#✩⋆⁺₊ wc — < 1k

[moomeecore]

the idea behind this was 'sol warriorcats but drawn like an animated villain'

[6ebe]

groundbreaking journalism

[madaqueue]

LIKE WE WERE MADE TO

of course your doting boyfriend satoru cares about you - he walks you to work every morning, packs your lunches, makes you tea every night before bed. he'd do anything for you, so of course he'll help you with your heat.

pairing: alpha!gojo x omega!f!reader

themes/content: dark content (omegaverse). smut. heats, fingering, knotting, light dumbification, satoru being a little lovesick. (wk: 1.3k)

a/n: YAYYY happy quintober everyone >:) here's my contribution for the @ficsforgaza kinktober event, so excited to be a part of this and check out the link below for more works under this project! view my full kinktober masterlist and the google form for signup to be tagged in other works too! hope you all enjoy :3

quintober masterlist | sign up form | ffg kinktober

Satoru had no idea what to expect as he ran home through the crowded streets; since reading your brief text of ‘Come home. Need you.’ the alarm bells sounding in his head had failed to quiet. He prepared for the worst, scenarios racing through his mind. Were you hurt?

As he barrels through your front door, he certainly doesn’t expect what lays behind it: you, sprawled out naked on the couch, flushed cheeks and sweating, two fingers buried deep inside your cunt.

“What’s going on-”

The sentence dies in his throat as his entire body tenses. Something new hangs in the air, something sending his every sense into overdrive. Almost sickeningly sweet, with an unmistakable, carnal need.

Your heat.

“‘Toru,” you breathe out - even his name on your tongue sounds different, an unfamiliar desperation dripping from it, “need you, now.”

In an instant he’s by your side, your scent growing exponentially stronger with each step he takes until it begins to cloud his own thoughts, overcome with his body’s innate desire to care for you, to care for his omega.

He’s never seen you like this - in your time dating, your suppressants had done their job; maybe that’s why you barely noticed when they ran out last week. Just a few hours ago he was walking hand-in-hand with you to work, your eyes glimmering as you told him about your plans for the day. Something about a big meeting with supervisors? He was honestly a bit distracted by the way your thumb drew circles along his skin, the new perfume he thought you were wearing, how pretty you looked all bundled up in your coat and scarf, like a little present waiting to be unwrapped - before you lightly smacked the back of his head.

“Are you even listening to me, ‘Toru?”

“No,” he beamed.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stifle the smile spreading across your lips. Pressing a peck to his cheek, you turned on your heel with a small wave, your fingers dancing against the backdrop of the fall sky.

You always knew how to handle him - that was something he admired about you. He knew his personality easily veered into chaos, and yet you never seemed bothered by it, holding him in your palms and keeping him a stable shape. It took strength to do that, to not let his soul blend the edges of your own.

And yet, now, his strong, independent girlfriend has become nothing more than a sweet, desperate mess. The thought makes his teeth ache.

“Please,” the broken mewl pulls him back to the sweetness surrounding you as you continue pumping your fingers in and out.

Before he can choke out a response, your hands begin hastily removing his clothes, tugging off anything you can grab, palms sweaty against his torso as you unzip his uniform. With a harsh tear, his shirt falls to shreds on the floor, muscles rippling beneath. He was never known for his patience, after all - could you blame him?

“I got you, baby,” he murmurs, climbing on top of you so his thighs straddle your body, sinking into the cushions. “I’m here, m’gonna take good care of you.”

Two lanky fingers collect the slick pooling at your entrance as his free hand wraps around your wrist, gently pulling your palm from between your legs. He holds it above your head, leaning forward and blanketing you in his warmth. A wave of pleasure crashes over you as he slides inside, curling his fingertips towards that spot only he seems able to reach.

But it’s not enough.

“More, ‘Toru, please, need more,” you whine, your hips bucking up involuntarily. The words continue spilling into the air, desperate pleas for what you really need, what only he can give you.

“Okay, just - fuck - gimme a second.” And he’s panting already, the biological drive within him threatening to take over, to pin you down and fuck you until you’re nothing more than a limp little mess beneath him. But he’s better than that.

Right?

It takes every ounce of control to align his tip with your core and stay there for a moment, allowing you to adjust to the stretch as he knows you would want him to, but it’s made all the more difficult with your hands weakly grasping at his hips in an attempt to pull him forward.

“Please, pleasepleaseplease,” you babble, “pleaaaseee-aaaahhh.”

When his cock finally enters you, all your nerves alight in flames. Your vision goes white, eyes rolling back as he fills you up. Exactly what you needed. For a moment, everything stills, returning to your senses as his own musky scent begins mingling in the air with yours.

The brief clarity lets you pick up on the prettiest little whines falling from his lips at the way you envelop him so perfectly, two souls made for one another.

In only a few thrusts he’s sweating, his body sticking to yours with each push and pull of his pelvis. It’s hot, impossibly hot, both of your cheeks flushed and gasping for air. When his lips meet yours, it’s imprecise and messy, breathing into each other’s mouths as your tongues meld. He tastes like sugar and desire and love and cinnamon, like some dessert you were denied as a child for fear it would give you a tummy ache. But now, it’s the only thing satiating you, the only thing you can stomach.

“M’gonna make you feel better,” he’s mumbling into you, “gonna fuck you so good.”

“Only you, ‘Toru,” you babble, and you’re just as gone as he is, “has to be you.”

There’s truth to it, of course - only he could quell the growing ache inside you. Only your alpha. Your bodies were made for this, you realize: with each increasingly rough thrust, he hits every spot inside you so perfectly, and as your walls begin to flutter around him, you squeeze him in just the way that has him losing the last remaining shreds of his sanity.

Each beat of his heart echoes through his ears, overshadowing the wet squelches of your cunt around him and the lewd slapping of his balls against your ass. All he knows is you - his sweetheart, his other half, his omega.

As he ruts into you, something hot and thick begins coiling in his stomach, something unfamiliar, but the words are engraved into his soul as he slurs, “gonna take my knot f’me, yeah? ‘S’gonna help, okay?”

Teary eyes blink up at him, glossed over in pleasure as you nod. “Need it, please,” you whimper. Your mouth forms the word on pure instinct, “Alpha.”

And that’s all it takes to make him snap.

With a broken cry of your name, he releases into you.

The sensation of his cock twitching sends you over the edge, the heat in your chest burning brighter and brighter and brighter until it’s all you can feel.

As you come down from your high, there’s a new pressure in your core - you feel so, so fucking full.

His cum swells inside you as he cautiously adjusts his body weight. Pink cheeks and blue eyes find your gaze and he gives you a weak chuckle, met with your own equally fucked-out grin as you brush sweat-slicked hair from his forehead.

It takes effort to slow his breathing enough to speak, enough to think. “Your first heat with me,” he muses to himself. His heart warms at the thought: now he can take care of you in the way he was made to. “Love you s’much, baby,” he hums, pressing a sloppy kiss to your lips before nuzzling into your neck, softly breathing in the warm scent.

“Love you, too.” Your fingertips slowly scratch his undercut, the haze now clearing enough that you swear you hear him purr. Your cunt involuntarily clenches around him - around his knot - as you gently run your nails down his back. His body melds perfectly around yours. “Alpha.”

[ninewhiskers]

jayfeather design

[tobyisave]

hammock negotiations

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Subtle-tea (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Summary/Prompt: “You’re only semi-lucid and are sort of reaching for my face, and for various reasons I shouldn’t kiss YOUR face but your hand is right here and I still need to convey affection.”  AKA. You and Benedict drink too much of Colin’s special tea and it spurs you to act upon previously hidden feelings. 

AN: Benedict is the bee’s knees, just a silly lil art guy. I got inspired and I’ve got two more Benedict fics coming out rip. But it’s just so difficult to write for Bridgerton cus you can’t write any gay stuff without it being tragic and/or a secret. Oh well, don’t expect me to write much more female reader content of my own volition/not inspired by my friends.

Content warnings: Reader uses she/her, use of Y/N and L/N, is referred to as “wife” 

Masterlist // AO3 

You had no idea what on Earth was in that tea. But you would have to ask later, because currently you felt as light as a feather and giddy as a giggle, laying on the sofa in the art studio as Benedict was launching himself between two walls, orating about his great desires to create. By far, you were experiencing the greatest emotions on the whim of your artistic associate.

“There’s just so many colours that we are privy to, and we take every single shade for granted!” He declared, his arms wide open to the heavens.

You pointed at him in an accusing manner, “Have you seen purple recently? It’s glorious! No wonder it was the colour of status in the Roman Empire, I too would want it all for myself and my friends.”

“How selfish you are, Miss L/N,” Benedict scolded, “Surely everyone should be given the chance to wear such a colour.”

His anger faded fast. As endearing as it was, it was nothing compared to that grin of his. So naturally you decided to make him smile even more with a ridiculous notion that just jumped into your woozy mind. 

“Do you know what would happen if my mother knew where I was?” You said in a loud whisper. 

Benedict pouted and nodded, riddled with pantomime guilt as he leant over, “You. Me. In a room. Alone.”

“Unchaperoned,” You said then gasped, your hands clapping against your cheeks in shock, “I would be ruined!”

Benedict mimicked your appal by dropping to his knees before you, “We would have to marry to save your reputation!”

“Imagine me, your wife!” You threw your head back as you flashed your bare left hand to him. Somewhere in the back of your mind, an inhibition screamed at you to stop lingering so openly on something your sober self was set on not happening

But your heart grew gleeful as Benedict grasped your hand gently. 

“I shall imagine it!” He declared and lowered his lips, and planted a loud kiss upon your knuckle - right where the engagement and wedding bands would sit. You lowered your chin just in time to see this with your own eyes before Benedict met your gaze again, still beaming with roguish delight, “Oh what a beautiful imagining it is.”

Your legs curled up beneath you on the couch, and you fell over in hysterical giggling. You clasped your hand to your chest and cradled it like a newborn. As you lay sprawled out, Benedict popped into your field of view with his hands either side of your head, tactfully avoiding your hair. 

“Your laugh is like music! As your husband, it would be my purpose to make you sing at least once a day.”

“Then kiss me again, you silly man!” You squealed, offering your hand once more. 

Balancing on one arm, and completely unaware that this compromising position was aiding in your dizzy frenzy, Benedict kissed the same spot then turned the palm against his cheek. He held it there as he said:

“Look, it’s like you were sculpted to hold me.”

Euphoria ran riot across your body, your heart beating so fast you thought you would die from delight. 

“And you were carved to be held by me.” From your vantage point, with newly founded confidence, you tried to pull his lips down to yours, but Benedict resisted. 

“We shall not kiss ‘til we are married.”

Eyes wide, you squeezed the back of his neck to keep him close, “Is this a proposal?”

“I do not think we are in the right state of mind to make rational decisions,” and Benedict bumped his nose to yours, causing a little laughter before continuing: “But marrying you is the sanest idea I’ve had all evening.”

[marfian]

Guys you don't understand, Messi has suffered so much humiliation from everybody, both from people here in Argentina and the media, and foreigners.

This was his last world cup, his last dance. He is 35 years old and playing the way he does.

The entire team deserved this so much and we as a country are so proud, so happy. Literally, crying. Moreover considering everything that happened around the world cup with all the controversies with the media and certain people who dismissed latinamerican football.

Messiento feliz. Al final son medialunas, no croissants, ahre.

[pearlwingdraws]

The valley beyond

[chosoclub]

Was thinking ab stripper au with choso here’s this :))))))) (bro fs needs a lap dance after the most recent chapter sheesh)

The gap between the door and the frame is two millimeters, just enough to fit your retina peeking through it and onto the mesh of blue and purple. You refuse to tell the other girls you’re crouching behind the shield of the door out of fear they’d smirk and brag about how they were right all along – yeah, we figured you liked him when he’s the only one you stare at all night, they’d taunt. And because they were right and because you refused to admit it, you’re alone in the changing room when everyone has gone out to the dancefloor, huddled and waiting. He usually came around this time but his schedule was so unpredictable. The only facet was the baseless hope that tugged at your ribs that he’d walk through the dancing lights at any minute.

You watch as the other girls take on the stage, flying from the top of the ceiling and gracefully landing on the floor. The bass of the music grows louder by the minute and the lights increase in their saturation and glow. People cheer when the girls swing around the poles in bass with the music. You’re so distracted by them dancing that you miss him wandering inside. When your pupils switch back to his walking shadows, you slam the door shut. 

You didn’t even catch a glimpse of his outfit this time. Last time, he had worn black ripped jeans, loose at his legs the frays brushing against the muscles, and a gray shirt that rode up his waist when your pelvis was grinding against it. You remember catching a glimpse of his pale skin when the hem of his shirt reached his lower abs. The time before that he didn’t get a dance at all, the first and only time he was accompanied by other people. 

You face the cubbies and lean your head against your palms. Your heartbeat thumps against your ribs in beat with the music so loud you don’t hear the door creak open and barely catch the sentence,

“Hey, babes, get up and out there – he’s requesting you.”

You can barely muffle it through the meat of your palms, “who?”

“You know who,” a scoff from the dancer, you can tell in between beats of silence she’s rolling her eyes, “Your man, he specifically requested you.” 

It feels like your heart is going to crack your ribcage or crawl up your throat and beat onto the floor; You can’t remember the last time you were this nervous, not over a man. Your ears have never grown hot over a man before, your shoulders have never tensed like this. The bench that initially felt cold against the thin, mesh fabric cover-up over your hips and thighs suddenly grows hot like a grill you have to jolt up from. 

“You don’t wanna keep him waiting, yeah?” You barely hear her when you open the door to the rest of the club and only catch her playful wink. 

You try to gather all the confidence into your shoulders as you’re walking over to him – the whole shoulders back, neck high, back straight routine. He’s sitting on the couch, body facing the stage but not particularly focused on anything. One of his arms is sprawled against the back of the couch, the other on his leg. It’s dark, and you can barely see the floor you’re walking on, but when you approach him you can see clearly the outline of his hair, down sitting against his neck this time. 

He’s staring right at you when you stand in front of him, face stern except for the small smirk that wedges a small wrinkle against his cheeks. You’ve given countless lap dances, but this one is already leaving you wordless. You quietly sigh to calm your nerves instead, listening to the beat of the song playing to match your moves to. 

Standing before him, stage lights gleaming against your back creating the perfect silhouette that you feel like you can sink back against, you begin like you always do. You bend at your hips, dragging your hands over your body as you come back up, rolling your body when you do; In the second the lights go dark, you’re on your knees, extending them further apart and bringing them together then one hand in front of the other and catching his eyes in the process, you’re between his knees. 

You rise from his legs and lower your hips on top of his, feeling his jet-black eyes on you the entire time, arm sliding from the back of the couch and onto your waist. A move that would make you uneasy, from him, feels almost like encouragement. The halo around your figure gleams. You swing your hips to the melody, each time grinding closer and closer to his pelvis. When you buck your hips down completely, grinding them against the hem of his jeans, his smirk dissipates, only leaving you to lean closer to brush your lips against his ears as you arch your back. 

Choso tips his head back, lips apart, inhaling your breath and smelling the perfume that emits from your neck. He’s still watching you, or your silhouette, you can see his half-lidded eyes, retinas tipped down to catch any glimpse of your face. 

You grind to the beat of the music against his waist, leaning close to his nose only to completely turn your hips to face the stage and lean forward, hands running up his thighs. A break from looking at his face and raven hair has you releasing a breathless sigh when you come back up and tilt your neck back, hips against the base of his groin. You draw your hips forward and back, hands at your scalp for extra sultry until you finally lean your back against his chest, almost grinding all of your body against him.  

Choso lets out a soft groan against the back of your head, which only has you lifting your pelvis to abrase against his once more. He gives up on keeping his hands to himself, placing them at your waist and guiding you against him – It’s something you’d never let anyone do, but it was true that you liked him more than just a familiar face around the club and the smile that takes your face only further proves so. He moves his hands to your thighs, lifting your weight in parallel with his until you’re both moving to the beat and his head has moved to the base of your neck. 

You turn back to face him, making sure that your hair brushes against his collarbone as you do. He sighs when you bring your arms on his shoulders and roll your hips in a circle. By the climax of the song, you both have your heads tilted back as your hips roll in confluence. You tip your chin forward, rolling over his abs and leaning close to his nose. He closes the distance to swallow your breaths in a kiss. His lips are warm and soft, immediately suckling at your bottom lip and softly prodding his tongue in between the valley. You match his pace, keeping your hips pressed against him in consistent movement. One of his hands leaves a space on your hip to trace your jaw as his kiss deepens – It feels like your lips are slowly morphing to become one how deep he runs his tongue through the inside of your mouth.

You pull away, your mouths separating in a wet and messy squelch. His eyelids are still dipped down, lashes touching his waterline, and a smirk sits on his lips. You mirror the grin, leaning against his ear,

“Same time next week?”

[dirtplace-tunnel]

there you go, here’s anime squilf as a gift for u all <3

[marblerose-rue]

click for better quality!

if only / snowkit and speckletail

[cheerclaw]

CONGRATS CHEER!!! mind drawing my little guy? shes cursed by god

here u go!!

[ninewhiskers]

all wc artists should pay her for her service

[contritecactite]

Look. Idk if someone has already done this (point me to them if so because I want to shake their hand(s)), but I have not even once stopped thinking about the crêpes asks so. It's Crowley's problem now. Suggestive text under cut.

“Well, that's new!" Aziraphale exclaimed, brightening as he indicated a yellow cart with an umbrella. While not too much unlike the ice cream vendor’s vessel, this one had a round griddle on its surface.

A rolling crêperie.

Crowley eyed it, weighing the likelihood of Aziraphale complaining that they weren't as good as the ones in Paris, and decided it was worth the risk. If the vendor knew what was good for her, they'd be the best crêpes to ever… crêpe.

“How do you take them these days, angel?" he asked, closing the distance between them and the yellow cart.

“...Orally?" Aziraphale offered, sounding a bit confused.

Cheeks reddening—there was just something about the word, all right, that lent itself to a certain line of thinking—Crowley choked out, “No, I mean. They do all sorts of things with them nowadays, right?" 

Well. That sounded awful given the immediately preceding context.

He backpedaled in a hurry. “Toppings! That's what I meant! How do you take your toppings!"

Aziraphale looked at him, face clouded with concern, and said—very slowly and carefully—with just as much confusion as before, “Orally. Goodness, Crowley. Anyone would think you don't have personal experience with these things."

"Khhg,” said Crowley.

And then he noticed a faint twinkle of mischief in the angel's eyes and folded his arms grumpily. “Forget it. I'm not buying you anything after all that.”

“My treat, then.” Aziraphale's smug smile persisted long beyond his consumption of the dessert, but at least Crowley finally got his answer: with cherries and a rich chocolate sauce, consumed orally, as promised. 

(So ever since I was shown those asks, the whole situation has been my mental command prompt for "oops I need to pretend like I'm enjoying this conversation/I need to look like I got the joke someone just made!" Like quick, think about the crêpes asks so your expression changes! And since then my brain has condensed it to "How does Aziraphale take his toppings? Orally." But that's a whole different fic.)

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Early Riser (John Price x Reader) Smut

Based on the prompt: "Keep kissing me like that and we're gonna end up back in bed."

AN: Semi-inspired by the end of Season 1!Hotch who is excited to spend annual leave doing chores with his wife. Love it when a man enters malewife mode.

In other news, I'm gonna start a Price x Reader series soon! It's gonna be a lot of angsty pining so if that's your jam, I can't wait for you to read it!

Requests are open! Here's my guidelines to read before you send in a request and a list of kiss prompts if you're stuck for ideas.

Content warnings: Smut (18+ only, minors DNI), basically Price goes down on you in the kitchen. Reader is gender neutral and genitals described are gender neutral. No use of Y/N.

Masterlist // AO3 Version

Palms pressed into the cool granite countertop, you idly watched the space to the left of your kettle as it boiled. You had barely scrounged up the energy to leave your warm bed to get this drink; you did not have anything spare to be aware whilst you prepared it. The few aspects of your mind that were awake hoped this would fit the loophole of “a watched pot never boils” so that you could return to your room as fast as possible.

Finally, the water bubbled loudly and the switch flicked off. You poured a healthy amount into both your mug and the spare one you had for guests. Steam wafted up whilst carrying the strong scent of coffee; a splash of milk sweetened it before you prepared to stir in some sugar.

Something clamped down onto your right hip. You drew in a sharp inhale before it slid out slowly, relaxing as another hand mirrored its partner and the rest of John Price folded him up against you.

“Good morning,” You whispered.

“It is now.” John’s voice rolled off his tongue like a growl, deepened by his recent rousing from sleep. He paired his reply with a kiss on your shoulder. Briefly allowing his forehead to rest where his lips had been, he then kissed your aching neck. Your heart’s eager pulse greeted him.

“Keep kissing me like that and we’re gonna end up back in bed,” You warned, despite allowing his arms to trap you in a grip a boa constrictor would be jealous of.

John let out a gentle hum; he swayed you both from side to side in time with the clink of the spoon against your mug.

Then he mumbled, “Don’t need the bed.”

The teaspoon clattered on the countertop as his hands found their marks. Instinctively, your body keened against John’s, allowing him to rut into you whilst tenderly squeezing over your pyjamas.

Your voice came out a little whinier than expected, “Don’t want breakfast then?”

“Actually, I’m famished,” John said and his coarse facial hair tickled against your cheek, “Figured I should help myself.”

A laugh tripped over your tongue into a moan before you replied: “You’re horrible. Didn’t you get enough last night?”

“Never enough. Just ran out of steam.” Calloused fingertips found the gap between your sleep shirt and trousers. They spread warmth up your torso, cupping your chest, your shirt caught on his forearm.

“John,” You let your head fall back against him, “We have time.”

“Never enough,” he repeated. “Hate waking up and you’re not there.”

“You need me now?”

“Please.”

Freed from his grasp for a split second, you pushed the coffee cups into the sink, not caring about the spilt steaming liquid that glugged down the drain, then you shoved back the sugar pot and milk. John spun then lifted you onto the cool countertop. His body was drawn back against yours, returning his lips to your neck and the evidence of his affection he’d left last night. Your hips rose up as he yanked down your pyjamas and slid down on his knees. A grunt stuck in his throat; you held back a comment about his aging joints but not the smirk.

Instead, you scratched your nails through his hair, giving it a tender tug whenever he kissed your thigh. “You’re gonna clean this up after.”

His words were half lost against your skin, “I’ll do anything you want.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, the gutters need clearing.” You could feel his lips twitch with mirth against you before he pulled you closer to the edge of the counter. “And the oven could use a scrub.”

“Make me a list.” His hands squeezed the meat of your legs to close them around his head.

A gentle sigh escaped you, “You’re so good to me.”

Looking up at you with bleary blue eyes, John whispered, “Nothing you don’t deserve.”

And, to prove his point, he rewarded you with his tongue, talented and tenacious.

[rollerrecs]

PEN?

Domesticity Is Not A Dirty Word by entanglednow

In which Neal is put to work, and Peter is well trained.

Fandom: White Collar

Ship: Peter/Elizabeth/Neal

Words: 547. Completed.

the definition of short and sweet. i think of this all the time