#Idk wtf this is

[lordsukunas]

satoru’s fingers dig into the squishy flesh of your cheeks, holding your face still. “quit moving.”

he smirks at your irritated huff, but you stay in place as he pops a blue raspberry jolly rancher into his mouth. the hard candy begins to melt in the heat of his mouth, saliva making it all glossy and sticky.

slowly, but definitely surely, judging by how hot both of your faces grow, satoru’s lips inch closer to yours until you can taste the sugary remnants of the candy.

his tongue darts out, gently licking your bottom lip, and he raises his eyebrows. the ball is in your court now.

a tiny part of you is scrunching its nose at this. this is disgusting. satoru is feeding you a piece of candy like you two are penguins, and you know this is gonna involve a lot of blue spit.

his words echo in your mind, shushing that little judgemental voice. “aw, c’mon. it’s no different than making out, honeybun.”

so, you swallow past the lump in your throat and part your lips, allowing your boyfriend to push the melting jolly rancher into your mouth with his tongue.

like expected, it’s wet, soaked with your boyfriend’s spit, but it tastes... sweeter, almost. like he’s blessed it, somehow.

you hum, and satoru leans back, those big, bright cerulean eyes tracking every twitch in your expression. are you disgusted? annoyed? did you enjoy it? you’ve always been hard to read, an aspect he both admires and struggles with.

he hears the faint crunch of you chewing the hard candy down. you didn’t spit it out, so...

“ya liked it?”

please tell me you liked it.

satoru might finally put himself in that grave he’s long since dug if you hate this.

he watches your throat bob a bit once you swallow, and then you nod. “kinda weird, though,” you grumble.

his smirks widen into that familiar triumphant grin. “i knew you’d like it! and it’s ‘posed to be weird, baby, that’s the point.”

[sophsicle]

Dial Drunk

He's drunk.

"James--"

Sober enough to know he's drunk. But drunk enough not to care.

"James please--"

Sober enough to hear the crack in Remus's voice. But drunk enough not to stop.

"I want to call him," he says, defiant. Childish. It feels good to say those words. He doesn't know why he didn't do this before. It seems so simple now. "I want to call him."

Sirius is across the room. A few seconds ago he'd been on James's other side, holding his arm, helping Remus pull him to his feet. He isn't touching James anymore.

"Where's my phone?" his words are a little thick. A little slurred. The world around him blurry in a way that makes his stomach squirm.

"I don't know," Remus mutters, struggling to support James all on his own. "Here, will you just sit down please? Sirius, maybe get him some water?"

"Sirius where's my fucking phone?" because he knows Sirius knows. Because he wants Sirius to look at him. Because he wants Sirius to feel this too.

Predictably, Sirius doesn't answer either of them. All James can see is his best friend's back, his vision splitting him in two. Sirius has always been good at blocking out the things he doesn't want to hear. Which might be the most unkind thing James has ever thought about him.

"James please sit down," Remus tries to guide him towards the nearest chair but he's not going. They found him on the floor, and he'd been happy to stay there. But now. Now he has a mission.

"I want to call him, get me my phone!"

"Christ James," Remus hisses under his breath, pleading. He wants James to stop. But the whiskey in his blood has other plans. "What's going on with you tonight? I mean, should we be--should we be worried? Were you trying to hurt yourself or--"

"Oh fuck off!"

He sees the surprise on Remus's face, thinks about apologizing, but his thoughts are watery and hard to hold.

"I want to call him," he repeats instead. It's the one thing keeping him standing.

"Yeah we heard you," Sirius says finally, his voice is thin, cold. It's enough to get James's attention, even in his current state. "But you can't call him."

Something pointy and sharp pricksJames's chest but he shakes his head, ignoring it. "I know the number by heart," his drunken mind supplies helpfully.

"James," his name sounds so sad in Remus's voice.

"I'm sure you do," he thinks Sirius laughs. It's not a pleasant noise.

"Just give--give me my phone? He'll pick up. He always picks up when it's me. I want to call him. Let me c-call. I want--"

"You. Can't."

Sirius finally turns back around, he is so still and so stiff and James is so wobbly. He stumbles even though he's standing still, Remus fumbling to keep him upright.

"He'll pick up Sirius, he will. If it's me--"

"No."

"--he always--always--I need him. I need to tell him. I need to ta-talk. Please? Please I need--"

"You know why you can't call him."

"Sirius," Remus says warningly, but James doesn't think either of them are paying him any attention.

"I--don't have my phone." That makes Sirius frown harder but James doesn't care right now. "Just give me a phone. Any phone. I know his number. I--"

"You know why you can't call," Sirius repeats.

The pricking in his chest is getting worse. A stab. A slice. A tear. The sensation burns right through the alcohol. It demands to be felt. Demands to be heard.

"No," James repeats. "No I--no. No. no."

"He's--"

"Sirius!"

"--dead. He died."

"No!" James's voice is a terror. "I--no. I just need to call. Just let me have--the--cause I--and he'll pick up--he always--for me," he can't get them out, the words, the thoughts, his breath. He's choking on his own memories. His own grief. Shaking so bad he's surprised Remus is able to keep a hold of him.

"Regulus is dead. You can't call him. He won't pick up," Sirius sounds cold and distant. But then, he's always been like that about Regulus. James is on the ground again. The world in front of him blurry as Remus wraps his arms around him.

"You're a sloppy drunk James," is the last thing Sirius says before James hears the door closing.

The pain is deep and all consuming. It's been months. It's been years. It never stops. It never gets better. The minute the world gets still or quiet the grief is there. He feels like he spends every second of his life trying to outrun it. He's so tired. So fucking tired.

"I need to t-talk to him," he sobs, as Remus holds him tighter. "I can't never talk to him again. I can't. I have so much to say. I have so much--what am I supposed to do with this? What am I supposed to do with all this? I need to call him. Please. Please. I need him. I can't sleep. I can't eat. They're taking up all the space in me Remus. All these fucking--these fucking words. I need to call him. I need to. I need to. I can't bear this. I don't understand how I'm supposed to bear this?"

Remus kisses the top of his head. "Just breathe okay?" James doesn't think he's imagining the tremor in Remus's voice. "I just need you to breathe okay?"

But he can't.

He hasn't.

Not in months.

Not in years.

I'd die for you, he'd told Regulus once. And oh god did he mean it.

[squash1]

does this make ANY sense????

[triona-tribblescore]

What can you say~ Hes got class >;)

[zorosdimples]

sleeping in on sunday and getting up late to eat a homemade meal and lounge around your apartment. your hair is messy and his eyes are bleary but that only makes you fall in love with each other more. sloppy kisses give way to lazy grinding and when you finally sink all the way down on him, you shudder in pleasure. he doesn’t try to hold back his moans as he squeezes your soft breasts and raptly watches you bounce at your own pace. you both climax quicker than you usually do, not that either of you care. you exchange sweet kisses, unhurriedly clean up, and get back to your quiet sunday.

[echo-stimmingrose]

Leo: *says something stupid*

Jason: I'm leaving you for Percy.

Annabeth: Fine! Then I'm gonna make out with Piper!

Percy: Wtf just happened?

Leo: You lost one blond, gained another, and turned me into your NEMESIS!!!

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Hi, I love your writing! I'm not sure if you are doing the erotic horror prompts anymore but if you are, then may I request a Prompt 9 OR 34 with John Wick?

Hi, thank you so much, Anonymous. It means the fucking world to me!!! Allow me to express my gratitude with some predator/prey:

(I know these are supposed to be horror, but I keep turning them into fluff. Please forgive me🥺❤️)

“So, the first rule of self defense is run,” John says, giving her a heavy, doubtful side eye that speaks volumes about his faith in her to do so. 

“Second?” She asks, arms crossed, foot tapping, watching him stalk circles around her like he’s going to drop her at any moment - her heart patters wildly every time she sees his step slow or his eyes move to a vulnerable part of her body, even though she knows that whatever “tells” he exhibits are actually fakeouts and dead ends. Just a way to get her nerves worked up so that she’s taking him seriously.

He stops in front of her, places a finger in the center of her chest, and she knows he could give a little push and she’d be flat on her ass.

But he doesn’t. He smiles. “Hide.”

She rolls her eyes. “The third?” 

“Fight. And -“ he moves his finger against her bare skin, drawing her eyes and attention, then flicks her lightly on the forehead as punishment for falling for it. “Don’t roll your eyes at your superior.”

She rubs the pink mark. “Ow,” she tells him, even though the trick only stung a tiny bit. 

“Now say, “yes, master.”” His eyes light with mischief. 

Every piece of her fucked, masochist body wants to fight him on that if only to earn more brutality for it. But this is supposed to be critical training, even though her trainer isn’t taking it as such.

She figures that she’ll be the determined one, for once, so she tips her head, straightens her shoulders, and says, “yes, master.”

His eyebrow raises behind untamed bangs. “Good.”

“Did you take that from a job orientation class?” She asks him.

“What?”

“At jobs, they use the ‘run, hide, fight’ for active shooters.”

He shakes his head no, but it’s so hard to tell when and if he’s fucking with her…

“Have you ever had a normal job?” She wonders aloud. 

He shrugs. “Then you already have the basics down. Excellent.” He continues circling. “Start small,” he says. “Then, work your way up.” 

She nods, although annoyed with being ignored, continue.

“So, we start with running.” 

She cringes. The mere thought of him watching her run laps is painfully embarrassing. 

Wanting to impress and not kill this before it even gets started, she keeps her mouth shut. 

“I’ll give you a minute head start.” 

Wait, what did he say?

She almost laughs. “We’re racing?”

His grin is worrying. “No, I’m chasing you.” 

In that case, she wants to ask for at least a five minute head start; eyes his thick, long legs. The taut muscle is visible shifting and tensing, even under his baggy sweatpants.  

“You’re going to catch me,” she tells him, wanting to argue about this being unfair. 

“Then you’d better start running,” he replies, flipping his wrist over to check the ticking time. 

“What - where am I allowed to go?” Cool sweat collects at the nape of her neck. 

“Anywhere.” He’s still looking at his watch, waiting patiently. 

“When are we starting?” 

His eyes flit up, glint at her, then focus back on the dwindling time. “Five seconds ago.”

Prickling anticipation drives her to argue. “How is that going to help me? Just running all day so you can keep catching me? Pretty soon I’ll get tired and will just give up and let you catch me.” 

“Oh, that’s what I forgot to mention,” John murmurs.

Anger anxiety cocktail spikes. Forgot to mention? There’s a lot of shit that he’s conveniently forgetting to mention.

“If I catch you, I tickle you.” His grin grows into a sharp-bladed tip.

“John,” she says, voice worried, which delights him. “That is not fair. You’re going to catch me and you can’t just tickle me all day when you do.” 

He’s a reasonable man. He’ll see her issue. She’s valid in her concerns, and they both know it. 

“Yes I can.” 

“Are you serious?!” 

“Uh huh.” He taps his watch face. “Thirty seconds.” 

Her shoes slip on the cushiony matts, landing her on her knees before she can start bolting.

He resists the urge to go to her. Thankfully, she’s not down for long, or else his concern would get the better of him. 

She stands and runs. Up the stairs, already panting and sweating, adrenaline an ache that builds higher the farther away she gets from him. 

Out the door of the gym, down the hallway, trying not to fall again and losing precious time because of it.

She’s in the cold before she knows what she’s doing. Her t-shirt does nothing to cover her from the frost, but fear and physical exertion help her stay warm. 

Down the left block, then ducking through an alleyway, wondering if he’s on her tail by now. 

Blessedly, there’s no snow on the ground, so she’s not leaving any footprints. Also, that means she can go faster and not have to worry about falling. 

She rushes a corner and almost takes out an older man walking his dog, so, of course, she has to stop and profusely apologize.

“It’s fine, dear,” he chuckles.

She pats his friendly Labrador on the head. “Are you sure?” She looks him over, and he seems okay. Her memory says she ran smack dab into his frail frame, but maybe it’s just her psychosis acting up again. 

“I’m alright, dear, where is your coat? Your skin is ice cold.”

“Oh, I left it at home, just going for a jog,” she replies, trying to be casual. 

His fluffy dog pushes a wet nose into her hand and nuzzles her out of more attention.

“This is Sam,” the older man introduces. “He is very friendly.”

“He’s amazing,” she says, using both hands to stroke blonde, cold fur. 

“Are you training for a marathon?” The man asks. “I hear there’s a big one by Macy’s next week.” 

“No. Just exercising.” She smiles up at him, wondering how to politely break this conversation off and save her own ass. 

Behind him, about half a block down, is her pursuer and teacher.

It would be better if he looked disappointed. So, so much better. 

Her hand stills on Sam’s head. 

That expression would be a glare if his mouth wasn’t pulled up at the seams. His eyes of brilliant brown are blown black. Like a shark. No, too intentional to be a shark - it isn’t pure hunger that drives him. 

Gotcha.

Fear is the only thing she’s capable of feeling for a couple of seconds as she forgets what, exactly, is going on while an instinctual and ancient part of her remembers what it’s like to be hunted.

She’s going to feel really bad, later, about turning away from a nice man and his dog without so much as a goodbye and sprinting the opposite direction.

That trepidation just coils tighter the more she runs. She wasn’t built for this. Her legs are too short, her body too pillowy to gain any sort of momentum, her lungs too small for the air required in running. 

It’s nothing but luck and adrenaline carrying her down crossroads and alleys. 

She spares a glance behind her, and almost feels like she’s winning when she doesn’t see John. 

It’s because he’s in front of her. 

At the end of the gravelly side street, lounging lazily on the wall. 

Michael fucking Meyers, that’s what this reminds her of. You never see him moving, but somehow he’s always catching up to you. 

She almost falls again when turning around to dash the other way, but manages to keep a shaky, vertical grip on earth.

John surpasses her, the easy stride of his legs infuriating, and plants himself in her path so that she runs smack into his chest. 

There’s no time to get away. He already has her biceps gripped tight. 

She winces, writhes, glower resembling more of a pout. 

“When you run,” he says, kissing her head with a soft mouth that contradicts his hard grip. “You zigzag. Go every direction. Never in a straight line. Never predictably. You have to not think about where you’re going, but focus wholly on your destination.”

“Helpful tips that I should have known earlier?” She tries, grinning dryly.

He chuckles. “If I just tell you, you won’t learn. Which reminds me: Let’s take you home and get you warm. I owe you some merciless tickling, don’t I?”

“I was hoping you’d forget,” she groans. “Second chance?” 

“You’ll get plenty of chances,” he assures, leading her back to where she came with a big arm wrapped around her shoulders to keep her warm.

[skittlestrash]

ed’s to-do list: ☑ wear fine things (well) ☑ make stede happy

                                     ₊‧.°.⋆☠️•˚₊‧⋆. happy one year kissiversary!!!! ₊‧.°.⋆☠️•˚₊‧⋆.

[your-dearest-simi]

[lunarcanum]

Everywhere I go... I see his face...

[sir-davey]

I guess I’ll start off with silly doodles!! Yayayayy

Ignore bald Saul at the bottom. David took his luscious curls that’s what happened.

More silly ✨ ‘tis for an animation idea

I’ll post better art later lol but I’ll just show these for now

Bye bye ~

Don’t let the King Saul bite

[nalilvsjaybird]

i'm just a girl who wants to ride Arkham knight thigh 💕

[ask-nathan-explosion]

CAN YOU DRAW NATHAN WITH SPONGEBOB I WOULD LUV IT 👾😁

I love this lil fuckin' guy.

[scrollonso]

how the fuck are they gonna raise a baby if theyre both in f1 full time??

wheres strollonsos kid? (impossible)