

Only Love Can Hurt Like This Summary: Bob lost his fiancé in a dog fight and goes through the grieving process. Eventually he learns to move on but then everything he thought he knew was a lie, including the fact that Y/N had died on that mission.

All Fun & Games Summary: Returning to San Diego was just another assignment for you. Another step in the career path, full steam ahead, until you come to an obstacle in the road. Usually, you’d navigate around it, keep on going, but this is no normal obstacle. It might be enough to reroute you completely.

Tom "Iceman" Kazansky

Part of Three Summary: Reader is Maverick's sister, dating Iceman, and finds out she's pregnant.

Scared Summary: A fight between you and your fiancé spirals out of control.

Get Your Girl

Tom Is Finer