#floaty knife

[yourdrugisafartbreaker]

Knife Duck scares me.

He makes me understand why people have anatidaephobia.

[thegnomelord]

Imagine Intoxicated Sex With Ghost

CW:NSFW, MDNI, intoxicated sex (weed) Subbot Ghost, domtop Mreader, safe/sane/consensual, smoking, playing with hands, anal, recreational drug use.

Ghost doesn't like being inebriated. Even when out drinking with the lads at the nearest pub he'll never reach the point of intoxication where he can't drive a car or punch a man's lights out if he needs to. He saw what booze did to his pa, saw what the drugs did to Tommy, he doesn't want the Riley 'legacy' to dig it's roots into him — just the thought of it makes his stomach churn and his lungs feel like they're infested with black mold.

But sometimes when both of you are on leave, the battlefield miles away yet the lingering ache of it all filling his bones with static, he'll indulge in the weed his doc prescribed. It took him a while to be comfortable to use it, both with himself and you. But he trusts you, knows you won't do anything to him that you two hadn't agreed to prior; you're good for him like that.

Too good.

Making the blunt feels intimate in a way Ghost can't describe. The way you sit right next to him on the couch, both of you on even level, works to relax some of the usual tenseness in his spine. It's the careful glide of your knife along the cheap cigar to create a clean cut so you can empty the dried leaves into the trash that has his heart beating a little faster — then again, he's always liked the look of a knife in your hands and how precise you could be with it.

He'd die before he told you his thoughts, so he takes the empty cigar paper without a word and carefully measures how much of the weed he puts in, just a little shy of the recommended dose. He feels your nonjudgmental gaze on his fingers as he rolls the makeshift blunt, yours might be the only one that doesn't make his skin prickle with discomfort.

"You're getting better at that." You note. Ghost's blunt making skill isn't such a slop-job as it used to be when he first started doing this, but it's by no means pretty. "Practice some more and they might start looking half-assed."

"Sod off." The edge in his tone would cut deeper if he didn't bump his shoulder against yours. "At least I don't make 'em look like logs of shite."

"Mean." You tut but shoulder his weight without complaint and wrap an arm around his waist. He leans further on you until he ends up laying across your lap, his back pinning your legs down and his head resting on the couch arm, making himself comfortable like a cat in a sunning spot.

"What? Can't handle the truth?" He says, staring at the blunt in his hand. You don't rush him, sitting in comfortable silence with your hand loosely carding through his disheveled hair, fingers scratching his scalp and the soft blond strands curling at his nape for a few minutes while Simon prepares himself. You know he's ready when he pulls the face mask off his face, biting the end of the blunt between his teeth and turning his head towards you.

You reach to hold his jaw, the sensation of your fingers scraping against his stubble both electric and calming for him. With a small 'click' an equally small flame sparks at the tip of the lighter, the fire dances in his dark eyes as you hold it at the other end of the blunt until it's tip is ignited.

Simon holds the blunt with his fingers, eyes closing as he takes a deep and controlled breath. The smoke lazily crawls down his trachea to settle in his lungs, he holds his breath until there's a small tightness in his chest before breathing out just as slowly. It takes a couple more puffs before he can feel the vestiges of that lazy high begin to nibble on his nerves, eyes cracking open to look at your visage through the dancing smoke.

Weed takes the edge off life for him; the constant ache of his body is easy to forget when the pleasant buzz fills his skull, chest full of feathers and a deep floaty calmness settling in his bones. Only his spine feels weird, like his lower back is made of kinetic sand, muscles tensing and relaxing but even that works to calm him down, ground him to the sensation of your fingers carding through his hair.

When a low grunt escapes him you lean down, plucking the blunt from his lips to kiss him. This kiss isn't rushed like most of your intimacy needs to be — you have all the time in the world. Ghost opens his mouth and hums into the kiss, the taste of weed on his tongue as he lazily licks into your mouth and along your teeth, lingering whisps of smoke escaping through the crack of both of your lips.

You part so he can take another drag of the blunt, your warm lips leaving chaste kisses on his forehead, nose, eyebrows, cheeks, eyelids when he flutters them shut, and anywhere where you can reach. From the corner of his eye he sees you turn the Tv on, setting some cartoon on a low volume to further ease him into the mental space of calmness. Then your free hand reaches to loosely hold his own free hand, your thumb tracing the scars on the back of his hand.

Your hands don't wander any lower, letting him feel your warmth while he lazily finishes his blunt until it's gone. "You alright Si?" You ask.

"Like a hog in shite." He manages, tilting his head to further lean into your hand that's scratching his scalp. It's something he loves about you — the slow approach you like to take with him. Not just jumping straight to sex, though that's fun too, but sitting there with him, letting him ramble about who knows what while you two watch some shite cartoon, giving him sweet kisses when his hand tugs on your shirt.

It makes Simon's heart feel like it could leap from his chest if his ribs weren't in the way. Fuck, at times like these he could probably spill his heart out to you if the weed didn't line his tongue with lead. He still tries in his own way, taking your hand that's holding his and starting to play with your fingers. Following the lines of your palm with his thumb, curling your fingers and laying sloppy kisses along your knuckles, humming contently when you hold his jaw loosely and scrape your thumb against his stubble.

Simon doesn't know when he gets aroused. Only that one moment he's not, and by the time you two part from another lazy kiss he's tenting his sweatpants.

"Hey," Simon grunts, holding your hand by the wrist as he nibbles on your finger. "Want you."

"You already have me." You snort.

Even high as a kite Simon's not all too pleased with your humor, nipping your finger just at the edge of pain. "Smart arse." His lips follow his teeth to soothe the bite with a small kiss. "Want your cock."

Straight to the point, that one.

A small laugh escapes you, "Alright, alright." He grumbles like a bear roused from hibernation when you have him sit up. He grips your shirt to demand one more kiss from you, your lips distracting him so he doesn't notice when you pick him up. The face he makes is hilarious, like a dog that thinks he's too heavy to be picked up.

But he gets over it quickly, large arms wrapping around your neck to hold onto you as you stumble to the bedroom. A breath escapes him when you lay him down on the bed and he doesn't let go, resulting in you tumbling into bed on top of him. The curse you let out when you fall on him makes him giggle like a school boy.

He's absolutely no help when you try to take his clothes off, laying there like a sack of potatoes and only occasionally wriggling in place. Simon gives you an annoyed look and a chiding "Why'r you so slow?" when you have him lift his hips so you can slide his sweatpants and boxers down his legs. His cock bobs against his belly, a tiny drop of precum smearing against his skin.

"Because you're no help." You grunt, quickly taking your own clothes off. "Seriously Si, you're like trying to move a mountain."

But you don't mind him being like this. You love it, and you love him when he just huffs something under his breath and flops over on his front. He spreads his legs, his hard cock laying between his thighs and his hole just peeking out from between his cheeks. "Mhm," Humming Simon hugs the pillow, nuzzling his cheek into it as he gives you a lazy look, his pupils blown wide and eyes puffy. "Sounds like an excuse t'me."

Even with you it took him a while before he could turn his back to you like this, trust you like this.

"Fuck Simon, look at you." Gently you push another pillow under his hips to hike them up and the way he arches his back to grind his cock against it has your breath stuttering in your chest. You can't keep your hands off him, gingerly massaging the back of his thighs as you slowly trail up, purposely skipping over his ass to dig your thumbs into his lower back. "Gorgeous."

Simon lets out a slow breath as your fingers make the muscles relax, eyes closing and his back rippling as he melts into the sheets. "Well aren't you a charmer." His voice is mumbled into the pillow and the small wiggle of his ass he does to entice you is cute as hell. "C'mon." He nags, throwing the harshest glare he can at you. "Fuck me already." He demands, but he doesn't try to get up from his position, content to just lay and have you listen to his commands.

That's another thing side of Ghost you only see when he's high as a kite — he likes being a pillow prince, to give you orders and rest easy knowing you won't do anything he doesn't want. If it doesn't make your heart melt, that he trusts you like that, you don't know what will.

"Alright, alright," You placate him by finally groping his ass while you grab the lube on the nightstand with your other hand. You squirt a generous amount on your hand and warm it up between your fingers, settling between his legs in a way you can lay kisses along his spine while you slowly circle your fingers around his hole. You reach around with your other hand to lazily stroke him, the lube making the glide of your hand smooth and pleasant.

He's more vocal like this, a low half moan leaving him as Simon closes his eyes. Usually the feeling of a body looming over his back would have him tensing and bearing his teeth, but all he does now is breathe in and relax, muscles tensing for a fraction of a moment when your fingers breach him before he relaxes again. Simon's arms tense to hug the pillow tighter, the soft material muffling the soft moans and deeper grunts you pull from his chest with every small movement of your finger.

It's impossible for you not to tease him. "You like that, sweet prince?" But your tone is light and loving, pushing your finger deeper and distracting him from the small hints of pain the stretching of his muscles brings by stroking his cock more firmly, thumbing his cumhole.

Simon moans unabashedly and nods, biting the pillow and worrying it between his teeth when you push another finger inside him. "Mhm," He doesn't deny it. He can't deny it when the weed in his system makes the pleasure 10 times stronger, the usual electric pleasure now slowly replacing the marrow in his bones as your fingers twist and curl against his slick walls. "So good fer me." He mumbles.

Simon feels like he's floating on a cloud; Each kiss along his spine makes small shivers race down his limbs, the coldness of you pouring more lube over his hole complementing the heat of your hand around his cock, his drool soaking into the pillow and the sweetest sounds escaping him as you stretch him out. His cock leaks a constant stream of precum, his hips occasionally giving minute twitches to fuck into your hand but he's too relaxed to do more than that.

"Ready?" You ask when you think he's stretched enough, slowly pulling your fingers out of him. His hole clenches around nothing, dollops of slick lube escaping past his rim and running down his heavy balls; neither him nor his body is happy about the sudden lack of stimulation.

"Hurry." He orders, cracking an eye to watch you from the corner of his eye as you trail kisses up his spine until you're draped over him, catching his lips in a sloppy kiss while you lube your cock and line yourself up.

He moans into your mouth when the tip of your cock pops into him. "Fuck, yes lovie- just like that. . ." Your name sounds like honey on his tongue as you slide in deeper. His muscles contract and relax with each inch you push into him until he's left panting against the pillow when your balls finally rest against him. He's so hot around you, slick and pliant and trusting, blindly seeking you out for another kiss as you both adjust to the new position.

"Good?" You lazily stroke his cock again, feeling his back muscles ripple against your front as the pleasure washes over his system.

"Perfect." He moans and rolls his hips into your hand, simultaneously fucking himself onto your cock. "Move."

"Yes sir." You grin. You keep the pace slow and loving, a continuous and slow roll of your hips making your cock drag against his prostate. Reaching out to hold his free hand you rock your hips to meet his own movements. Each slow scrape of your cock against his walls has him whimpering, an occasional sharp thrust earning you a pleased moan, the pillow muffling the little breathy 'ah- hah-hm- ah' he makes when you grind your cock as deep as it'll go while rubbing his shaft.

Pleasure continues to build in his body, muscles tensing and relaxing, every single thought melting out of his skull save for your name that he moans like a prayer, your loving movements slowly and steadily turning Simon into a pile of goo. He doesn't even notice when he cums, it rushes through him like lightning striking a tree, pearly cum spurting over your hand as he shouts a loud "Fuck!".

You slow down only for a few seconds, long enough for him to come down from his high and begin grumbling and whining, showing you that he's nowhere near reaches his limit despite his cock softening in your hand. So you indulge his gluttonous side, starting to slowly thrust into him as you stroke his soft shaft. You cum eventually, his hole greedily clenching around you as you shoot your cum inside him and then keep going on fucking him until his voice becomes hoarse from screaming your name.

By the time you two are well and truly done you're both wrung dry, a sizable puddle of cum formed beneath his cock and his hole loose and lax, trying to clench around your cock and the cum you fucked deep inside him.

You use what sense you have in your skull that hadn't melted through your cock to roll you to over on the side so he's not laying in his own cum. Simon grunts when you attempt to pull out, gripping your hand as tightly as his relaxed muscles can until you get the message and lay back down, spooning him with your cock still deep inside him.

And fuck, the buzz of weed and pleasure from sex has him so loose and relaxed you could do anything to him and he wouldn't object. But you don't, simply cuddling up against his back and kissing his sweaty nape.

He loves you for that. He loves that he can trust you. He doesn't know when the last time was when he was this relaxed. A small giggle escapes him and he tilts his head back so you can lay kisses on his neck.

"Love you too Si." He hears you mutter against his ear before he falls asleep. And for the first time since the last time you two did this, does he sleep without the nightmares of a cold grave and a burning home haunting his dreams.

Tag list: @dead-end-stuff

[koifsssh]

SCREAMING, SCREAMINGGGG 

RAHHHHH LOOK AT THEM BOTH. BWAH. gloom has my whole heart... 

LOOK AT THEM HOLDING HANDS... THEYRE SO CUTE...

@koifsssh

The sillies!!! Gloom's house is weird, though arguably Gloom himself is weirder

[heretoobsessstuff]

Last line tag

Ahhhhh im so happy u tagged me @valstarsandgalaxies thank u so muchhhh 🥹🫶🏻

Here’s a little piece of the “babe can I call?” WIP i wrote recently (a 5+1 fic, 5 times John call Gale in the middle of the night and one time Gale does instead!)

“Gale,” he breathes, relief flooding him at the sound of that familiar voice. He hears Gale shuffle before he speaks again.

“John? Is that you?”

John took a shaky breath, trying to drown in that voice, willing it to pull the fear from his body. His hand shook as he gripped the phone like a lifeline.

“Are you drunk again?” Gale sighed, his voice heavy with sleep. John felt floaty, dread sitting at the pit of his stomach as he tried to calm his breathing. He felt desperate to make sure Gale is okay. That he’s alive. That he’s still here. He jumped to answer.

“No—not drunk. Gale, I—”

“John? What’s the matter? Where are you?” Gale interrupts, urgency threading through his words.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“Nothing. I’m home. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have called.”

“Are you okay? You’re kinda freakin’ me out right now.”

Gale sounded concerned—panicked, even, his voice rising in pitch. John took another deep breath, fighting to steady himself.

“I just-just need to hear your voice.”

His eyes burnt with tears, so he closed them, feeling the weight of the night press down on him.

“Did something happen?” Gale’s worry is palpable, and John shook his head even though Gale couldn’t see him, exhaling deeply as the lump in his throat threatened to choke him.

“No. Just wanted to know-needed to know you’re there.” The words were finally out and he felt his stomach clench with anxiety. As if he was expecting Gale to say he wasn’t okay and that he was dead and that these past months of leaving England and flying back home were all a dream. That Bucky was still in Stalag, without Gale, counting the days until something happened and ridded him of this misery-

“I’m here, John,” Gale says softly, voice gentle, cutting through the chaos like a knife.

“You’re okay,” John says shakily.

“Yeah, I’m all in one piece.” A pause. “As okay as I ever was, Bucky.”

Ahhhhh this is going slow but im rlly excited to share snippets 🤭 absolutely no pressure tagging @amiserableseriesofevents @happy-days19 @onyxsboxes @joeyalohadream i’m rlly sorry if you’ve done it already ❤️❤️

[shalomniscient]

HI! i’ve been noticing a LACK of deren content so….can i request filmed sex with dom! deren??

anon i must preface this by saying i started playing after deren's event so i know roughly nothing about her but i did my best to research how she's like through info on s1ns so if this is ooc i'm so so sorry (i know i could watch recordings of the event. but my attention span... is sadly not robust enough 😔😔😔)

video star || deren x reader [NSFT][MDNI]

cw. strap-ons, overstimulation, squirting, filming (consensual)

notes. it's kind of.......... generic. sorry anon 😔😔😔

"C'mon baby, look at the camera, yeah?"

Deren's voice is floaty, barely able to be registered by you as she fucks into you, thick strap bullying into your tight, clenching cunt. One of your ankles rests on her shoulder, your entire leg braced against her body, while the other lies limp on the edge of the bed. The position allows the camera to clearly see the way your pretty pussy stretches to accommodate the thick toy. Your hands are bound above your head, tied in delicate knots to the headboard.

Deren herself stands between your thighs, and the only thing on her skin is the harness of the strap-on she has buried balls-deep inside of you. She holds onto your leg with one hand, while the other holds the camera she's using to film all your sweet little reactions as she fucks you silly.

Blearily, you open your eyes, and look into the camera lens. Deren's grip on your leg tightens by a fraction when she notices the tears in your lash line, and the way you bite your lip. She zooms in on your fucked-out expression, eyeliner runny and smudged, and snaps her hips harder against you, for once not feeling lazy like she normally is. Instead, her blood runs hot in her veins—a frenzy like Mania bubbling in her core.

"Shit, baby—so pretty like this, hm?" Deren breathes, leaning forward to get a close up on your face as you throw your head back, mouth opening wide as pleasure jolts your body. She thrusts deep with each roll of her hips, and you squirm on the bed, near delirious with pleasure. "My little video star."

"'s too much," you whimper, hands scratching at the ropes binding your wrists, "'s too much, can't cum anymore—"

"Shh," Deren soothes, releasing your leg to cup your face and wipe the tears from your eyes. "You can give me one more, right? I know you can. Be my good girl and give me just one more, baby, for the camera."

You sob as Deren speeds up her thrusts, the wet sounds of her fucking into you ruthlessly echoing throughout the room. She shifts back to her original position, moving the camera away from your face and down to your sopping pussy, zooming in on the way her strap appears and disappears, slick and shining when it catches the light. Her free hand goes to further part your folds, exposing your stiff clit, which she starts to rub roughly with her thumb.

You squeal and your hips buck at the sensation, your leg kicking out. Deren remains unfazed, playing your body like a god damn instrument as she directs it to what's undoubtedly about to be a mind-shattering orgasm for you. The camera shakes with her movement, and the footage is going to be barely usable by her standards, but Deren can hardly care right now, not with the way you writhe on the bed and cry her name like that.

When you finally topple off that knife's edge of pleasure, you do so with a scream, your legs locking around Deren's waist. Your cunt flutters and squeezes around her, as if sucking her in, and with a few more harsh flicks to your clit you squirt streams of clear slick all over the director's abdomen. She sucks in a breath, slowing her hips as you ride it out. Some of your squirt lands on the camera lens, creating a glossy sheen on the footage.

It's absolute fucking cinema.

You babble and sob incoherently, and Deren finally starts to slow down, before stopping completely. She sets the camera down, still recording, and leans down to kiss you softly, her large hands wiping the tears from your eyes. "Such a good performance, baby," she praises, and she means it.

Oh, she's definitely doing this with you again.

[bodhrancomedy]

Chasing the Mists (Part 1) by Bodhrán M.

The seafolk had been coming for decades, but still no one could say why they chose to steal the people they did. Sometimes it seemed simple enough – all young men or all old women or children under five – but sometimes the only similarities of the captives were that all had brown eyes, or they took from every third house. Sometimes they swarmed up the beach in an unrelenting hoard, seizing and breaking and shrieking in delight. Sometimes it was done so silently, so neatly, that a man could wake in his bed to find the wife he’d clasped in his arms at nightfall gone as surely as snow in summer.

Every year it changed along with the seasons and the tactics, but two things were certain.

The seafolk came once a year and those they took were never seen again.

Odette – Ody – knew this just as everyone did. So did her mother as she trailed behind her, telling her daughter over and over as Ody purposefully restrung the little boat’s sails.

“Please, Ody. Please. No one comes back, you know that. Please just come back inside.”

Ody ignored her. The anger and sorrow and terror balled up in her chest was making her lightheaded and floaty, that core a steel anchor to her mind.

“It hurts, Ody. I know. I promise I know. We all know.”

It was true. Many of the villages up and down the coast would be grieving loved ones tonight – whether stolen or slain trying in vain to protect them.

“I lost your grandfather to them,” her mother was choking on her tears, fingers gripping the side of the boat until her scarred knuckles turned to white skulls, “my best friend, your sister… I don’t need to lose you too, Ody.”

Ody tested the rigging, the rope rough against her hands as she tugged.  

“What about your father? What about the twins? What about his mother?” At that her mother sucked in a ragged breath, swaying. “Ody, please listen to me!”

She did straighten at that, her heart stuck painfully in her windpipe. “He’d come for me, Mam.”

“Because you’re both young and foolish and in love.” Her mother reached out, pleadingly grasping Ody’s woolen sleeve.

The sleeve Locke had made. They’d spent their childhood like everyone else; weaving the fishing nets on the shores where his had always had a fineness to them no one else could match. She’d heard the elders talking once, saying how it was almost a shame he was born out here on the shifting sands and not in the city, where some grand laird or lady could have apprenticed him. The overheard conversation had made Ody guilty for days because the first thought which had gripped her tight was that she was furiously, fiercely glad he hadn’t and that the Gods had determined that he be here with her instead, together for eternity in this destitute fishing village overlooking a merciless sea.

That was a young and foolish Ody, not this one.

Not this calm, meticulous one with a knife in her belt, a ring on her finger, and a plan in her head.

“No one,” her mother begged, “no one has ever come back.”

“Then I suppose it’s time they did.”

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Part 5 - And here's the reward.

Slasher Handler Masterlist

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Under-negotiated kink, impact play (spanking with hand, impact on vulva), use of gag, brief knife play, fear play, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, forgotten safeword, afab reader, feminine terms used for reader, manual penetration, piv penetration, brief blood mention (not reader's)

Your ass and thighs hurt, in that weird floaty way things tend to hurt when you work out too hard, too fast. You almost let your eyes flutter closed when Simon pets gently over your belly. But then you remember that it’s Simon, so you force yourself to keep your eyes open. The knife he flicks open with his free hand makes you jolt. The aborted flail-freeze you do makes him chuckle.

“Easy, luv,” he coos, still petting, finger dipping into your belly button. He pushes your shirt to bunch up over the top of your bra. “Just gonna get you ready for your reward.”

Not my pants, is all your addled brain can think of, staring at the knife. You’ll be mad if he destroys your shirt and panties. Frustrated as all hell if he slices through your on-its-last-legs bra. But the idea of shopping for jeans is enough to make you tear up all over again. You moan through the gag and shake your head, try to work your pants off with clumsy movements of your feet.

“You’re finicky today,” He hums and skims the flat of the blade from your ribs to your belly button. The sharp tip dips in, and you freeze again. “Used to let me do whatever I want. Now every other thing is a no.”

You force yourself to even out your breathing. It’s so hard to resist the urge to suck in your stomach, but you do. You fight through the fog to try to figure out what to do. There’s a right answer, you know, even if he’s not actually asking you a question. You look up into his face, look between eyes that are flat, but not bored. You wonder how long he could stay here, crouched, blade poised over naked flesh, waiting for you to decide how the night is going to go. You know for a fact he can outlast you.

You slowly reach for his hands with your own. The empty hand, you guide down over your mound. The hand with the blade, you nudge upward. You’re relieved when your trembling doesn’t translate to him at all. The blade maintains its steady, just barely scraping pressure. You guide his hand up past your diaphragm, over your ribs. Up until the blade of it is pressed against your left breast through the thin fabric of your bra. The point presses just enough to dimple the skin of your other breast.

Simon’s eyes are nearly all pupil. The empty hand dips lower, until his fingertips are just between your thighs. His index finger grazes over your clit. He leaves his hand there.

You risk taking a deeper breath. The point of the blade hurts, but rises and falls with you.

Then he chuckles. “Sweet girl. This is supposed to be your reward, not mine.”

And then the knife is gone, too fast for you to track it. Your breath leaves your body all at once. When he twists the hand between your legs, you part them as much as you can. His fingers pet over where you’re wetter than you expected. And for a long few moments, that’s all he does. Just pets you and stares into your face.

“Be honest with me,” he says. You hate when he asks this of you. It’s always a trap, but he only ever tells you to be honest when he means it. “Do you like when I hurt you?”

You start to shake your head, then pause. Do you like it? The obvious answer is hell no. The practical answer is that when he’s hurting you, you know where he is and what he’s doing. You know he’s not going to kill you. The screwed up answer is that whenever he hurts you, you get wet. And he always makes you feel good afterwards.

All of this would be easier to communicate without a gag in your mouth. So you give him a shrug.

“Not a no, but not a yes, hm? That’s fair.” The hand not between your thighs pets over your hair. “Poor thing. ‘S confusing. I don’t make it easy.”

“You’re an asshole,” you try to say. Your message must get across, because he gently raps his knuckles against your cheek.

“Tell you what,” he says, suddenly pushing his middle finger into you. “I’m going to give you your reward, and you can tell me afterward how you like it.”

He presses deep, which forces his fingers against where your ass still stings. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit, too. It’s too much too fast. You try to curl into yourself on instinct. Of course, he doesn’t let you. The hand on top of your head comes down, palm over the gag and fingers hooked under your chin to force your head back.

He stops fingering you grab the pants around your shins and force your feet closer to your ass. When he lets go of your face and gathers your hands between his, over your head, he replaces the hand on your pants with one of his knees. The result is a position that feels more exposed than if he’d stripped you bare. The way he keeps staring down into your eyes somehow makes it worse. And then he slaps at your clit, a sharp, bright sensation that makes you yelp. You twist, knees slamming inward against his hips.

Then he sinks into your body with two fingers. Before everything, you used to be fascinated by his hands. They were so big and broad and dexterous. Now you’re intimately familiar with how much bigger two of his fingers are than even three of yours. The stretch makes you wheeze around the gag. He doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s rolling his wrist, teasing your clit and fucking into you with a steady intensity. It’s horrible how fast your body gives over to him. It takes embarrassingly little time for him to coax you toward an orgasm.

As soon as you start tightening, he dips his face down to drag his nose against your cheek. “Pretty girl.” And he pulls his fingers out and slaps your clit.

You choke on your scream and jolt as he just. Keeps. Slapping at you, fast and just this side of too hard. He coos and shushes you, but you can barely hear him. The sensation confuses your body. Your hips stutter up into his hand and away.

When his fingers finally plunge deep again, it’s relief and torment in one. Your clit feels like it’s on fire when his palm grinds into it. The pressure of him inside is everything and still not enough. When he hooks his fingers up and in, your right leg tries to kick out as your orgasm rocks through you.

Simon almost seems to take your orgasm personally. His breath is hot on the side of your face when he growls something else you can’t quite hear. His hand doesn’t slow down or soften. Your peak stretches on and on as you whimper and whine back at him. After the barest dip in pleasure, he brings you right back to the edge again faster than you feel should be possible.

The second orgasm is overwhelming for a split second, and then Simon’s hand is gone again. Your hips chase him before your brain catches up. So your legs are spread even farther apart when his fingers slap down again. Where his fingers had been focused on your clit before, these strikes hit your whole labia. He doesn’t let you close yourself off at all, and something about the whole experience brings the pleasure roaring to the surface again. It’s the best-worst orgasm of your life.

Next thing you know, Simon is carrying you. You ragdoll a bit in his arms, dizzy and weak, but try to make your feet cooperate. It’s not much help, since he barely lets your toes touch the floor. So you try to focus on breathing and not choking on your own spit.

You’re not surprised when you’re dropped unceremoniously onto the side of your bed. Your knees knock a bit against the bed frame, which shakes some of the haze from your head. Before you can drag yourself up, his hand pushes your chest back down to the bed. With one hand, he unhooks your bra and tugs at your shirt. You cooperate as much as you can, proud when you get the shirt over your head and shake it free from your arms. You get your elbows under yourself and and try to make your feet figure out how to work with a floor again. But then Simon’s foot is standing on your pants. You have a moment of slow confusion with the top of one foot stuck to the floor.

He slaps your thighs apart, and you spread your still tender legs with a hiss. Then you yelp and try to escape up the bed as Simon slaps at your pussy. A part of you recognizes that it’s not as hard as it could be. The rest of you is overstimulated and overwhelmed. You kick and squeal. You reach around to grab at his wrist where he’s braced against your shoulder. He cracks his hand down on your ass twice.

When he finally hauls you onto the bed by the shoulder and one of your thighs, you yowl like an offended cat. He digs his nails in to make you do it again, then positions you so your hips are higher than your shoulders. Three fingers get pushed into you as he clamps his hand down on the back of your neck. You flail your feet, relieved to realize that you’re finally free of your pants.

Simon pulls his fingers free and drapes himself over your back, and you have a moment to wonder when he took off all of his clothes before he’s notching his cock at your entrance. It hurts, sore and stinging in a way you’ve never felt before. As he sinks in, you can’t help but moan. The stretch and fullness is everything you wanted five minutes ago. The usual too much of him is amplified by how puffy and swollen you must be.

“Drop it,” he growls in your ear. His fingers squeeze into the hinge of your jaw. You gasp as the gag falls to the bed, can’t help the way your spit drools from your mouth.

“Oh, god,” you moan, lips clumsy.

He snarls against the side of your face. “Say my name.”

“Oh, god,” you moan again. He chuckles and jostles his hips forward, pushing just a little bit deeper. “Oh, fuck! Simon!”

“That’s it,” he says, tilting your face so he can bite at your lips.

The pace he sets is slower than you expected, but hard. Now that your mouth is free, you whimper and whine as he grinds into your sore ass and thighs. The feeling of him pushing in and out is so intense that you claw a hand into his hair with a gasp. Suddenly, you jolt as his finger grinds into your clit and makes you sob.

And then he turns on the vibrator.

You shriek against the hand he slaps over your mouth. You aren’t sure you don’t levitate both of you off the bed trying to get away. There’s no escape. The orgasm is ripped from you before you can catch your breath. He rides out your shaking with a growl of his own, grinding deep. You shake and clench and flutter around him with a sob. And then another orgasm rocks through you.

It’s like your peak never ends. You’re strung from one orgasm to the next, until your limbs can do nothing but quake. You’re sobbing, begging, calling Simon’s name helplessly around the fingers he’s dipped into your mouth. It’s barely a relief when he finally pulls the vibrator away because that’s when he really starts driving his hips into yours.

“Please,” you gasp, nonsensically. Can’t find your fingers to snap once, let alone twice. “Simon, I can’t, please let-! I can’t. Please let me-”

“Oh, sunshine, of course,” he coos between grunts of effort. “’S your reward. Take it.”

“I can’t,” you sob.

His arm wraps around your throat, flexes to almost cut off your air supply. “You will. Because I say you will.”

The next orgasm is a full body contraction that whites out your vision. You’re distantly aware of your wheezing cries and digging your fingernails wherever they can get purchase. You feel Simon stiffen over you, snarling something under his breath. You have just a moment to realize what’s about to happen before you pass out.

When you wake up, you groan. Everything from your diaphragm down is sore. You’re flat on your belly. Simon is on his side beside you, petting up and down your spine in long strokes. When you flutter your eyes open, he leans down to press a long kiss to your eyebrow.

There’s a lot you want to say, but English fails you. “Guh-uh.”

“’S ‘at so? Interestin’,” Simon answers. He cocks his head and you realize there’s blood in his hair.

“Muh?” You want to reach up to touch it, see where your fingernails damaged him. Your arms aren’t cooperating.

“Made a mess of me,” Simon confirms with an easy grin. “Got a towel, but we’ll need to change the sheets.”

A towel? How bad did you get him? You try to sit up, with mixed success. “That much?”

He makes an affirming noise. “Surprised me.”

“’M sorry,” you slur. Words are so hard. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Simon’s eyes crinkle. His eyes aren’t warm, but they’re as close as they ever get. “Go to sleep, Precious.”

You hum. With effort, you work a hand out from under yourself and get your fingers up to his collarbones before you’re too weak to go any further. “Stay.”

He chuckles as your eyes slip closed. “You’ll never be rid of me, luv.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

LET THEM FEAST

This piece was inspired by this Mickey Mouse cartoon as well as this early episode from Spongebob.

So tell me, do you wanna go?

The cafeteria doors parted, swinging open as any other door would—but to Fellow and Gidel, it was as if the gates to heaven were welcoming them. Humming chatter and the smells of delicious foods churned out from beyond. Deeply inhaling, tasting the aromas in the back of one’s throat, made their bodies light and floaty, as if hunger had made them weightless.

They followed a hoard of uniformed boys with trays, drifting to buffet stations loaded with dishes they could only dream of. Slabs of roast beef dripping with mushroom gravy, racks od lamb, game birds with crisped skin, fish glistening with herb butter, steaming stews with vegetables bobbing in a sea of rich broth, fluffy rice, cakes sliced wide and trifles stacked tall. The paper-thin slice of bread and beans they had for supper had never looked quite so sorry.

Gidel didn’t notice that his mouth was agape and slick with saliva until a cane tucked under his chin and closed it for him. Fellow pulled the young boy close, a hand on his arm as he wildly gestured to the waiting delicacies.

“Take a gander, Giddie! All that food’s free and ours for the taking!!” he chirped. “Ready your fork and knife, we’re going to eat like kings today!”

Arm in arm, the duo dove into the bar, grabbing as much as they reasonably could. Generous scoops of mashed potato, the biggest pieces of meat, plenty of sauce, the largest loaves. Gidel rushed about with an apple crammed into his mouth and Fellow snuck oyster crackers into his breast pocket (as a late-night snack).

While their plates piled higher and higher, the mob students grew more irritable. Elbowing them out of the way, snatching up popular itwms, and taking far more than their share had the tendency to invoke ire. The mobs casted dirty looks at Fellow and Gidel, others raising their voices at the kitchen.

“Oi, where’s the refill of tomato soup? I’ve been waitin’ for forever over here!”

“When’re the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggies gonna be done…”

“I’m so hungry I could eat a whole horse. What’s the damn hold up?!”

“Be patient, boys!” a ghost chef callee back. He grunted as he hailed a vat of curry off of the stove. “It takes time to prepare the food.”

“They’re ravenous today,” remarked the lead chef. “Wonder what’s going on. We normally don’t have to prepare this much.”

By this time, Fellow (trailed by Gidel) had pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He set down his tray (the tower of food upon it wobbling, threatening to collapse) and waved enthusiastically at the chefs.

“Afternoon, gents! How’s it going? Looks to me like you’re hard at work feeding all these wayward souls.”

“Oh, um. Just fine, thank you.” The head chef blinked. He liked to think that he recognized all of the students and staff that came into his dining room, but he was drawing a total blank with Fellow and Gidel. “Er… Sorry, are you new around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you boys before.”

“Fufu, that’s right. We’re new to these parts.”

“They ain’t even students,” an angry mob student behind him piped up.

The lead chef startled. Worry crumpled his round, marshamallowy face. “Oh dear, not students? The buffet is only open to them and staff.” He glanced at Fellow’s pickings. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to return all that.”

Anger and annoyance shot through the fox beastman. Tch…! Those NRC brats, looking down on me! Why should they get to gorge themselves on this stuff while the rest of us beg for their scraps?!

He reached down and gripped Gidel’s hand, giving the young boy a reassuring squeeze. Gidel offered a sleepy grin back.

Watch this. I’ll turn this entire situation around and have them eating out of the palm of my hand.

He let out a theatrical gasp, then summoned his most charming smile. “My bad, I forgot to introduce myself! You see, I am a health inspector sent by the Department of Magic Education to evaluate your menu! Gidel here’s my trusty assistant.”

The leader of the ghost chefs scratched his head. “Huh? Is that what a health inspector does…?”

“Of course, or cooourse! All a part of the job description, my friend.” Fellow indicated his absurd amount of food. “They’re looking to implement new standards for magic school menus—and where better to look at as a model for reference than THE famous Night Raven College? The education it offers is elite, so the meals it offers must be elite as well! That’s why they’ve sent us to try one of everything, to evaluate the quality of your wares.”

Gidel bobbed his head. (He had little clue what he was actually agreeing with, but he agreed nevertheless.)

“Come ON, you don’t seriously buy this crap, do you?” a mob student groaned. “The old fart’s clearly lying!!”

Other voices joined him, but they all fell upon deaf ears. The head chef’s eyes sparkled, his pasty white cheeks rosy with excitement.

“Oooooh, why didn’t you say so sooner?! W-We will absolutely do everything in our power to accommodate your needs, Sir Health Inspector!” He turned to his kitchen staff. “Isn’t this so exciting, everyone? We’ll be the first group of ghosts to receive a fancy accolade after death!”

A murmur of approval weaved through the kitchen. The dining room, however, erupted into a fresh round of protests.

“You’re joking!!”

“That’s such an obvious lie.”

“How can you believe that bullcrap?!”

Keheheh, never underestimate the power of this Fellow Honest-sama’s silver tongue 🎶 I didn’t even need to use my unique magic to cut to the front of the line. Some people are just born suckers and stay suckers in the afterlife.

He smirked, giving a triumphant twirl of his cane. “Sorry, folks! You snooze, you lose. We get first dibs on everything~”

“Hah?! What’d ya just say to me?” A vein bulged on a Savanaclaw student’s forehead. He was about double Fellow’s width and rippling with muscle. “Like hell you are!”

“The way you talk is pissin’ me off!!” chimed in a Diasomnia student. He drew his baton and aimed it at Fellow. “I oughta shut you up for good!”

The idea was a seed, taking root and festering among his peers. Other students were producing their own magical pens, out of pockets and from inside vests.

Fellow paled, balking but keeping himself between the mobs and Gidel. “H-Hey now, can’t we talk this over? Violence doesn’t solve everything, you know!”

“YES IT DOES,” the mobs retorted—in unison for once. Hungry and angry, a terrible combination.

Gidel whimpered. No sound, but Fellow could sense it in the way the boy retreated into his coat. A free hand found its way to the small of Gidel’s back, keeping him upright.

Don’t let them see you like that. Weak, downtrodden. It’s letting them have the moral victory.

His grin widened. He was a fox looking to sink his teeth into unsuspecting prey.

“Why spend your youth grumpy and causing trouble? You should lighten up, live a little, laugh a little. Here, I’ll show you how. Just follow me! Come on to the Theater!! Life is Fun!!”

Fellow spun his cane, releasing a light shower of sparkles upon the crowd. They floated down, popping like popping on their skin. Eyes glazed over, twisted expressions slackened.

“Now then!!” Fellow, raised his cane like a baton, still spinning as he conducted his herd. He, poised as the ringleader. “Right this way, right this way, gentlemen! Let’s have a lively parade to the courtyard on this fine day!”

“The weather is nice today…”

“Coach said I need to get more exercise in.”

“I’ve been stressed about classes, I need to take this break.”

Marching��one, two, one, two—Fellow led the procession out of the cafeteria. He belted out a tune as he ushered students through the exit.

“Hi-diddle-dee-dee, actor's life for me!”

(Gidel pranced in and out of the line of students, reaching into pockets and retrieving miscellaneous items. Pencils, a keychain, spare change. He stashed them under his hat.)

“A high silk hat and a silver cane, a watch of gold with a diamond chain!”

When the last student was gone, Fellow made a U-turn and rushed back into the cafeteria, slamming the doors behind him. He dropped his smile, letting it shatter like a porcelain teacup and not bothering to salvage the remains.

“Sheesh, they’re finally out of my fur!” Fellow sighed deeply. “Those rotten kids really had to make me work hard for my meal...”

Gidel scrambled over to him, pulling out the various items he had clumsily pilfered. Look what I got! he seemed to say.

Fellow brightened, ruffling the child’s messy brown mop. “Atta boy, Giddie! We sure showed those snooty rich kids what for, eh?”

At that moment, the head chef bursted out of the kitchen juggling a tray of apple strudel. He was followed by several other ghosts, each carrying a new dish.

“Sorry for the wait, here’s the… Huh?” The head chef glanced around the nearly empty cafeteria, his brows knitting. “Where did everybody go?”

“Must’ve gone out for a stroll Fine by me, they’re letting us get right down to business,” Fellow laughed, clapping a hand on Gidel’s shoulder. “C’mon, that’s enough excitement for one day. Let’s dig in!”

[ryanmarshallryan]

Thoughts on accidental vore? Where someone falls into anothers gullet, but they still keep the meal? If you're into it you should definitely give it a try when writing

Accidental can definitely be fun! I definitely prefer vore the most when both parties are enjoying themselves, and sometimes accidental does lend itself to that outcome. But when I imagine it for myself, I like to feel that it’s almost a serendipitous occurrence.

For example:

A feeder helping a gainer devour a huge meal, and the gainer closes their eyes and savours all the flavors sliding across their tongue that the feeder feeds them… only to realize afterward that the feeder was one of those flavors. But the feeder is inside the gut chanting “Keep going! There’s still so much food in the fridge!” Something like that lol. 

Playfully wrestling with a partner, or even bros just being bros and somehow one guy shoving the other misplaces a hand and peristalsis kicks in. But like the prey is simply so impressed by the pred being able to accidentally do it that they are into it or something.

Or you know that song from “Chicago,” like “He ran into my knife ten times!”? Could have a caption that is like “I can’t believe you jumped down my throat like that!” “I didn’t jump down your throat, you just picked me up and ate me!” “Oh, well, you love it” “You’re not wrong, but a little warning could have been nice.”

I know this has been done before, but like on a job site or something, where someone falls from a great height and lands into the open mouth of a confused worker who happened to look up to see what the commotion was. Could happen from a theatre crew worker on a catwalk falling into an actor’s mouth, or construction sites have loads of opportunities, etc. But it would be nice to get the prey’s monologue while they get comfortable in the stomach after the ingestion perhaps something like “Eh, at least this beats having to finish the shift,” or “Hey, can you hold me in your gut till we clock out? Pretend like you can’t get me out or something.” I know the latter would defeat your purpose of the pred keeping the prey, but hey I can leave it open to you to decide what the pred does at the end of the day lol. 

Remember those Amelia Bedelia books where she does everything super literal? Maybe there could be a scenario of a guy who yells at another “Eat me!” either in a tone meaning “Square up!” or “Fight me!” and the other guy takes it literally, “Eat you? Hmm… well, okay, if you insist.” Maybe the pred can hold the violent prey in his gut until he calms down lol.

Also anything at a pool. Diving board… someone dives in… a pred is lounging on a pool donut floatie and doesn’t notice the diver as he floats in the diving path… it just writes itself.

But I have actually written a few accidental stories written. Pride Pool Party, Dreaming at the Pool, and PIZZA! are fairly recent ones. Sheet Birthday Cake and Pride & Predestination are also technically accidental.

[guess-my-next-obsession]

i miss the elementary updates sm 🫶🏽 ur writing means everything to me 💘

i’ve been missing them too!! here’s a lil something for ya 🤍:

The Show Of Appreciation

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x f!reader (Elementary-verse)

rating: E (18+ only, oral sex (fem rec), fingering, dirty talk)

wc: 1.6k

series masterlist | joel masterlist

June 2010

“Baby, come quick!”

You were standing inside the kitchen, cutting up a watermelon into small chunks for your five and two year old children while Joel kept watch over them outside in the pool.

Dropping your knife as safely as you could manage with worry coursing through your veins, you ran outside, sure that you were going to have to rescue your drowning children, but instead finding your youngest, Miles, swimming across the shallow end to his father. Cracking a big grin, you crouched down by the edge of the pool behind where Joel waited in the water to watch Miles, his Star Wars themed floaties wrapped around his chubby little arms and a big toothy grin on his face.

“Good job, Milo,” Joel exclaimed, using a nickname the two of you had initially sworn off using, but that remained lodged into your daily vocabulary anyways.

“Those swimming lessons are paying off,” you added, adjusting yourself so that you were sitting down on the edge with your feet in the water. Iris, your five year old, came over from where she had been sitting beneath the shade, playing with her dolls. She stood behind you and draped her arms around your neck.

“Mama, where’s the watermelon?” she asked, trying her hardest not to whine. Joel lifted Miles out of the water and sat him on his shoulders, forcing the child into a giggle fit as he turned to face you.

“Yeah, mama,” he grinned. “Where’s the watermelon?”

“I was in the middle of cutting it when you scared me,” you answered, tilting your head at him sassily.

“I’m hungry,” Iris persisted, this time unable to hide her impatience.

You sighed and stood up, watching as Joel gave you an empathetic look as you walked inside with your daughter in tow to help you out. Iris held the big bowl of watermelon in both her arms while you carried three juice boxes and a beer for Joel in one arm and a bag of chips in the other. Joel and Miles we’re already sat at the patio table, dripping from the pool and eagerly awaiting the lunch you’d prepared for them.

“Gotta go grab the sandwiches,” you announced as you sat down the drinks and chips.

“Let me, baby,” Joel offered, standing up quicker than you could stop him. “Sit down, relax.”

“Mama, I can’t get my straw in,” Iris whined again, the sun clearly making her cranky. You gave Joel a knowing look before moving to help your child.

“Today’s not a relaxing kind of day for me, I guess,” you mumbled under your breath, hating that your exhaustion was ruining an otherwise lovely summer afternoon. Joel frowned and kissed the crown of your head as he passed behind you to go into the house to grab the sandwiches, leaving you to keep the kids occupied.

After finally getting Iris to eat her sandwich—she wasn’t happy that she was getting turkey instead of chicken—the kids were put down for the afternoon naps. You stood in the laundry room, moving the freshly washed load into the dryer so that you could wash the next batch, but before you could get started on it, two large, warm palms rested on your shoulders from behind you. You let out an exhale of relief as Joel started to knead at your tense muscles until you melted back against him.

“Time to relax,” his husked into the shell of your ear.

“Gotta do this load so Iris has her stuff washed for ballet tomorrow,” you mumbled, lazy and lost in the feeling of his hands on you.

“I’ll do it,” he promised as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Go sit down, put a movie on. I’ll be right there.”

“Ba—“

“No,” he shook his head and used his hands on your shoulders to walk you out of the laundry room and into the living room. “Sit.”

“Yes, sir,” you smiled and took your usual seat, grabbing the throw blanket that laid over the back of the couch and unfolded it over your legs while Joel went back to the laundry.

You curled up on your side, flipping through channels until you saw that Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid was playing, and you were lucky enough to have caught it close to the start.

“You know me so well,” Joel smiled at you as he entered the room, finding his place on the couch, squeezing in behind you to hold you as you watched the movie.

“Paul Newman is so—“

“Dreamy, I know,” Joel chuckled against the shell of your ear, his palm flattening over the sliver of exposed skin between the hem of your tank top and waistline of your pajama shorts. “This movie’s gonna get you worked up.”

“You’re getting me worked up,” you corrected, smiling at the chills trickling down your arms from the simple contact of his skin on your hip.

“Am I?” he teased, kissing your neck before grazing his teeth against your earlobe. You hummed and nodded, closing your eyes to relish in his touch. “Good.”

Joel pressed himself into you, the thin material of his shorts doing little to contain the swelling of his girth as he continued to rock against you slowly. A shivered moan slipped from your lips as his palm slid up your front, underneath the cotton of your top until he was cupping the weight of your breast.

“These kids have been workin’ you into the ground, baby,” he husked, pressing his lips to your pulse. “I’ve been so busy at the office…not here enough.”

“S’alright—“

“No,” he shook his head and pinched your nipple, earning a gasped moan. “S’not. M’gonna handle the kids the rest of the week, baby. Gonna give you a break. God knows you deserve it. Such a good mama…such a good wife.”

“Joel,” you shivered as his hand slid down your stomach until it was slipping into your shorts and down to part your lower lips.

“You’re so wet, baby,” he drawled, low and needy as he circled your clit. “Have I been neglectin’ you?”

“A little,” you smirked, turning your head to look at him as he laid behind you.

“My apologies, Mrs. Miller,” he grinned, lowering his lips to hover over yours. “Don’t know what I’ve been thinkin’.”

“You wanna know what I’m thinking?” you asked and he nodded. “That I miss your tongue.”

Joel groaned and pressed his lips against yours, sinfully and slowly swiping his tongue against yours as he lowered his fingers to curl up into your cunt, swallowing your moan down greedily.

“You want me to lick this pretty pussy, baby?” he purred, fingers targeting that blinding spot inside you while the heel of his palm grinded against your clit. You nodded urgently, brows already furrowed as the knot in your stomach tightened and tightened. “Want me to drink you up? Lick you clean?”

“Fuck, yes,” you shivered.

Joel pressed his lips against your shoulder before shimmying down the sofa until he was sitting on the opposite end, situating himself between your open legs as you rolled onto your back. Grinning at you, he slid his hands up your bare legs until he was hooking his fingers into the band of your shorts, peeling them off you.

“Look at that.” Joel licked his lips as he spread your thighs open wide, his palms splayed out over your thighs, gripping the soft flesh there as his eyes admired the arousal gathered on your cunt. “Makin’ my mouth water, baby.”

“Taste me,” you begged breathlessly, the pounding in your core turning you impatient. Joel grinned and leaned down, locking his eyes with yours as he stuck out his tongue and just barely grazed it across your clit. Your body reacted instantly, jerking at the teasing contact. “Such a tease.”

“Feels better when I make you wait and you know it,” he countered, placing a kiss on your inner thigh.

You couldn’t help but admire your forty-three year old husband as he looked at you from between your thighs, his tongue slowly and softly working in circles against your clit. His hair was greying now, but he looked even better to you than he did when you met him ten years before. You briefly found yourself hoping he felt the same about you and your body after ten years and two kids.

“Pussy tastes so fuckin’ good, baby,” he praised in between deep, wide licks up your seam. Your mouth remained opened in a wide “O” as you watched him work you up, each stroke of his tongue bringing you nearer to the sweet relief you’d been craving since he first touched you. “Need my fingers to cum?”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” you panted back, brows stitched together and your fingers buried in his hair. Joel smiled as he slowly slid a finger inside of your heat before adding another, curled them up towards the roof of your cunt while his lips sucked on your clit. “Fuck, Joel,” you whined, letting your head fall back against the decorative pillow beneath your head. “I’m gonna cum—fuck.”

“That’s it,” he panted, catching his breath before returning to your clit.

The tension that had been building and building finally snapped under the synchronized strokes against your nerves from inside and out, your fingers gripping his hair to hold him against you as you rode out the waves of your high.

“There you go, baby,” he purred, moving his mouth from you but keeping his fingers inside of you, pumping them in and out just to watch you squirm and shake. When it all began to be too much, he pulled his fingers out of you and sucked them clean before coming to lay in top of you, his head on your chest. “How was that?”

“Relaxing.”

[hoodiedcrows]

Aran and flowers, part 4

We've caught up to the original post now, take a peek over there if you'd like some background!:)

Before talking about the hotel scene mentioned in that post, I want to take a quick look at Aran in the treasure room.

Standing there, lit in blue and yellow, he fits in perfectly with the flower-patterned vases behind him. Just another possession of his father's, all together in a neat row. In the scene, they talk about some of the objects being valuable and others being trash. His father is obviously ready to throw him away like a nuisance, a waste of space - like nothing. To him, the more floral the boy, the less value he has. (The Episode Of Lamentation, or ep 7, has now shown us the explicit reason, of course.)

All right! Now that we've enjoyed that happy thought, let us look at the hotel again.

The lobby where Tattoo enters is full of flowers. If you watch the scene, every single shot has them: they're in the background, the foreground, even outside the windows. They're yellow, his colour (though not in clothing). We can see some pink as well (a colour with a growing connection to Aran), in a sweet spray and a few separate blooms. Tattoo's yellow and orange ones are also more fluffy and ordinary compared to the smooth, large arrangements we've seen surrounding Aran so far.

Not only do the colours make a tentative connection between Aran and Tattoo, but the presence of flowers around Tattoo at all is relevant to their connection. They show us that there is a shared visual language between the two, a medium to use to show us the changes in their relationship as well as in their individual situations.

(There is SO MUCH I could say about these flowers. I could draw a map to show how, as we move through the lobby, the humble yellow blooms behind the window give way first to twiggy ones, then the homey welcoming ones followed by taller more expensive-looking buttery ones, and finally the cream ones next to the elevators with Arun as our most prominent cream-lace flower. I could write about how the floral arrangement near the entrance has pink reaching upwards at the top, yellow calm in the middle, and simple peach at the base - peach being a mix of yellow and pink, a level ground as a support for the two colours.

...I think I'll go for a little walk.)

-------

All right, back on the 'puter, ready to look at the hotel room scene.

As mentioned before, we see the floral painting/fabric, lurking behind Tattoo even before Aran slowly descends the stairs accompanied by ominous music. Its visuals make me think of Boss Alice (and of the shrine), but perhaps it is here just to add to the floral vibes of the dress. In any case, the dress itself seems a clear connection to the flower arrangements that have been (and will be) appearing around Aran, and thus represents the wealth surrounding him. (He can dress in it to try and hold on to it, but he does not have that wealth for himself.)

The dress and its flowers also likely represent the more soft or feminine parts of Aran's expression that his father loathes to see. We can see Aran's pleased smile when Hope comments that he has guts "just like the boss's kid" and even Hoy repeats "Father's son". It seems to say, "I'll show Dad I'm determined and not afraid to use violence, just like him. I can be good enough even while wearing flowers."

And, though this dress isn't a flower but merely reminiscent of one:

The floaty pink with the hard, deadly metal - Aran in a nutshell, perhaps, at this point of his journey. He yearns to be loved and appreciated and will use the knife to show it, but as long as it's in a pink-filled drawer, he will never get acceptance from Boss Alice. (Well, at least Tattoo believes in Aran's capabilities, since he spills the beans when Aran threatens Hoy with the knife.)

Annnd that's it for ep 4! Thanks for reading, and I'll see you in part 5. :)

[riality-check]

1.

There were scissors, once. Maybe. She thinks.

That time, the In-Between, has always been kinda nebulous. Floaty, like smog. No substance, like the colored fluff she’s sometimes seen topsiders take bites of.

Why the people with air decided to pay stupid money to eat it, she’ll never understand.

What was she talking about again? 

Oh, the In-Between. The maybe-scissors.

She remembers something sharp coming towards her, and then she bit on something like a carrot, ‘cept it was warmer and tasted way worse, and then there was yelling and red and her head hit the wall, but that didn’t really matter, did it? She had more than a few screws loose, and trying to tighten them was like using a staple gun instead of a screwdriver. Didn’t work all that well for how loud and painful it was. Might as well let all those loose screws rattle around up there. Might be the only thing loud enough to drown Them out.

No more scissors in the In-Between after that. Not that she remembers. She’s just going by the length of her hair.

2.

The scissors Before were dull. Vander - back when he wasn’t rotting with the rest, thankfully he’s not one of her ghosts - used to swear when he had to use them. She used to peek out from under the bowl he put on her head, and he’d laugh but swear again when he realized the whole haircut was crooked.

She made it crooked. Because she couldn’t listen.

Maybe that should have been the first sign.

But that was before actions had consequences that went boom and meant blood. That was when all her fuck-ups could be fixed by going to Vi, who had hands like Vander’s - big, brawny, bruised, lotta other b-words - but actually had the dexterity to braid the long, choppy parts back.

3.

Soon After, Jinx gets used to her name, and she gets frustrated with her hair.

It’s longer than it’s ever been, mostly evened out from the last crooked bowl cut she got from Before - the last one she’d ever get, which, hey, she can’t fuck those up anymore, one less thing, whoop dee doo - and it falls into her face ever time she hunches over something with her tools.

She does a lot of that. Focusing on something that Silco needs her to do, something that grinds and squeals in time with the screaming music she blasts is the only thing to make Them quiet.

They’ve been quiet, her ghosts, for a few days. Jinx knows better by now than to think they’ll be quiet forever. They always come back like they never will.

When her hair flops into her face again, she screams. She shoves everything off her bench and hunts viciously for a pair of scissors.

She doesn’t find any. Instead, she grabs a pocket knife. It’s from After, from now, and it doesn't matter that she can’t remember if Silco gave it to her or if it was a begrudging castaway from Sevika or one of the others. All that matters is that it’s sharp. It’ll be quick. Quicker than the Before cuts. And then she can get back to work. Back to good noise.

She holds it up to the first hunk of hair she can grab, about to cut it, about to do something actually useful, something that works for once, shut up They’re back shut up-

And then Jinx catches sight of herself in the mirror.

Faces flicker: hers, now, angry and wide-eyed and twisted into something painful, very nearing animal, and that girl from Before’s. Young. Happy. With hair the length Jinx was just about to cut hers to.

The faces will keep flickering if the knife has its way. She can’t put the knife down. The faces keep flickering, back and forth so fast Jinx can’t tell which one of them is crying.

The door of her workshop opens, and without thinking, she hurls the knife toward the sound.

She pretends she hears it stick in the door and not clatter uselessly to the floor.

“You know, you really should look as you throw it if you want it to do anything.”

This voice, not one of Theirs, gives her the strength to tear away from the mirror.

Silco straightens from where he’s picked up the pocket knife. He wipes it delicately on the leg of his trousers and flips it once, twice in his hand.

Jinx braces herself. She’s seen this sort of leadup before, watching from rafters in places she’s not supposed to be but are so easy to climb, knows it’s only a matter of time before he releases that knife aimed right at her.

She hopes he’ll miss on purpose. He does that sometimes, just to scare people. It’s funny. When it isn’t her.

But the knife never comes. Somewhere along the way, she closed her eyes, and she opens, them, startled, at the clatter of the sheathed knife on her workbench.

She follows the line of Silco’s open hand up to his face.

“Would you like to tell me why you threw that at me, Jinx?” he asks softly.

He’s the only person besides the ghosts when they’re mean and sister-not-sister, that makes her name sound natural. He uses it often. It sounds like a curse-not-curse.

Like me, she sometimes thinks.

“My hair,” she says because he doesn’t like liars.

A furrow appears between his brows. “Could you not cut it?”

Jinx knows Pow-the girl and not herself, thank you very much, ladies and gents, will be staring back if she glances in the mirror.

She turns away from it.

“No.”

“Would you like me to-” Silco starts as he picks the knife back up.

Jinx can only think of the In-Between, the maybe-scissors, the taste of iron on her baby teeth. She slams her hand down onto Silco’s, on top of the knife.

He stares at her. His left eye is cloudy. He should fix that soon. Jinx would do it, assuming she’s allowed to keep her hands after this.

She gulps and tries not to glance down at her painted nails, how much she’d miss having those.

Silco raises his eyebrows. Jinx puts her hands into her lap.

“Well,” he says, leaving the knife on the workbench and peering down at her. “It seems we’re at an impasse. If you can’t cut it, and you won’t allow me to, then-”

“I need,” Jinx begins, but her words are as scrambled as the screws in her head. “I need it back, out, not gone, because she had it gone, I need it-”

She didn’t have that way, not really, and it’s the only thing she can think of to make it go away so she can work and it can be loud-good-quiet again, please don’t come back please do-

“Braided,” she finally lands on. It’s right, and she feels bile rise up in her throat. She swallows it back down and looks up at Silco.

He looks satisfied by her answer. “So braid it.”

“I can’t. I don’t know how.”

Before, back when sister-Vi-not-sister did it, that girl never learned. She was happy. Helpless. Dependent.

No wonder I keep seeing her face in the mirror, Jinx thinks, barely keeping back a giggle. None of that has changed.

A stool rattles as it’s wheeled behind her. She glances up in the mirror, sees Silco’s face over her shoulder. That’s good. If she keeps her eyes on him, the faces don’t flicker.

The music is still loud enough to drown Them out, but not so loud she can’t hear him if he talks.

“I’ll try,” is all he says before he neatly parts her hair down the middle. His hands are cold like his voice, but his grip is light like his breathing.

Jinx waits far too long, staring at his focused face in the mirror, before not even that helps with the faces. They switch in and out again like candle flame moves, and it’s only a matter of time before one-both-neither-who-cares starts crying again. She grabs a small box on the bench, props some childish mechanical trinket on top of it so she doesn’t have to tilt her head down, and takes it apart to have something to do with her hands and her eyes.

She works. If it wasn’t for his breathing, she wouldn’t know Silco was even behind her. He moves slowly, never speaking, and never tugs once.

(Before, Vi-not-sister would sometimes get frustrated when that girl would mess with her, and she’d tug on purpose. The girl would smack her back, and that was usually the end of it.)

It feels like forever between the longer hair and the glacial speed. Jinx takes apart three little toys and sorts their parts by size and function when Silco finally speaks again.

“How is that?”

She looks up in the mirror. 

The faces stop flickering.

She just sees herself with her hair bound back into two long braids just past her shoulders.

They’re a little loose toward the front, where her hair is shorter, but she can deal with that just fine.

She can work. She’s herself.

She’s Jinx, everybody. Hell yeah.

She spins on her stool and wraps her arms around Silco’s waist just like she did that first time, when she was smaller. (Contrary to how he looks, he really is great to hug. Solid. Safe.)

Silco’s arms settle around her after a beat. He doesn’t let go until she pulls back.

“I’ll get you the new model tonight,” she says, because now she can work and think and focus and wow her hands need something to do right now and she might as well be productive with her hair out of her face and the energy and the drive-

“Anything else?” Silco asks, already rising.

“Nope,” she says, popping the p, already focused on figuring out how to make things work.

That’s something that girl from Before could never manage.

She’s already turned back to her prototype by the time she hears him shut the door on his way out.

Only then does it occur to her to dry her tears.

4.

By the time Jinx lowers Silco into the water, he hasn’t touched her hair in years.

He braided it a lot when she was young, when she still had to learn by watching because he never talked as he did it. Always so focused. So smart, she had to admit, despite him being a liar, but he needed all of his brain to braid her hair.

To be fair, it was a lot of hair.

He never tugged, and it never hurt, and no matter how exactly she mimicked the deftness of his fingers, she could never match that painlessness.

As he sinks, she gives one of her floor-length braids a little tug. Better get used to it now. Scissors and cutting it are a no-go, yessir, thanks so much but she’ll pass on wanting to stab someone on instinct instead of meaning to.

Just the braids now. And, as she pulls herself out of the water, Jinx reminds herself that without Silco, they’re always going to hurt to do.

Read it on AO3 if you'd like as well!

[thehomeofplatonicfics]

Wish That You Were Here

Peculiar!reader x Emma Bloom (platonic!) - Inspired by 'Wish That You Were Here by Florence and the Machine

“Y/N? Y/N, are you even listening to me?” Emma’s voice breaks through your thoughts like a knife and you jump in your seat to attention, shaking your head slightly. “I didn’t catch that, sorry.” You mumble sheepishly, gazing back out into the distance, looking towards the sea once more.

It was one of the things you had appreciated the most when you had first arrived into the Cairnholm loop, you hadn’t always been so lucky. Being a peculiar that most normies would liken to a siren, it was quite a pickle if you didn’t have a body of water to ‘haunt’. It had made life in the middle of London quite challenging at times.

When that loop was destroyed, you were placed here, in Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children… but you then had to leave someone behind. Someone special.

“You’re doing it again.” Emma warned you, the look on her face is equal parts concern and amusement. “Sorry… the sea is drawing me in strongly today.”

“Do you want to head down there? We’re past the reset, so it’ll be safe.” Emma offers, gesturing to the path. “Are you sure you can handle it?” You ask, knowing that if you let out your song, buried in you, that you could control her to do almost anything.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep a safe distance from you. Just means we may have to shout.” Emma smirks. You nod in agreement, and walk down with her silence. You became lost in your thoughts again, thinking of your dear friend. Where were they now? What year, what loop? Were they even still alive?

Your siren’s call slips out before you even realise it as you take one step into the water. True to her word, Emma remains somewhat further back up the beach and luckily seems unaffected. “So, what is this about?” Emma shouts to you, knowing that you weren’t usually so affected by your peculiarity.

“Her. Again.” You call back in a floaty, sing-song voice. “She’s... always on my mind. I wish she was here. Every second, every hour.” Saying every day seemed moot, considering it was always the same day in September.

Emma hummed back in understanding. “I know how you feel. I think of Abe every day too.” You pause your song, surprised to hear Emma talk of him. She rarely brought him up, and you considered it an honour that she felt comfortable enough to do so with you.

“Do you ever feel like missing him becomes so burdening? Like a feeling that just sits on your chest, weighing you down, making it hard to catch your breath?” You ask Emma, your voice still singing a haunting call.

“…Often.” Emma shouts back, taking one step further away from you to ensure she didn’t become trapped by your song.

“I don’t even know if she is safe. Sometimes, I wonder if she thinks of me as often as I think of her.”

“I bet she does.” Emma replies, hoping in her heart that Abe thought of her often too.

“Some days, the image of her seems so very far.” My siren’s song starts to die down, as I turn towards her. A tear slips down my cheek. “I don’t even have a photo of her. I worry that one day, I’ll forget what she looks like. That all I’ll have left is the idea of her in my mind.”

Emma remains quiet for a while, feeling almost guilty that she at least had many remainders of Abe to fall back on. “Why don’t you paint a picture of her? I’m sure the bird will have supplies.” Emma suggested tentatively, praying you responded favourably to it.

You stepped out of the water, looking back out to sea. “Yes… I think I shall ask her.” You walked back up the beach, looping your arm into her’s as you returned the house. “Thank you, Emma.” You say softly as you step back into the safety of the house. “I won’t let her be forgotten.”

[offbranddrpepsi]

YEEE love ur works sm, could ya give me a yandere Jett? Everyone loves possessive duelists, i thin :P

I think you right man, everyone wants their possessive duelists which tbf they have the biggest personalities imo so its fair. Anyways, here's your Yandere windy girly, she may be a bit toned down compared to the others as i HC her as insanely chill. NSFW below the cut as normal

Warning: Public intimacy mentions

Jett is incredibly chill so much so she borderlines one of those big fluffy dogs that let kids climb all over them. That being said its not even obvious she has set her sights on you until weeks if not months later.

She is the best friend and girlfriend someone can be if a bit rowdy and jokey. However when it comes to you only she can bully you, make jokes at your expense, and even tease you. If anyone even tries she either shushes them or turns it back on them a bit more vicious than she normally would.

She is also you're peak hype girl and everyone does notice just how much attention she gives you. When questioned she is very tsundere about it or at the very least plays it off as just how she is. Favoritism? Naaaaah, shes just being a good friend

Once Jett falls, like once it tips from a simple crush to full love, she escalates RAPIDLY. You hardly have to do much for yourself. She's carrying your bags, your food, picking up your laundry and folding it without you even asking, shes reserving the best seats for you two and even calls dibs on things not for herself but for you.

Shes a cuddle bug and hugs you absolutely every chance she gets. she HAS to touch you if she can so she does and you get used to it. An arm around your shoulders, her hugging you passively as you talk to someone, rubbing her face into you without you even acknowledging her. If she isn't clinging to you people get start getting concerned.

Shes stealing your things constantly due to how not herself she feels when you aren't around. Somehow she's managed to get into your room and steal a blanket, hoodies go missing, one of your pillows ends up in her gaming chair. When you try and reclaim them she breaks down crying over missing you so much between missions and training that you fold and let her keep them so long as you can swap them out for others when you need them. Its like a switched flips as she smothers you in hugs and thanks.

Of course just stealing your things isn't enough for her, she wants you after all. She gets closer and closer until you wouldn't possibly deny sharing a room with her and going on vacations with her. At times it honestly feels like she would crawl into your skin if she could and lets face it she absolutely would.

She is one of the few who would still let you go on missions but would use it to show off. Nothing touches you, one of her knifes embedded in the bodies of those that would. Her wind is always present even if she isn't, keeping you from harm while also keeping her in the know.

Speaking of her wind, even not in battle it seems to hug you. This isn't something she does on purpose but is a raw expression of her feelings towards you. She wants to be near you constantly, wants to hold you constantly. She wants to breath you in at any moment she can. So when she can't do that her wind does. Your hair is always a bit floaty, your steps lighter, sometimes it tugs at your clothes and you have to scold it with the hopes it carries your displeasure to its creator.

She is by far not dominant in the relationship but hooks you so well you can't help but adore her. She cries or at the very least pouts when ever you go against something she wants, be it spending time with someone else or even refusing a hug. She doesn't ever use her words to guilt trip you and will take no as an answer should you be assertive, but she still sticks out her lip and looks like the most wounded puppy in the world as you try and softly let her done.

sexually Jett, though being entirely dedicated and submissive to you, is still a massive needy brat

She takes joy in lounging around your shared space nude, encouraging you to touch her and do to her what you wish. She is your toy and gets a high off of being the only one you fuck.

before you two become a thing she would probably be down for casual sex though she gets very possessive and makes it clear that, though its casual, she does not want you fucking anyone else. After your first encounter she is addicted to you and wants you to be addicted to her and she very vocal about it

in public you aren't safe as she either whispers or uses her wind to tell you just how bad she wants you, what shes fantasizing about, how good your ass looks in those pants, etc. She does this casually and then her happy go lucky mask is back up and no one has any idea why you're so red.

She also would never draw the line at where you two can fuck. Shes on her knees in the training room, having you fuck her face. Her tits are out as you finger her in the kitchen. Shes begging you to fuck her harder as you two are squished in a poorly closed storage closet. Her clothes are always perfect for ease of access. She wears skirts a bit more, though still very rarely, and underwear a bit less, though she still keeps her normal wardrobe in tact.

Jett makes it clear she is free to use when ever you want and encourages you to use her at even the slightest bit of horniness. She could be gaming hard and will happily let you fuck her while her mic is muted (or unmuted if you'd like). There isn't a kink she wont do if you want her to do be it fucking her in her sleep, choking her, or even spitting on her; as long as she is the only one getting this treatment she loves it.

If you can cum in or on her she begs for it. She wants every bit of you that you're willing to give so this makes sense she wants this too.

Very vocal about how your hers, mumbles of 'mine, mine, mine' as you fuck her brains out. Making you promise she is the only one you'll fuck and are the only one you're allowed to fuck. Sinking her nails into your flesh as both a marking and warning.

Bullys you about fucking her impossibly harder. Drains you of everything then teases you about it. Frustrates you until shes unable to walk and thoroughly busted up, more bruised than not. She has you absolutely pussy drunk and trapped despite you being the one holding her leash.

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

Lunar, running away from Eclipse: I have enough trauma!

Eclipse, running away from Sun: I have kids, don’t kill me!

Sun, running away from Kill Code Moon: Stop your feral screeching, I didn’t do anything to Eclipse yet!

Kill Code Moon, running away from Moon: I promise all me and Monty did was hug and hold hands! I would never use your body for anything beyond such a simple gesture! You’ve even hugged and held hands with the gator before!

Moon: *chasing Kill Code Moon down holding security cam pictures of KC and Monty flirting and holding hands*

Blood Moon, watching on the sidelines with an oil margarita: Our family is dumb.

Harvest Moon, not even looking up from his book: Yes, they are.

Solar Flare, floating by the twins on a pool floatie with gasoline in a wine glass: They have no communication skills whatsoever.

Good Eclipse, taking sips of his battery acid mojito: I mean, I could probably trip Lunar right now and make all of them fall into the pool. Lunar would absolutely forgive me as long as I fish him out first.

Lunara, pouting: I wanted to play chase too.

Good Eclipse: Yes, but you play chase with a knife, kid, and that’s not safe around a pool. I’m only keeping you close for your own safety.

[slashthrashandcrash]

What are some of your personal headcannons for Ghostface in DbD?

ooohhh...

He doesn't know any of the survivors' names. At all. Regardless of how many weeks/months/years he's ran trials with them. Or he may be familiar with some of them but wouldn't be able to match a face to it. Why should he care what they're called by when they're just gonna be on the receiving end of a blade? It's not like there's really been an opportunity for a meet n greet thus far with them.

Conversely, he does at least know the moniker of all the killers, but there's only a handful that he remembers the true names of (i.e. Amanda, Frank, etc). Y'know, the few that he would actually hang around with outside of trials.

Aside from Frank, he calls the other members of Legions various nicknames. But not as actual terms of endearment, just because he can never remember who's who lmao.

This is a general headcanon of mine but I like to imagine since Susie is one of the youngest (15/16) killers that she's automatically everyone's favorite annoying little sister. This extends to Ghostface, who has no problem admitting that she's his favorite out of all the Legion brats (especially in front of said Legion brats).

He doesn't know fuckall about the art of photography. Lighting composition, lens or angles -- don't know her. Goes off purely by vibes. It just so happens he also has a natural talent and artistic eye, so he never needed to learn the foundations to make his photos look good. Like being able to play an instrument but not be able to read sheet music.

He likes feisty girls, the ones that will kick and spit and fight back. He doesn't care for the soft ones that cry and beg for their life and are just overall pathetic in the face of death, where's the fun in that? The bark and the bite are what makes it all the more sweeter to subdue them with a knife in the stomach after they had almost escaped his grip.

His little floaty ribbons act as dog tails whether he realizes it or not, betraying any strong emotion that would have otherwise been hidden under his mask and unflinching stance. They'll stiffen straight if he's surprised, flick lowly at the ends when he's angry, wag when he's excited--

Before the fog, when he was still Jed Olsen and however many previous fake identities prior, he used to wear makeup to hide the collection of scars on his face courtesy of former victims. He's plenty familiar with color matching and foundation/concealer setting, he could do a natural full face with no problem.

Due to moving across states so many times and having to create new identities with it, he's also changed his accent to reflect whatever location he's at to better blend in at the locals. By now, since he doesn't have to mask that any more, he talks with the worst mashup of regional dialects you've ever heard. You can only pick up his natural southern twang when he's speaking with some kind of intense emotion (anger, excitement, etc.)