#free Quirk to a good home

[evilminji]

For once! Purely BNHA! Because I CAN NOT stop Pondering It!

Quirk: Transfer.

Vague name, right? Well it would have to be. Because NO ONE would believe a Self Insert, even in a world of Quirks. They wouldn't WANT to believe. Because? The prospect would be horrifying and terrible.

It's far easier to say it's "Quirk Related Neurosis".

Because "no, no, you silly child! Your Quirk can't POSSIBLY have grabbed a random soul from another dimension, which it now holds, as the ONLY thing powering your body! You can't have died, with all the trauma and loss that entails, only to be shoved into the body of a toddler! Silly baby, such wild imagination! Maybe your Quirk 'transfers' memories, too!"

Except NO, asshole. They are the one with the metaphorical arm here. THEY are the one who would know which way it does and does not "Bend". But trying explaining a something to someone who doesn't want to hear it. Something that makes them uneasy, that is outside of their world view.

That touchs on the random, unfeeling, chaos of the Universe and how it relates to their soft and supposedly sensible lives. What do you MEAN sometimes Bad Things happen to good people? What do you MEAN sometimes, even if I do everything "right" and take every precaution, terrible calamities can occur?

That I could Die?

That my very Soul could be ripped away from it's rightful rest, too some far off land?

That can't happen! That's not FAIR. It's not RIGHT. Crimes are Illegal! You can't be telling me that sometimes people DONT uphold their duties! Abuse their power! That things are unfair and injustice can strikes, no matter HOW safe I think I am!

That's Scary!

I'd rather believe you were wrong.

That things Make Sense and there are Rules I have to follow. That I am Safe and you are just a liar. Bad things happen for a reason. Bad people are bad BECAUSE they are evil and bad. Let's not think about this any more. Let's talk about TV shows and take-out.

What a terrifying Quirk.

To be held, at the nonexistent mercy, of the Universe's randomness and decay. Reliant on the compassion and understanding of Others, to cope with what has occurred.

Because while the Universe is uncaring, your fellow man SHOULD be. Bonding together against that great and frightful void. Making sense of it all. The compassion of stardust and all that. Children born of this universe, who in turn look back and observe it. Yet? To them you are either mad... or a liar.

Do they hide it fast enough? Do they even think too, in time?

Or is their's a childhood being told "your past is nothing more that hallucinations and stolen memories" before being fed pills, for illnesses they do not have? Do they doubt? Break down and believe. After all, everyone around them is telling them their memories are false.

Not to trust their lying mind.

Children have so few rights. Madmen even fewer.

Do they lie? Smile, nod, and agree with whatever the doctors say? Do they know their mind or does this destroy them? Perhaps... they are lucky. Good doctors and better care. Long talks and learning to cope, with no one believing. After all, hallucinations don't "go away" just because you know they aren't real.

Why would their memories?

A childhood never quite forgiving the ones who locked them away. Being treated as "insane". Being alone. Not sure if you WANT to "make friends" but trying anyway. Because humans are social animals. Because you know what an alarmingly intelligent and self disciplined child, who ALSO happens to be notably asocial, looks like to people.

A life of fear and lies.

The chronic, extreme, stress, and what it must do to their health.

Does Transfer grow with them? Most Quirks do.

What a terrifying childhood. To know, one day, it could just... quit. A straining muscle that finally gives out. The Quirk that binds you into this body just... running out of strength. Letting go.

Maybe grabbing a different soul.

After all, no one ever said YOUR soul was special. And no one believes you. So no tests have ever been done. And that hold? How strong, you must wonder, IS it?

Do they drift? In and out. Does their body suffer, from stress and a soul barely bound to it? Poorly transfered, by an Infants first manifestation? Why was it a SOUL? The first thing they Transfered? Was it based on need? Or was it always meant to be this way?

Can the Transfer other things, now? Or still just themselves? Still nothing but Souls? Is it even a transfer at all?

And what happens if it stops? Or gets copied? Influenced in anyway? Do they have a moral obligation to avoid those they know could be potentially killed by them? Who could potentially kill them by accident?

And, oh! Oh the QUANDARY of children! Quirks are GENETIC. Any mutation or variation of their Quirk? Will bring about ANOTHER. Do they have that RIGHT? Too kidnap another soul? Even if it's just to no longer be alone? Too condemn them to live when they may not wish too?

Their whole bloodline would be Self Inserts. No guarantee they'd be from the same universe! But they would be Reincarnations just like you. Born into a Story. One you KNOW, by nature, can never be peaceful.

Because a peaceful world is not an interesting Shonen Story.

Just as Batman can never truely win, just as the day never truely stayed saved, so too will this world forever decend back into chaos. So a new Protagonist can rise to meet it. What RIGHT would you have, to knowingly bring an innocent person into such danger, trapped in the body of a child?

I ponder the Self Insert Quirk.

How horrifying and numbing it must be. How crippling, the terror that, this? Is merely the beginning of a Tale that will destroy them. To be inserted into story's they long ago forgot, again and again, with no way to stop it. Forever.

Damned to be set dressing in another's grand campaign, even as they slowly go insane.

What a horrifying Quirk.

The Self Insert Quirk: Transfer.

@hdgnj @hypewinter @nerdpoe @the-witchhunter @lolottes @babbling-babull

[gogogodzilla]

day 29, somnophilia

mike schmidt x reader warnings: nsfw 18+, unprotected sex, creampie, free use (kinda), semi-established relationship, neighbor!reader, part 2, part 3 kinktober ☠︎︎ main masterlist ☠︎︎ read on ao3

You and Mike came to a relatively simple agreement. You’d watch Abby while he worked nights and he’d repay you by fucking your brains out. He was hot and good in bed, plus Abby spent most of her time in her room. So, you didn’t mind your arrangement much. 

That was until Mike got so busy you hardly saw him enough to receive your payment.

“You know,” you said as you took a seat at your usual spot on his couch, “you still owe me from last week.” 

He sighed and leaned over you, placing a hand on each side of the back cushion, trapping you. 

He pressed a kiss to your lips, “I know. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” 

You grinned, “I’ll leave the light on for you.” 

Mike surprised you that night when he came home late that night, and you had curled yourself up in his bed, fast asleep. You awoke with Mike pressing heated kisses along your neck and his hand between your thighs. He pressed his free hand against your mouth, muffling the desperate moans that fled past your lips. 

You’d stay tangled between his sheets until the early morning when you’d sneak back across the street to your own home. Ever since that night, you’d tell him that if you wanted him to wake you up like that. The light was on more often than not. 

When he started working nights, things became slightly more complicated. By the time he got back in the morning, it was time to wake Abby up for school and you had to get ready for the day. That was until you had the day off and an idea struck you. 

You were about to head out the door before you turned to Mike, “Leave the light on for me?” 

His eyebrows furrowed for a split second before the corners of his mouth quirked up. “Yeah, of course,” he nodded and you were out the door, grinning. 

You waited a few hours, performing menial tasks around your home before you decided it was time to put your plan into action. Abby was off to school and Mike was asleep soundly in his bed, headphones placed securely on his ears and nature sounds drifting out of them. You slowly crept further into Mike’s room and began to set up the camcorder at the foot of his bed, flinching at the slightest creak of the tripod. 

You knew Mike wouldn’t wake up, but it was more exciting if you made yourself believe there was a chance. You pressed record and giddiness filled you. You made a show of stripping for the camera. You slowly slid off your sweatpants and underwear in one swoop. 

You picked up the pair of jeans he had on the floor and held them up to the camera, doing your best game show girl impression. You picked up your underwear and tucked them in the front pocket, patting it in before setting them at the foot of his bed. Your shirt was the next to go. You faced the camera as you slowly tugged your shirt over your head, revealing your bare chest underneath. 

You trailed your fingers up your torso and circled your fingers around your nipples, causing them to harden under your touch. You leaned your head back to give him a full view of your chest as you pinched one of your nipples between your fingers, gasping slightly. 

You turned and sauntered to his side of the bed where he was sleeping soundly. You ran your fingers gently over his forehead, brushing his hair out of the way, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

He made your job easier by wearing a black t-shirt and briefs and by always sleeping on his back. You threw the blankets covering his form to the side and kneeled beside the bed. Your hands wandered over his thighs before palming him through his briefs. 

You crawled into bed next to him and your hands drifted past the waistband of his briefs. You stroked him, slowly, before freeing his cock from its confines. You pulled his briefs down and over his balls, just enough for you to access everything freely.

You threw a leg over his thigh and your hand wrapped around his cock once again. He had begun to harden in your grasp but you couldn’t quite get enough friction. You slid down his body and turned so the camera could get a clear view of what you were about to do. 

You held him in your hand and swiped your tongue across the head of his cock. You groaned at the taste of him and enveloped your lips fully around him. You swirled your tongue around the pink-hued tip and Mike’s breath caught slightly but he didn’t stir. 

You steadily bobbed your head, gradually taking more of him with every stroke. One hand stroked what you couldn’t reach while the other gently fondled his balls. You pressed your tongue against the underside of his shaft, and Mike’s cock twitched in your mouth. 

You pulled away and licked your lips when the ache between your thighs became too great. You carefully straddled his lap and ground against his cock, spreading your slick. A soft moan left you as the tip hit your clit just right. 

You brought your hand down to where your bodies met and aligned him with your entrance. The whine that escaped you as you lowered yourself onto him was loud and you slapped a hand over your mouth to muffle it. 

You missed his hands roaming your body as you rode him, but there was something so pleasurable about seeing the minute changes in his demeanor as you used him. You dipped down to press open-mouthed kisses against the column of his neck. You clenched at the thought of covering him with hickeys to find later. You leaned down and explored his chest with your lips and tongue. 

You smiled as small red marks covered his neck and chest. You were confident that they’d blossom into the purple marks you desired once he awoke. You began to rock your hips faster against him as one hand drifted down to circle your clit. You used your free hand to knead your breast, pinching and dragging your fingertip across the bud of your nipple. Your legs were beginning to burn and tremble but the familiar heat pooling in your belly spurred you on. 

You leaned forward, and the new angle had you reaching your peak in no time. You spasmed around him as you continued to jut your hips against him, riding out your high. A satisfied moan escaped you as you felt Mike twitch within you and he filled you with his cum. 

You panted softly as you slid off of him. You kissed his lips softly before fixing his briefs and covering him back up. You stopped the recording and quickly got dressed. You tucked the camcorder and tripod under your arm before leaving Mike’s home. In a few hours, you’d bring him the lunch you made him, tucking the VHS tape inside the paper bag. 

You’d hold the door for him, and walk him out to his car, smiling the entire time. 

“I hope you enjoy your lunch,” you’d mention. He’d grin, a knowing glint in his eyes. You’d leave the light on for him for when he came home.

[rafedarling]

Drew losing his wedding ring 🤫 but he left it behind at home and y/n finds it inside his laundry basket she goes shit crazy looking for it and since y/n know she plays dumb wanting to teach him a lesson and she’s like baby I’m getting our rings cleaned l tomorrow can you leave your ring on the counter and he’s just rambling and coming up with excuses Intill he finds his ring will Drew continue to lie or confess

cute!!!

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠

pairing: drew starkey x fem!reader

summary: drew, your husband who accidentally leaves his wedding ring in his laundry basket, prompting you, his wife to find it while doing laundry. instead of confronting him immediately, you decides to teach him a lesson by pretending not to notice while teasing him about getting plan taking your rings to cleaned.

warning(s): english is not my native language. fluff, humor, and playful teasing, slight secondhand embarrassment, wholesome, domestic vibes.

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. discussion can be send through my ask box, please feel free to send in anything. ⭐️ taglist | tagging: @rubixgsworld @rafeyslamb @bisexualcvnt @tracymbcm @maybankslover @anamiad00msday @stuffyownswrld @httpsdrewstarkey @mileyraes @enjoymyloves @akobx @noobmazter69 @victwrvale @xoxohoneymoongirl @xoxosblogsblog @wearemadeofstardust0 @saviorcomplexrry @percysley @littlelamy @winniemoe @emberaurora

It had been a long but pleasant evening, and as you glanced at the overflowing laundry basket in the corner of your bedroom, you figured it was time to tackle it. Drew was lounging on the couch, flipping through TV channels, blissfully unaware of the mischief you were about to stir up.

Laundry had become a bit of a ritual for you both; a chore that came with its own rhythm and quirks. Drew was the “dump-it-all-in-and-hope-for-the-best” type, while you meticulously checked pockets and separated clothes by color. And it was during one of these pocket inspections that you felt something hard and metallic inside the pocket of his jeans.

You pulled it out and froze.

His wedding ring.

Your brows knitted together as you stared at the small band in your palm. Drew was practically married to his ring he wore it everywhere, even in places he didn’t need to, like the gym or while swimming. It had been a running joke between you that he might as well glue it to his finger. So, finding it stuffed in his laundry was unusual, to say the least.

You chewed on your lip, debating whether to call him out immediately or let him stew a little. Then, with a devilish grin across your face. You slipped the ring into the pocket of your pajama pants, decided not to mention it, and returned to the living room. You’d let him sweat it out.

When you entered, Drew was crouched by the couch, pulling cushions off and muttering to himself.

“Babe, what are you looking for?” you asked, keeping your tone as neutral as possible.

Drew froze mid-search, then quickly straightened up.

“Oh, uh… nothing. Just… the remote.” He gestured vaguely to the couch, his voice a little too high-pitched to be believable.

You raised an eyebrow.

“The remote? The one sitting on the coffee table?”

You pointed at the remote, lying in plain sight directly in front of him.

“Oh.” He let out a nervous laugh, grabbing it. “Right. That one.”

You fought to keep a straight face as you handed it to him.

“Here. Anything else you’re looking for?”

“Nope! All good.”

He said it too quickly, his voice strained, as if he was trying to convince himself.

“Mm-hmm,” you murmured, heading back to the bedroom.

Once you were out of sight, you retrieved the ring from your pocket and tucked it into your jewelry box for safekeeping. If Drew was going to lie, you’d at least make it entertaining.

The next morning, you were up a bit late and padded into the kitchen to find Drew already there, nursing his coffee. His hair was adorably messy, sticking up in all directions, and he was wearing your favorite flannel pajama pants the ones you swore made him look cozier than ever. He grinned when he saw you.

“Morning, babe. Coffee?” he offered, gesturing to the pot.

“Yes, please.”

You slid onto the stool at the counter, resting your chin in your hand as you watched him pour. That’s when your eyes zeroed in on his left hand still missing the ring. You couldn’t resist any longer.

“Drew,” you began casually as he placed the cup in front of you, “uh…where’s your ring?”

He froze, fingers tightening slightly on his mug.

“Oh, uh… my ring”

He cleared his throat and quickly recovered, spreading his hands in front of him as if to inspect them.

“Right. My ring. I, uh, must’ve taken it off when I was… washing my hands last night. You know how slippery soap gets.”

You nodded slowly, playing along.

“Slippery soap. Got it.”

He relaxed slightly, clearly thinking he was off the hook, and took a long sip of his coffee. But you weren’t done yet.

“You know,” you said, feigning nonchalance,

“I was thinking we should take our rings in for a cleaning. They’ve been looking a little dull lately. How about I drop them off at the jeweler tomorrow?”

Drew nearly choked on his coffee. “Uh… cleaning?” he repeated, his voice cracking slightly.

“Yeah,” you said sweetly. “You can just leave your ring on the counter before work, and I’ll take care of it.”

For a split second, you thought he might actually combust.

“Oh, uh, sure! Totally,” he said, his voice pitched high with panic.

“I mean, it’s probably… in the bathroom. Or… maybe on the nightstand? Or, uh—” He stopped himself, clearly spiraling.

You tilted your head, giving him your most innocent look.

“Are you sure you know where it is? You seem a little… distracted.”

“I know exactly where it is,” he insisted, though the way his eyes darted toward the ceiling betrayed him.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, I’m not worried.”

You sipped your coffee, pretending to be absorbed in your phone.

“I mean, it’s not like it’s that important, right? It’s just a ring.”

Drew’s head snapped up, his expression stricken.

“It is important!” he blurted out, a little louder than necessary. “I didn’t lose it, okay? I—uh…I just… misplaced it. Temporarily.”

“Of course,” you said, nodding sympathetically.

“That makes total sense.”

He let out a shaky breath, clearly not realizing you were toying with him. Over the next few hours, Drew became increasingly frantic, sneaking off to various rooms to search for the ring. You caught him rifling through the bathroom drawers, peering under the bed, and even checking the fridge at one point.

By evening, he was sitting on the couch, head in his hands. His usual confident demeanor had crumbled, and guilt was written all over his face. You decided it was time to put him out of his misery.

“Drew,” you said softly, sitting beside him, “is there something you want to tell me?”

He looked up at you, his blue eyes filled with regret.

“Okay, fine,” he admitted, throwing his hands in the air.

“I lost my ring. I don’t know how, I don’t know where, and I’ve been freaking out about it all day. I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you’d be mad, and”

You reached into your pajama pocket and pulled out the ring, holding it between your fingers.

“Looking for this?” you asked, unable to hide your grin.

Drew stared at the ring, his jaw dropping.

“Are you kidding me?” he asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and relief.

“I found it in your laundry last night,” you explained, laughing.

“I wanted to see how long it would take for you to confess.”

He groaned, leaning back against the couch.

“You’re evil, you know that?”

“Maybe a little,” you admitted, sliding the ring back onto his finger. “But you deserved it for lying to me.”

Drew pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your hair.

“I’m never taking this off again,” he promised, kissing your temple.

“Oh you better not,” you teased. “Or next time, I might just pawn it.”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“Remind me never to underestimate you.”

“Smart man,” you said, leaning against him with a satisfied smile.

[rememberwren]

Tattoo artist!simon giving fem!reader your first tattoo.

He was highly recommended, though the wait list to even get a consultation with him was weeks out.

Physically he is intimidating: tall and broad and fit. The facemask isn’t terribly out of place, not in a post-Covid society. You find yourself giving too much eye contact, staring at what you can see of him: his eyes. Dark, with long lashes. Surprisingly expressive brows.

The shop is clean and well lit. He takes customers by appointment only, so it’s just the two of you.

You stammer over your words as you try to describe your vision for the tattoo, but he listens patiently: still and attentive, trying to see your same vision.

He exchanges private numbers with you (enters his name in your phone as GHOST) and within the week he’s sending three separate mock up images, each better than the last.

It isn’t until he reminds you to wear something appropriate that you fully acknowledge the gravity of just where you plan to let this man tattoo you—but you’ve already put down a deposit and it’s too late to back out now.

You wear pasties, applied with shaking hands in his tiny, clean bathroom. No bra, you suck in a deep breath and push down the straps of your spaghetti strap shirt and give him access to your sternum.

He’s a total professional. It’s in your mind only that his gloved-hands linger on you. It’s wishful thinking that his thumb soothingly strokes the space above your heart when you flinch in pain.

The praise is harder to ignore. He mutters it so distractedly that you have no doubt it is just instinct: “Good…that’s it…breathe through it…doing well…you’re taking it so well…”

He has to stop twice because you can’t seem to sit still, your panties soaked and cunt throbbing. His dark eyes glitter knowingly, mouth quirking beneath his facemask.

It’s almost a relief when he’s done, when you haven’t terminally embarrassed yourself. When you’re one step closer to getting home and rubbing one out with his spooky moniker on your tongue.

“You sat well,” he says. He hesitates. “I’d give you a discount. If you ever wanted to come back.”

But then the charged moment is ruined by his shop co-owner, piercer “Soap” appearing in the doorway, flashing his tongue ring at you and letting you know nipple piercings are buy one get one free.

[emmyrosee]

The “would you kiss me for $10 or the prettiest girl on the world for $1000?” trend with modern au bf sukuna 👀👀

dummy 🙄 sukuna???

SENT If you send me some fuck shit, hand to god

dummy 🙄 would you kiss me for $10

or kiss the prettiest girl ever for $1000???

SENT Depends on who the competition is

There's three dots that indicate you're typing, then they disappear. They reappear, and he chuckles as he imagines you, fighting for the words to come to your mind as he effortlessly, works your buttons. The dots disappear again, and this time, they stay gone. He quirks a brow at the lack of angry texts from you, only to then groan at the idea that this time, he's taken it too far, his jokes have gotten him nowhere, and he takes a deep breath in to keep himself cool in the dairy aisle at the convenience store.

SENT It was a joke, brat

I'd never want to kiss anyone else

Not when I get to kiss you for free, any time I want, you know that, right?

You merely put your phone on Do Not Disturb. He takes another deep breath in as he digs himself deeper into the hole of your wrath, and he quickly makes his way to the snack aisle, grabbing your favorite chips and heading straight for the candy aisle for an extra boost. By the time he's done, it looks like he's throwing a damn birthday party, but he can't bring himself to care. Not when you're at home, pouting over him.

By the time he gets home, you still haven't answered him. He braces himself for your silence as he unlocks the door and nudges it open with his knee. To his surprise, you're in the kitchen making tea, but there's a blanket covering your body with only your face peeking out.

"You look comfy," he hums, and you sneak a hand out of your cocoon to grab your mug of tea.

"Well since I'm so hideous and disgusting that even my own boyfriend doesn't want to kiss me, I've decided to become a recluse," you hiss, making your way back down the hall. "Don't follow me."

"You know I'm going to follow you," he scoffs, instantly following you down the hall into your shared bedroom. There's a blue light cascading over the walls from the tv, and the curtains are drawn shut. You put the tea on your side table and scuttle back into bed. He rolls his eyes and walks his way on your side of the bed. "Let me kiss you."

"Let me give you $10."

"I'm not taking $10-"

"Well someone has to," you snap. "At least, until you find someone just soooo much prettier than me, then you get even more money to kiss me with. Doesn't that sound like a good plan?"

"Babe, it was a joke-"

"And I'm not laughing."

He snarls his lip slightly before scooping his arms under you, hauling you up and onto his lap and ignoring your shoves and batting of hands. He wastes no time is pressing wet kisses to your cheeks and neck, relishing in how your body shakes trying to hold in your laughter.

“Don’t you ever-“ he kisses your temple firmly. “Deprive me-“ kissing your jawline. “Of your kisses.” His lips press to the corner of your mouth, and the hand not cradling your body comes up to grip your chin to hold you steady. “Brat.”

“Don’t tell me I’m not pretty then!” You whine.

“Of course you’re pretty,” he scoffs, pressing another kiss to your face. “I never said that. I would never say that. You’re the fucking prettiest. You’re mine. Of course you’re the prettiest.”

You go quiet, and he thinks you’re about to get mad at him again; however, you turn to rest your head on his shoulder, pressing a tiny kiss to his neck.

“Say more stuff like that,” you murmur.

He smirks, “there is no girl prettier than you. Trust me.” He turns his head to kiss your other cheek, squishing you slightly in the process. “Ive seen it all, baby. You’re the one. And even if someone tries to give me money to kiss you, I don’t fucking want it-“ he kisses you again. “Because I get to do it for free. And that shit’s priceless.”

“Softie,” you snort. He groans and turns his head to bite your cheek firmly, but his heart speeds up at the way you kick your feet out and flail them in protest. “Oww! I’m sorry, don’t bite!”

“I’m not a child nor a dog, woman,” he grumbles, but he does release your cheek and press a kiss to your brow bone in compensation. “No matter how you see me, anyways.”

“My feral little doggy,” you prod.

He yaks, but can’t help the smirk that curls on his cheeks from your laughter.

[hmusunoo]

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐓 𝐀 𝐒𝐏𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐘 - 𝐒.𝐉𝐘

pairings. ᝰ.ᐟ jake x fem!reader

synopsis. ᝰ.ᐟ jake gives you a facial….hehehe

warnings. ᝰ.ᐟ SMUT. mdni, facials, oral male receiving, pure filth. Short drabble. I can’t lie; i think about this daily…

“That’s it sweetheart..” Jake sighed, trying his hardest to keep quiet in the small room you were currently in. His finger ghosted the apples of your cheeks leaving light touches as he trailed his hand down to cup your chin in his palm. He lifted your head up, cock stuffed deep into your mouth savoring every bit of him. “Can you take more baby?” He asked smiling as your eyes watered struggling to keep down the amount of him you were already enduring.

You inched your mouth forward taking more of him inch by inch suppressing the urge to gag around him. “That’s it baby” He moaned out, head tipping back, his hair clung to his forehead with sweat from the heat of the room and the moment you two were sharing. “Good fucking girl”

You sucked on him as if he were your last meal. Making sure to hollow your cheeks just enough to make his eyes roll and his gaze darken on you. It was erotic you’d say, being cramped in the small room of the spa you two were in. The thrill of the possibility of being caught coursed through your veins egging your actions on. It was exciting, exhilarating even. It was truthfully the most fun the two of you had in a while.

Jake had surprised you with a spa day after all the activities of life as of recently. Him just coming back from a mind numbing tour and you working endlessly to pass the days missing him. It felt good to spend the day together getting pampered and when the masseuse stepped out for a break the two of you took the liberations of having some fun.

The candles that surrounded the two of you as well as the scents from the essential oils and the soft music in the background had aided in your erotic actions only furthering the arousal between you both. You were excited to fall to your knees in front of him, you were acting like a bitch in heat and he loved it.

Jake’s hips snapped forward causing his tip to tap against your throat, the gag you were trying so hard to suppress broke free. Spit seeped from the sides of your mouth, it was nasty. Jake’s eyes were alight as he watched you suck him dry the sight of your head bobbing back and forth on his cock had his knees weak. He placed his hand on the bed beside him for further support.

“God you’re such a whore” Jake cursed running his hands tenderly through your hair. Gathering it up in a ponytail between his palm. He tugged harshly on your head detaching your mouth from his cock for a split second. A gasp rang free from your lips the spit strung from your mouth. “So nasty baby” He hissed.

You moved your mouth forward desperate to feel him in your throat again. You cupped his base yanking your hand up and down as you attached your lips to his tip. Your eyes were doe like as you starred up at him. His torso falling in and out as his breathing turned sharp.

“That’s hot” He rasped “So fucking hot” His whines were an indication that he was close to his finish. Spurring you on as you watched him bite his lip in an attempt to quiet down.

“You want it baby?” He asked you breathing quick. You nodded humming, quirking your pace on him.

“Good.” He moaned snapping his hips forward roughly. He grabbed onto your head using your mouth as his own personal flashlight. “I’m gonna give it to you”

You gagged as he continued his assault on your mouth, you were impossibly wet yourself and truthfully you couldn’t wait until you were home so he could make you cum properly.

“Oh f-fuck” He spurred on “taking it so good” He yanked his cock from your mouth using his hand as his stimulant.

“Your tongue baby. Let me see your tongue” You stuck your tongue out awaiting his cum like the good little whore you were. Your eyes peered at him, connecting with his darkened ones.

“I’m-“ His sentence was cut off by a moan, ropes of cumming falling from his tip and onto your tongue and face even getting into your eye. “Fucking-shit” His hand reached for the bed as his knees buckled over you.

Catching his breath he looked down at you face covered in cum.

“Jakeee” You whined reaching for the towels near you. “It’s in my eye!”

“Well you did say you wanted a facial baby”

—

taglist - @belovedhoon , @st1llm0nster , @blossommi

[ghostfacd]

𝙄𝙉 𝘼 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝙇𝘿 𝙁𝙐𝙇𝙇 𝙊𝙁 𝙈𝙀𝙉, 𝙃𝙀’𝙎 𝘼 𝙂𝙀𝙉𝙏𝙇𝙀𝙈𝘼𝙉

pairing: lorenzo berkshire x fem!slytherin!reader

genre: fluff, sweetheart enzo, brief suggestive content, enzo is a big softie basically

summary: in a world filled with men, there’s lorenzo berkshire, a sweetheart and gentleman

Lorenzo Berkshire was a sweetheart.

Everybody knew that the down to earth Slytherin couldn’t hurt a fly even if he wanted to, and weirdly did not fit the stereotypical mean Slytherin persona despite hanging with Draco and his friends.

In fact, a lot of things that Lorenzo did were out of the ordinary for his crowd of people. Whenever Draco would pull a first year by their backpacks so their bodies would fling back, Lorenzo always muttered an apology after, offering the first year a cookie the next day. It was just who he was; he was a sweet boy, and that often meant he was also very clueless.

Sure, he was smart in his classes, but in everything else? Lorenzo was practically the virgin of all virgins.

“Her eyes are up here Enzo,” Pansy teased, watching as Lorenzo’s eyes finally shifted off your chest to look at Pansy in the eyes.

“Huh?”

“Well I know they’re nice,” you tease further, “but it’s rude to stare, y’know.”

“Oh,” Lorenzo’s eyebrows furrow, clearly confused. He’s either great at playing the dumb role or he genuinely has no idea what you and Pansy are inciting.

“What do you mean?” Lorenzo then moves his hand over to touch the gold colored necklace on your neck. “I was just looking at the new necklace you got. It’s nice.”

Oh. You didn’t think anyone would notice your new necklace. You bought it over the holidays when you went back home with your family, and had just started wearing it now.

“Thanks Enzo,” you say, placing a kiss on his cheek. He pulls back flustered, but he mutters a you’re welcome under his breath.

“LO BOY!” Lorenzo is quickly pulled into a headlock by no other than Draco Malfoy, who seems to find his friend struggling hilariously funny. “Oh what’s wrong Lo? Got your head in a knot?”

“Boys.” You and Pansy mutter, rolling your eyes as you both get up from your seats, heading to the much more quiet Great Hall.

- - -

The next time you see Lorenzo is in your Potions class. He’s on the left of you, and you’re almost falling asleep at the boring lecture of your professor. He always seem to talk more than actually teach how to mix potions.

“Pssst,” Lorenzo mutters to your partner as he hands her a slip of paper. “Be a peach and pass it to Y/N?”

Your partner, who has developed a little crush on Lorenzo only blushes, accepting the piece of paper and tapping you on the shoulder.

“Here,” she says, “it’s from Lorenzo.”

Your eyebrows quirk up, slowly unfolding the crinkled paper.

Your hair is pretty today

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile. Lorenzo just knew how to swoon a girl over, didn’t he? He doesn’t even have to try and your knees would still feel weak.

So my hair isn’t pretty on other days?

You scribble down, passing it back to your partner who passes it to Lorenzo.

His eyes grow wide when he reads it, opting to shake his head quickly.

“Not what I meant,” Lorenzo mouths.

“I know,” you mouth back, giving him a smirk. “Thank you Enzo.”

And you both end up more pink than the potions that were made in class that day.

- - -

“What do you even do in your free time?” Theodore asks, poking Lorenzo’s cheek repeatedly to annoy him. “Like read?”

“Like read?” Lorenzo mimics back. “Yes, I read. You should too Teddy, it’d be good for you.”

Theodore rolls his eyes, “I don’t need to read. And don’t call me Teddy.”

When you arrive in the dining hall, Theodore and Lorenzo already make a space for you to sit in between them. Usually, Pansy and Draco would be sitting across from the three of you, but today, they were off doing Godric knows what.

“Pans and Draco not here today?” Lorenzo asks, still focusing on the assignment he was finishing up before dinner ends.

“Nope,” you say, popping the p. “No idea what they’re doing.”

“Oh,” Theodore chuckles, “I have a few ideas.”

That makes the two of you burst out laughing, and Lorenzo finally looks up from his paper.

“What?” He asks. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh Enzo,” Theodore places a hand on his friend’s back, “never change.”

Lorenzo rolls his eyes, shrugging Theodore’s hand off. “Whatever that means.”

When Theodore finally heads off to the Slytherin common room, you and Lorenzo are left alone, the small conversations of the other students surrounds the two of you.

“Working hard on that assignment,” you say quietly to Lorenzo, bringing up your hand to pull a few strings of hair that were poking his eyes.

“Well someone’s gotta be the smart one in our friend group,” he says teasingly.

“Oh, so you’re saying I’m not smart?” Your hands start to wander, coming to each of Lorenzo’s sides to tickle him. He was especially ticklish around his abdomen.

“H-hey! Stop that!” He laughs, pushing your hands away. “Okay okay, we’re both the smart ones.”

“And Pansy,” you add.

“And Pansy.”

- - -

When you walked out to the lake that sat across from the Slytherin common room, you didn’t expect to find Lorenzo feeding the ducks. He was crouching, softly throwing a few pieces of crushed up bread at the ducks that now surrounded him.

“What are you doing Lo?” You ask, walking beside him.

“Not too loud,” Lorenzo says, “you’ll scare them away.”

He continues doing what he does before he runs all out, deciding to finally turn to you and throw an arm around your shoulder. “Evening.”

“Evening Enzo,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. It was out of habit, and you did it regularly, but it didn’t stop Lorenzo from blushing every time it happened.

“I was feeding the ducks,” he explains, although it was pretty clear what he was doing. “I like them, they’re nice and pretty. Draco sometimes throws rocks at them, so it’s kind of my way of apologizing for him.”

You ruffle Lorenzo’s hair slightly, giving him a small kiss on the cheek. “Oh Enzo, you sweetheart.” But he doesn’t hear you, instead, choosing to admire the scenery of the lake.

- - -

“You know what’d be funny?” Mattheo says, already laughing before he could get out the rest of his sentence. “If we pied the girls. Pansy and Y/N.”

Lorenzo’s ears perk up at this, but he keeps quiet. Why was his friends always looking to get into trouble?

“They’d totally kill us,” Theodore comments.

“That’s why we have to do it.”

The boys had already gotten two pies and their plan figured out before Lorenzo could stop them. He watched as they hide it behind their backs, approaching you and Pansy who were both engrossed in your conservation.

“Wait,” Lorenzo mumbles, quickly following his group of friends. When he sees their hand from their back move as they speak to you and Pansy, he steps in front of the two of you, getting hit straight in the face with the two pies.

“Huh..” Lorenzo says, wiping away the whipped cream that was covering his eyes. “Key lime.”

“Enzo,” you say, knowing that this was probably one of Mattheo or Draco’s dumb ideas again. “You guys apologize to Lorenzo right now.”

The three boys sigh defeatedly, muttering a quiet sorry to their brunette friend who’s still wiping the whipped cream from his face.

“Why’d you do that Enzo?” You ask him as the two of you sat down on the grass. You’d finally got all the whipped cream off his face with a towel, and although Enzo won’t admit it, he was kind of grateful he did end up getting pied. After all, a pretty girl was cleaning him up after all, and not just any pretty girl, his close friend.

“Cause you’re too pretty to get pied.” He shrugs, which makes you smirk.

“Too pretty?”

“Well yeah,”

You laugh at Lorenzo’s honesty, and finally, you lean in to give him a kiss on the lips instead of the side of his cheek.

“Did you just-”

“Shh,” you say, grabbing ahold of his hand. “Just let me appreciate you right now. In a world full of just men, you’re a gentleman Enzo.”

And Lorenzo only smiles, knowing he’s finally got the girl of his dreams.

[vifilms]

farmhand!abby who practically has you by the palm of her calloused hand, pressed against the back of your barn doors as if you’re not the one who owns the land it stands on. the flimsy white tank top shoved up to your chest as swollen, pink lips suck your nipple into her mouth, rolling her tongue over the sensitive area. she lets you get lost in the sensation, her soft hum vibrating against your body as she descends. appreciating every aspect you have to offer, on display, just for her. 

before you have time to catch up, abby makes swift work of your jeans, shoving the denim down to your ankles. “is this what you wanted all along, sweetheart?” you nod reverently, too choked up to form a coherent thought. she pushes your panties to the side, exposing your perfect pussy to her. “yeah, just need me to fuck you, huh? you should have just asked me when we met.”

she cowers to her knees free hand making home on your soft thigh, fingertips running aimlessly on the skin she would sink into, possibly forever. carefully, you sink into her golden waves, looking down as you admire sun-kissed skin and the freckles adorning her kissable cheeks.

"i was, um, nervous. just a little bit." you mutter, watching as her pearly white dips into her bottom lip. "pretty girl like you has nothing to be worried about. not with me." soft she kisses your inner thighs, neighboring where you crave her the most.

"well you did hire me, guess the boss didn't wanna fuck their employee, until now?" you nod, the corners of your mouth quirk up.

"but i can't say i haven't been jealous in the past you know? all those women never seemed like they could take care of you, certainly didn't sound like it." you blush at the intrusion, but you’re entrance by her bright blues looking up at you. 

“let me show you how you deserve to be fucked, hm? not those city slickers you like to bring around. now, be a good girl for me and take what i’m gonna give you. how does that sound, darling?” you nod again but it isn't enough for her.

"use you words, sweetheart. tell me what i need to hear." abby commands and you're eager to oblige.

"yes ma'am."

"good girl, baby. looks like someone deserves a reward. not stopping until you're coming all over my pretty face, alright?" all it takes is one light flick of her tongue and you're falling into her trance, sinfully and forever hers. 

[mapis-putellas]

𝑹𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒔/𝑨.𝑷𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒔

The media storm surrounding your transfer to Barcelona was unlike anything you had ever experienced. Headlines screamed your name next to Alexia’s, speculating on how two supposed rivals could possibly coexist on the same team. Rival domestic leagues. Rival international squads. Ballon d’Or wins traded back and forth. It was the narrative they had crafted for years, and now they were salivating at the thought of drama on the pitch.

You sat in your empty apartment the night before your first training session, scrolling through social media. It was hard not to laugh at some of the posts. They thought you’d be clawing at each other’s throats, that your mutual intensity would combust in a way that could never work. If only they knew the truth.

Your phone buzzed with a message from Alexia.

Alexia: Estás lista para mañana?

You smiled, quickly typing back: Always. Nervous?

Alexia: Un poco. Solo por todo el drama.

You sent back a laughing emoji and then: Don’t worry. We’ll show them how it’s done.

She replied with a simple, Sí, and you could picture her faint smile as she sent it. Alexia wasn’t one for grand gestures or unnecessary words. She was calm, collected, a perfect balance to your own fiery nature. It was one of the reasons you worked so well together, on and off the pitch.

The next morning, walking into the Barcelona training facility in your new kit felt surreal. The cameras were out in full force, capturing every moment as you stepped onto the field alongside your new teammates.

Alexia was already there, standing with the group, her captain’s armband snug on her bicep. When your eyes met, her face remained neutral—professional—but the slightest quirk of her lips told you everything you needed to know. She was proud to have you here, despite the noise surrounding it.

“Welcome,” she said as you approached.

“Thanks, Capitana,” you teased, keeping your tone light for the sake of the watchful eyes around you.

The session began, and from the first touch of the ball, everything felt right. There was no tension, no competition—just an effortless synergy between you and Alexia. You both knew exactly where the other would be, where the ball needed to go. It was as if you’d been playing together for years. Which you had, in a way, if you count practicing together at home.

By the time training ended, you were drenched in sweat but buzzing with energy. The team gathered around for a cooldown, and Alexia took her place at the center, leading stretches.

“Good work today,” she said, her voice firm but warm. “This is going to be a good season.”

Her eyes flicked to yours briefly, a private acknowledgment that made your chest tighten.

When training wrapped up and the cameras finally dispersed, you and Alexia lingered on the pitch under the guise of practicing free kicks. It was one of the few moments you could steal together without drawing suspicion.

She nudged the ball toward you with her foot. “¿Qué piensas?”

“I think they’re all going to be eating their words soon,” you replied with a grin, adjusting the ball before taking a shot.

Alexia laughed softly, a sound you cherished because it was so rare.

Later that evening, after a team dinner, you found yourself back at your new and unfamiliar apartment scrolling through the photos the media had posted from the day. The comments were a mix of skepticism and surprise at how well you and Alexia had worked together. The narrative of “rivals turned teammates” was still very much alive.

You opened Instagram, scrolling through your camera roll until you found the perfect photo from training: you and Alexia side by side in your kits, her arm slung casually around your shoulders as you both smiled at each other.

Yourname

Liked by alexiaputellas, Ingrid_engen and others.

Yourname Well, I guess the rumours weren’t true after all.

The likes and comments flooded in almost immediately, fans losing their minds over the photo. Some were thrilled, others skeptical, but all of them were seemingly hooked. Not even a minute later, Alexia messaged you: Eres mala.

You laughed, replying: Just setting the record straight.

And then: or well, not so straight in this case.

Alexia: 😂

Alexia: te amo.

You respond immediately with: I love you more.

Your phone buzzed one last time.

Alexia: Duermes bien. Estoy orgullosa de ti.

You: And you, mi amor.

**

Tags:

@ceesimz @marysfics @wileys-russo @mead-iocre @girlgenius1111 @codiemarin @simp4panos @silentwolfsstuff @goldenempyrean @xxnaiaxx @liloandstitchstan

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

my love if i may request a whiskey with dbf!joel or dbf!bucky with the prompt “i’ve wanted this for so long” and mayhaps if it’s not too much to ask for but some breeding kink👀👉🏻👈🏻

Promises, Promises.

warnings - smut. cursing.

I figured I'd make this dbf!bucky, because i've done a dbf!joel fic for this celebration already. y'all, I read the words dad's best friend and go fucking feral. this one got away from me.

3k celebration post here. 3k masterlist here.

You're the last person Bucky expected to be at his front door at 3am.

"What's wrong, honey?"

"Locked myself out of my goddamn house, and my parents are still on vacation. Can I crash here tonight? Please?"

Who is he to turn down an offer that tempting?

"Course. Come on, it's too cold for you to be stood out here."

The two of you sit down on his couch, settling in to watch some TV.

"Bucky Barnes. Are you watching a romcom?"

He blushes, a slight flush creeping up his cheeks.

"If you tell anyone, I'll kill you. They're my guilty pleasure."

"It makes me like you more, if anything," you grin. He can't help but smile back at you, less embarrassed now.

"Look, my love life is fuckin' terrible. I live vicariously through these cheesy films right now."

"You? Terrible love life? Those two phrases don't usually go in the same sentence."

You're teasing him. Seeing if you can get a rise, hit the right button.

"Oh, shut it. Just because you're on a new date every week."

"I'm... what?"

"Your Dad seems to think you're dating a lot."

You quirk a brow at him, amusement curling at the corners of your lips.

"Is that so?"

"I'm only telling you what I've heard, honey."

He crosses his arms across his chest, biceps threatening to break free from the confines of his t shirt.

"He's wrong."

"Is that so?"

You roll your eyes.

"I have a friend, he's a guy. My Dad automatically assumes we're dating because we hang out. But we're not."

"And why not?"

"I don't know, I guess he's just..." you debate your answer, realising it's now or never. "He's not old enough for me. Not mature enough."

Bucky bites his lip, eyes scanning your face.

"He's your age."

"Exactly. Boys my age don't know shit."

He laughs, but it's dark and low, something brewing beneath the surface.

"You always were too smart for your own good, huh?"

Bucky's thigh is pressing into yours, the warmth from his skin seeping through. His rough fingertips glide across your arm, slow and soft. He's testing the waters.

"I shouldn't want this," he murmurs, barely audible. "Neither should you."

"But I do," you whisper. "So fucking bad."

"Me too."

Bucky grabs the back of your neck, smashing his lips to yours. You grip at his hair, his biceps, his shirt - anything you can get a hold of. You feel like you're dreaming, your filthiest thoughts coming into fruition.

He pulls you into his lap so you're straddling his hips, grinding down and panting into his mouth. You're both breathless, but neither of you want to be the first to pull away.

Bucky rips your shirt over your head, instantly attacking your chest with kisses. He's marking you up, claiming you as his. You should be worried about the repercussions, but you're not.

You pull his shirt off and rake your nails down his front, grinning when he shivers. Suddenly, Bucky stands up, setting you on your feet.

"Strip."

You blink at him, processing.

"Strip, baby. I won't tell you again."

You shimmy your pants down your legs, your underwear going too. Your mouth waters as you watch him undress, admiring the angles and smooth ridges of him. A Greek God.

Bucky stalks over to you and hooks a foot behind your ankle, sending you both flying onto the rug on the floor. He cushions your fall, not letting go of you once. Running two fingers through your wet heat, he groans.

"All for me, pretty girl? What did I do to deserve somethin' this sweet, huh?"

"Need you," you whine. "Please, Buck."

"I've wanted this for so long," he murmurs, lining himself up. "Fuck, you're a dream."

You both gasp as he slides home, your back arching and his jaw falling slack. Bucky rests a hand against the base of your throat, the weight grounding you back down to Earth.

"Need you to move," you choke out. "Fuck, I need it, Buck. Please."

"Oh you need it, do you?" he smirks. "My needy girl."

He snaps his hips into yours in long, careful glides, very aware of the effect he has on you. Before long, his restraint snaps, and his thrusts get harder, quicker, more frantic.

"Gonna fill you up, baby," he's muttering under his breath. "Make you mine. You want that? To have everyone know who you belong to?"

You're nodding rapidly, tears gathering in your eyes, bottom lip caught between your teeth.

"How are we gonna keep this a secret if you're pregnant, huh?"

The thought makes you moan, a breathy, gutteral sound.

"You like that? Want me to make you a mommy? Fuck, I'll give you everything you ask for. I'll buy you a house and knock you up, you'll never want for anything."

His low, honeyed words throw you over the edge, squeezing and clenching around him. Bucky groans, deep and rumbled, the sound vibrating through the both of you. You find your releases together, panting and out of breath.

"House first."

"Huh?" he breathes, raising his head from your chest.

"Buy me a house first. Kids second. Maybe marriage in between."

He laughs, floating and content. You both know he meant what he said, not just a heat of the moment confession.

You stay wrapped up in each other for hours, on the rug in front of the fire.

You'll deal with the repercussions later.

[eowynstwin]

Lilies

Price x f!Reader. - Dom/sub dynamics. whipping. vivisection as a metaphor for love. boot riding. throat-fucking. angst. aftercare. 18+ MDNI. Ao3

The bedroom is dim when you enter, lights turned low. Price watches you stop in your tracks at the unexpected darkness; watches you look around and catch sight of him.

He’s in the chair in the corner of the room. Hasn’t been waiting long—expected you to arrive, in fact, around this very moment. Your schedule and all of its minute quirks, tiny variations you might insert out of hunger, or boredom, or fixation on some new hobby, play out like clockwork in the back of his mind, no matter when or where he is.

A mnemonic. More accurately, a memorare. Entreaty to some higher power, as if to remind Death that he has someone far more important to get home to.

You take him in. His ankle is propped up on the opposite knee, glass of scotch hanging carelessly from his fingers, crystalline bottom brushing the carpeted floor. Your eyes focus on the orange-red cherry of his cigar—

—you startle a little when you meet his gaze.

He doesn’t blame you. His pulse beats heavy through his veins. Every breath he takes is slow and controlled, miasmic as it leaves his lungs. He feels less a man and more a vessel for something seething and wrathful, smog rolling in and in again on itself, eddying when it hits the boundaries keeping it contained.

Noxious. Fetid.

The glow of his cigar probably reflects in his eyes.

Borderline pyrolic.

You look at the coiled whip resting ophidian and black over his thigh. His free hand rests along it, thumbnail toying with the braided leather.

“Not a word,” he says evenly. His voice leaves him like it’s coated in sandpaper, debriding the column of his esophagus.

Your gaze snaps back up to his. Holds it.

Searching, maybe.

Your lips do not part. Instead, you wait.

The next breath he takes comes and goes a little easier—but only just.

“Strip,” he says, “and cuff yourself to your post.”

On a better night—a kinder one—he would’ve asked if you needed more directions. Checked in first, even, or warned you ahead of time of his intentions. This thing that exists between the two of you was cultivated in the open, fertilized with his own candor as he told you what he wanted, needed, like turning over a rock to see what squirmed beneath it. It grew as you trellised it together and discovered, through trial and error, what you needed to survive it.

Reward incentives. Good reason to give a damn about what he tells you to do.

But tonight is not a kind one. Venom pumps through his veins—caustic. Acrid. Hissing and spitting in his chest, already drawn back and ready to strike.

Maybe you can tell, as you stand there, watching him. Maybe you don’t feel like protesting. Or, just maybe, you need this, too, need it in the way you’ve begged him for in the past when the present moment felt ephemeral and unreal—because you obey.

You toe out of your heels. Pull your shirt over your head, your skirt down your legs. It’s an outfit he’s expressed appreciation for in the past; the wide drape of the collar exposing your clavicles, the long seams down your hips that buckle as your thighs hold the fabric taut.

You fold everything like a good girl and set them aside on the bed, and then remove your bra and panties—nude silk, no lace, sensible and comfortable and paid for with his card—to place them atop the pile.

Price isn’t in a mood to care why you acquiesce. All that matters to him is that you walk to your nightstand and remove the padded cuffs from the drawer, then to the bedpost on your side of the bed. You remove the endcap hiding the loop of steed embedded into the wood, fasten yourself with a padlock only he has the key to—

And then you kneel, naked, on the carpeted floor.

Giving him your bare back, the dim light sinking shadows into the notches of your spine.

Price says nothing. He doesn’t have a kind word anywhere in his alveoli. There usually aren’t any, when he first comes home, nor could a single one get past the bars of his vocal cords if it tried. This has grown too nacreous, too hypergranulated in his mantle, and it demands excision. He taps the ash from his cigar and sips at his scotch, the dregs burning a line hot and corrosive down his throat.

He sets the glass aside. Rises.

Brandishes the whip once with a sharp snap.

You flinch; your skin is filmy and thin in the gloaming. Horripilation lifts the follicles along your bare arms; the scant light of the bedroom catches your hair standing on end.

He watches a slow tremble work its way to your suspended fingers. Your back expands as you take a deep breath in, and contracts as you exhale, shadows the width of his fingers pooling into and draining away from the valleys between your extruded ribs.

You pull in another deep breath, one, two, three, four, five, and let it go at the same meter. Calming the anticipation the way he taught you.

He draws his arm back, lunges, and the whip cracks against your bare back.

You gasp sharply and go rigid in shock. Price watches the pain spread outward from the lash into your limbs. Bleeding down into the fibers of your muscles; sinking through osseous matter into your marrow like dye takes to cloth. You shift on your knees, a shiver snaking its way up your back.

It’s always cataclysmic, that first bite of pain. Every nerve ending suddenly alive and on high alert. Charged up. Inadvertently destining the next strike to fall even harder by sensory comparison.

Then, the welt appears, rising in reply to the scourge. A clean, sharp return stroke, an echo of the braided leather just beginning its reverberation.

Something cleaves in Price’s chest. Some tight membrane splits open, seeping felsic, hot and black, dripping steadily into his bloodstream. Effusive. Not a dam breaking, but a fissure in the stone.

Your breathing quickens—

And then he whips you again, harder, laying the stroke right next to the first. You cry out when it lands, but he leaves no time for you to prepare for the third, drawing, lunging, and lashing again at unspoiled skin.

You shake in your bonds. He whips you again, laying another diagonally from shoulder to hip as fog blooms across his vision. You wail like breaking glass, china falling from the cabinet, cut crystal flowering in pieces on hardwood floor.

The same tenor he hears when he has you on your back, cock burrowed in your cunt and bullying the plug of your cervix.

Too much, too hard, but your nails dig into his arse and you cry even harder when he lets up.

He whips you again. Welts lift across the known topography of your back—intersecting every angle of your shoulder blades, orogenies shifting and transforming the landscape into something new.

Only passing familiar with the dips and curves he often walks the tips of his fingers across.

Again. The planes of your back tighten, as if solidity will lessen the impact of the lash. Again, right across the tight line of your shoulders—you shriek, thrashing, hands fisting as you pull and swing futilely in the cuffs.

Geography added to. New land raised like it was beckoned by the hand of God. Hot and magamatic on the inside, too delicate to touch without collapsing in on itself.

Again. He snaps the whip, shaping the parabola with the jerk of his arm, shaping the line of a hill like a child’s drawing, then brings it down, sharply, cutting the fall across the meat of your hip. A hillside he often dwarfs with the ugly size of his hands.

Price envies the whip sometimes for its privilege. He’s never been able to lay hands on you directly for its purpose; not easily, at least. The flat of his palms have known the meat of your arse, have made ample flesh ripple like tossing stones across water, but he can’t employ them for much else without turning his own stomach.

He can pull your hair, wrap your throat in his grasp, shackle your wrists or the slopes of your hips in an iron grip, dig his fingers into your thighs and stomach like trying to tunnel through wedges of clay. Often afterwards he’s transfixed by the marks he leaves behind—dotted bruises aligned with the arc and spread of his fingers, or blotchy oblongs fitted to the heel of his hand.

Indelible evidence that Price Was Here.

He’ll try to match the grip that left them, his touch as light and gentle as a dove’s wing; a paintbrush without pigment, remembering the strokes it left behind. Synapses in his brain firing colors to match, claiming them for himself.

He put them there. That makes them his. That makes you his.

But striking you barehanded is beyond even his limits. No matter that you’d allow it. Have allowed it—

He whips you again. Draw. Lunge. Crack. You jolt against the bedpost, throw your head back, buck your entire body to work the pain through it.

One scene, similar to this, tephra building up in his craw and threatening to catalyze if he didn’t find some hurried way to exorcise it.

Some mission gone bad; some idiot disobeying his orders. People dying who didn’t need to.

He’d slapped you across the face, after forcing you to your knees with his fist in your hair—sent you tumbling to the floor. The next thing that had occurred to him had been to swing his foot back—

And the bile had risen so quickly up his throat that he’d frozen. He’d stared at you, on the floor. Lying there, sprawled and waiting. Fear in your eyes—but you weren’t moving.

His collapse after had been swift. He’d fallen to his knees and crawled to you, gathered you up like a stuffed toy and buried his mouth in your hair and hadn’t let you go for nearly three hours. Price can count on one hand how many times he’s cried in his adult life, and this had added one more to the tally.

It’s one thing to send his fury along through leather or wood or crop, and quite another to deliver it to you like you actually deserve it.

So, the whip.

You moan as the next stroke hits. Something long and stretched-out. Caramelized—molasses subducting the bite of the fall, sucrose splitting in the phreatic churn of draw, lunge, lash.

He pauses briefly to look you over. Claw-mark weals, like he’s been dragging his blunt nails down your back, hatch the skin paralleling your spine. Your heels press divots into the bare cheeks of your arse; you squirm in his gaze, drawing them together as you tighten your thighs.

There’s a moment when pain transforms. When heat fills the empty spaces between moving, frantic particles and melds in around them. Capturing them in place.

The calcaneus of one foot finds its way between your folds as you shift; your whole body twitches from it, and you lift your hips a little. There’s an obscene squelch as you settle down again, slick dribbling down your heel into the arch.

Price lunges. The whip cracks. You low like a trapped animal, grinding, and the pitch of your voice swoops upward when he lays another lash right on top of the previous.

Dangerous. Taunting something welling up to the surface, testing what it can take before it breaks. Price knows better.

Knows better, but the roil and hiss in his gut yawns wider with every lash, trembling as a fed appetite is only whetted. Horrible feedback loop—the cry of your voice, he often thinks, is the only thing that could possibly satisfy him, but when he gets it, Price can’t be satisfied.

A taste demands mouthful. A meal demands a banquet. When he hears you wail, he wonders how many different ways he can make you do it, how many octaves are there, hidden away, for him to tease out of you.

He knows everything about you. Everything. He knows every dip and curve of your body, every jutting bone, every creaky joint, every fold and roll and wrinkle. Sometimes he thinks he's got individual hair follicles memorized.

With the whip, or the scourge, or any other tool, the reward for his greed is ephemeral. The known plains present themselves as blank canvas, and for a while, after his work is wrought, there’s something new for him to fixate on. New patterns to trace his fingers along.

Sometimes he thinks he wants to cut you open, just to see what more of you he’s been missing.

Stomach. Lungs. Intestines. Arterial pathways leading to your soft, beating heart. All he wants, he thinks, is to see them. Say hello to them. Run his tongue along their membranes, caress each tiny capillary webbing them together with the lightest brush of his teeth, if only just to organize his experience of them into the archives of you that he keeps locked behind his ribs.

More of you. He always wants more of you.

He lunges again. The whip sings in the air, and the cracker bites again into your flesh. You undulate like rippling water, breath coming out in erratic stops and starts, and then you give a full body yank against your cuffs—

This time, he’s broken skin.

You curl in on yourself, suddenly going still. Your thighs tighten; your scapulae rise, shoulders touching the lobes of your ears.

As you’re if holding onto something that will escape; balancing, on an unsteady surface, something fragile. Delicate as spun glass.

It isn’t deep. A pearl of crimson wells up in the trough, collapsing when the mass betrays the surface tension. It trails a thin, straight line down your back as it slips between stark weals still yet to split open.

You haven’t moved; your body is a trembling fist.

Price takes a long, ragged breath. He asks the question, although he already knows the answer.

“Did you come?”

You shake your head.

Of course not. His good fucking girl—you’re waiting for permission.

Price extracts the little key from his trouser pocket and goes to where your wrists hang limp from the bedpost. The lock turns with a small click, and your arms drop like heavy stones. A breath of relief, involuntary, leaves you.

Price wraps your hair around his fist and yanks you back a little like pulling a dog on a leash. He rounds you, looming above your kneeling form, and wedges the tip of his boot between your knees.

It’s not a new pair. He’s had them for years, and the leather shows it, even despite regular maintenance. They’re brutish things, squarish and unkindly shaped, rough at the edges. Meant to trample underbrush and kick through teeth. A scratched-up battering ram between the soft skin of your thighs.

You lift your hips immediately to open the way for him. Automatic. Pavlovian.

He lifts the toe against your clit in reward, circles it, dragging your folds around. Your lips fall open; glittering, rheumy eyes stare up at him as your cuffed hands circle his knee.

Something soft in Price’s chest touches the inside of his sternum.

His hand goes to the zipper at his groin, and he draws his cock out. In the furor of the lash, he hadn’t even realized how hard he was, but he feels blistering in his own palm, the head ruddy and ugly with it, the veins thick and pulsing. Equally as inappropriate to subject you to.

He drags your head to his cock with his firm grasp in your hair. You don’t need to be told—your mouth drops, and he pushes in without preamble, grunting short and hard when the flat of your tongue melts along the broad artery on the underside of his shaft.

“Rut,” he husks, shifting his boot beneath you, “until you come.”

You moan around him. The vibration of your vocal cords travels up his cock, reverberating with an intensity that has him shoving into your throat with a snarl. You choke at the intrusion, saliva bubbling at the corners of your mouth, but your hips bear down on his boot, thighs clenching it at the sides.

Your whole body rolls and humps against his leg, cuffed wrists coming up so your hands can wrap around the meat of his thigh. You scrabble at the canvas, dig your nails into the weave of his trousers like you want to tear through it to get at his skin underneath.

The whole time, your eyes never leave his, glistening with tears that shiver on your lashes as they threaten to fall. He grits his teeth as your lips pull out around him as he withdraws, and then thrusts short and hard into your mouth in time with the frantic cant of your pussy up and down his boot.

He can feel the heat of your sex even through the leather, could swear that he can count the contractions as you clench around nothing, the tiny bud of your neglected clitoris rasping against the unkind fibers of his boot laces.

Obedient to perfection.

You’re past the threshold as you lean back a little, levering your body to change the angle at which your pussy engulfs his foot, and he half-steps forward to follow you so his cock doesn’t escape your mouth. You roll against him, a full-body wave that lifts chest, then stomach, then hips—

And then he sees it take you as you freeze in place, muscles tensing all at once.

Your eyes roll back, throat convulsing around him as quick, reedy mewls travel up his shaft in quick succession. Your whole body shakes with it, frenetic as you hump his boot to prolong it, loosening the knot he’d tied with your vigor.

He pulls out a little to let you breathe through the end of it, but when you realize what he’s doing you dig your nails into his thigh, following him back. You catch his gaze with yours, eyes pleading, brows knitting together in entreaty. The claws become cupped hands, stroking up and down, and you bob your head a little, hollowing your cheeks.

Price huffs a breath. He hadn’t planned for an orgasm for himself for this. Rewards are for people who earn them.

This—this isn’t that.

But your eyelids lower in pleasure as you take him deeper, saliva slicking the way to his base, and Price has never been able to deny you anything.

His grip around your hair becomes a soft palm on the back of your head, guiding you steady, and he props his shin up along your stomach, knee between your breasts to give you balance.

It’s an orison; tossed into the caldera, something precious given to gravity and the incandescent fate at the other side of it. Your lips melt around him softly, tongue skimming his length like the reaching strand of a candle flame twirling around the tip of his finger.

He loves you so frightfully much.

“That’s it,” he huffs. “Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

You moan in your throat, eyes closed, lashes against your damp cheeks.

“Yeah,” he continues, digging his fingers into your hair. “Too good for the likes of me—mmm—”

You suckle around him, pulling all the way back to mouth at the head of his cock before engulfing him again, cuffed hands rising higher to nestle one into the crevice of his groin and thigh and to spread the other over his hip. His breath quickens, and he brings his other hand to the back of your head, digging the fingers of both into your scalp.

You accept the roll of his hips with a little laugh that escapes through your nose, opening your jaw wide; making room for him to take what he pleases, again, how he pleases, as he thrusts faster, harder, taking what you give freely and delving harder for even more—

The head of his cock bullies your soft palette as his pubic hair tickles your lips, and then it shoots through him, up and down his spine, and he rams into your throat, forcing your nose to his mons as his cock pulsates, erupting hot and viscous, heartbeat forcing his cum out in deep, rhythmic pulses he feels across his whole body.

When you swallow around him his whole body heats up, balls clenching as they empty themselves into you, and he punches his hips in again short and hard as the last vestiges of his climax play out.

You hold him in your throat until he pulls you away, and then you take a long, wet gasp, hot breath fanning across his softening cock as it falls down, drained out. Tear tracks are silvery down your face, lashes stuck together with lipids and salt.

He brings one hand to your cheek, caressing beneath your eye gently with one callused thumb. Sweat beads along your hairline, and your skin is sticky and humid, glistening with perspiration that pools in your collarbones.

He feels his own sweat running down his chest, along and around the follicles of his chest hair and down toward his navel. Your eyes follow each drop; he thinks you’d lean forward and lick them up, if he told you to, even though he can see the exhaustion pulling at you.

“You good?” he finally asks, his voice coated in grit, but steady as it leaves him.

It’s what he always says, after.

You open your eyes to meet his, and this, too, is a moment repeated. He searches. Waits for doubt or fear or dismay to flicker in your gaze, some omen that he’s gone too far, that this, finally, has been too much for you to take from him.

You grace him with a little smile. The lines of your face are slack and loose. Your expression is smooth—languid, floating on satisfaction.

“I’m good,” you say, calm and tranquil—

And the smoke clears from his eyes.

-

He rubs the indent around your finger, branded by your wedding ring in your clenching fist, and brings the knuckle to his mouth to kiss his apology into your skin.

“What happened?” you ask.

You’re boneless, splayed on the mattress with your belly to the duvet. Your head rests against the pillow, face turned toward him.

Even in the haze of afterglow, filaments of oxytocin and dopamine unspooling, your eyes are sharp. Insightful.

You know him too well.

John kisses your ring finger again and returns to the oblations he owes for his violence. The lines on your back are ugly, dotted with broken capillaries and set to linger for weeks. He applies aloe gel, cooled in the fridge, in a thick, generous layer with a soft brush. The kind your aesthetician uses on the rare occasion you treat yourself to some time at the spa, dragging the bristles lightly across your face, around the apples of your cheeks and the corners of your lips.

Softer than he can possibly touch you right now with his callused fingers. A consequence of his vice; flayed skin, lifted weals, cannot tolerate the weight or heat of his hand, no matter how curative or contrite. He destines his own gentle touch to futility.

The one place he broke skin will probably take a month to heal.

A puff of air zips by his ear again. So close as to be your gasp. The rock behind him explodes around a .50 caliber round. Fragments of dry stone, osseous and pale, shower his neck and back.

“The usual,” Price says.

With a q-tip, John dabs bacitracin along the open gash down one side of your back. It isn’t very long or very deep. It might not even scar.

When John is gone—deployed or dead, the difference is negligible, really—there will be no evidence of his presence in your life that you can’t get rid of. It kept occurring to him throughout his deployment, after the near miss.

Everything of his in the house you share, you can box up and donate. Deep clean the place to eradicate whatever traces of his scent are left behind. You can cut your hair in some new style he’ll never see, wear all new clothes, choose a new perfume.

You can take off your wedding band. Shove it in a box in some forgotten drawer, or just pawn it.

It’s childish. Downright adolescent. Snapping your bra like a pimply cunt in secondary school, because the only way he knows how to etch himself into the bedrock of your memory is with pain.

“I’m sorry,” you say, reaching out with one lolling hand.

He leaves the q-tip on your back and clasps it between both of his own, bringing the curl of your fingers to his mouth. He kisses down the side of your palm, trails his lips down the soft skin of your forearm. Squeezes so hard he feels the bones in your hands shift.

You’re sorry. He took a whip to your back, made you hump his boot like an animal, and fucked your face like a whore, all because he couldn’t stand the thought that you would someday be without him. And you’re sorry.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmurs, scratching at the soft part of your wrist with his beard.

It seems even the softest version of his affection must somehow be abrasive.

There’s a little smile playing across your lips as you close your eyes. A deep, serene breath leaves you.

He places your hand back on the bed and dips the brush back into the aloe, loading it generously up to the ferrule. The brush make little furrows in the gel as he lays it down, the layer already thick; he floats the flat of the bristles overtop, smoothing over his contrition, and then, idly, he wedges them in again, carving runnels down through the clear to your skin.

You must fall asleep as he does, or at least you enjoy it enough to indulge him. John follows the lines of each lash from beginning to end, tracing their length, mapping the way they’ve changed your skin.

In a few weeks, as he cares for them, they’ll fade away completely. Left only to memory—both his and yours. But for now, you’ll feel them every day. Feel him every day, even when he’s not there, brushing along the inside of your shirt, stinging with every light touch.

Remembering the hand that held the lash.

He smooths the painted lines over and begins again.

-

a/n: this started as a casual one-off and became a loose masterstudy of @yeyinde's writing style. Lev, affectionately, you are insane. I know this because in writing this I also went insane.

Also dedicated to @391780. Please never stop being kinky online. I live for it.

Also that one part was inspired by this piece of art.

[evilminji]

You know WHAT? I'm gonna start makin Q.A.B.

Free! Too a good home! Q.A.B. [1]

Quirk Accident Baby's or Q.A.B. (Because it's a fun and convenient way to combine quirks without subjecting anyone to the lose of bodily autonomy, cause i REFUSE to Suprise Pregnant anybody. Male, Female, or Otherwise.) (And to FURTHER clarify, Q.A.B. are the always the result of some combination of quirks that? SOMEHOW bend reality to create a fully formed baby or toddler, "born" or created FROM the DNA of two or more individuals. Thus making those individuals the "parents".) that combined Precent Mic n Eraserhead? Could potentially make a SOUND Nullifying quirk?

Like, the genetic code for Erasure just full on turns Mic's Voice Quirk from a plus to a negative? Remove instead of amplify?

It would be pretty dangerous. People go insane in perfect silence. Experience hallucinations.

Good for disorienting opponents tho?

But? Might render them? "Mute"? They WOULDN'T be. But if no one can hear or understand you, is there a difference? Because if you talk in Negative Sound? The shaped ABSENCE of noise? it would ALMOST sound like talking? Whispery. Almost there.

But... silent. The audio equivalent of light refracting around an invisible object. Prob DEEPLY unnerving. Because the brain would INSIST you SHOULD be hearing something. You can hear the EDGES of the words. Where the shape of her words, her "sound", STOPS. But you can't hear the "sound" itself.

It's like auditory antimatter.

Unlike anechoic chambers? At close range? You might not even be able to hear the internal function of your OWN BODY. A perfect 0 decimals. Absolute silence.

Imagine it.

You can still feel. Still smell. Still SEE. The earth is shaking with explosion and there is smoke on the wind. You are either running FROM a villian attack or ARE ONE. And... the world? Goes Absolutely SILENT.

Not the whine of hearing loss. Not muffled. Just... gone.

Your feet make no noise. Your ragged breath. The fall of telephone poles. The crash of collapsing buildings. You... you can't even hear the beating of your heart, the rush of blood in your veins. Where has the roar of flames gone?

Your mouth is open.

Are you shouting?

The world is silent. A terrible, terrible silent. Until?

IT'S NOT.

And the sound comes rushing back in like a tsunami. Crashing down to carry everything away. Oh god. Oh god it's SO LOUD. SO LOUD MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STO-!!!

I'ma? Call this one Silence. She, like all Aizawa Q.A.B.? Has got that "adorable nightmare demon" vibe going on. Got Daddy's smile~ toothy and unhinged. But Mic's eyes. Like all combos between them, looks like she just crawled out of a TV hissing "7 daaaaaysssssss".

It's the hair and unhinged demeanor.

The fact they let Nedzu babysit.

Not HER fault she got the Aizawa "lol brushes? Brushes do NOTHING" hair. That entire side of the family look like Nightmare Demons as children. Then they grow up Competent AF and HOT. (You should see her dads baby pictures, he looks like a horror movie gremlin)

[p0orbaby]

👋🏻👋🏻👋🏻

May i request a blurb of reader who is the gf of Alexia and is also a baker and she is always baking more than necessary and forces Alexia and the barca team to eat all of them ...

Thank you

-

The smell of cinnamon, vanilla, and chocolate hangs in the air so thick it’s practically a fog. Alexia’s flat, usually pristine and minimalist, looks more like the aftermath of a Bake Off finale. Flour dusts every visible surface. Mixing bowls, spatulas, and piping bags have taken over the kitchen, creeping into the dining room. There’s even a smudge of frosting on the handle of the fridge, but you’ll wipe that later. Maybe.

Alexia had invited the team over for a low-key bonding evening—dinner, a couple of drinks, maybe some cards. You had other ideas.

“I just thought it’d be nice,” you’d said that morning, elbow-deep in dough, “to have a few little things for them to snack on”

Alexia had given you a look. The same look she’d given you after the sixth cake you’d made for her mum’s birthday. “Little things,” she repeated, sceptical.

“Just a couple of options,” you’d assured her.

Now, hours later, you’re carrying a tray piled high with lemon bars into the living room. The team is sprawled across Alexia’s sofa and chairs, clearly at home. Mapi and Ingrid are in a heated debate over Uno rules, Claudia is scrolling her phone, and Patri is valiantly attempting to play referee.

“Round three!” you announce cheerfully, placing the tray on the coffee table with a flourish.

Several heads turn, eyes widening at the sheer volume of baked goods.

“I thought round two was the end,” Ingrid mutters, though she’s already reaching for a bar.

“It’s never the end,” Alexia says, appearing behind you, arms crossed. Her voice is resigned, but there’s a glint of affection in her eyes.

You smile sweetly at her before turning to the group. “Try these—they’re gluten-free and vegan, in case anyone’s worried”

“Worried?” Patri says, picking one up. “I’m worried about needing to be rolled out of here”

Mapi snorts, shoving a whole bar into her mouth in one go. “It’s worth it,” she mumbles through a mouthful of lemon.

Alexia leans in, lowering her voice just for you. “You’re going to kill them, you know. Athletes can only take so much sugar”

“They’re fine,” you whisper back, dismissing her concern with a wave. “Besides, it’s not like you’re all training tomorrow”

“We are training tomorrow”

You blink, caught. “Oh. Well, they’re young, they’ll recover”

Alexia sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, but the small quirk of her lips betrays her. She’s used to this.

By the time you emerge with round four—a towering plate of chocolate chip cookies—Clàudia is lying on the floor, groaning dramatically.

“No more,” she says, holding up a hand like she’s warding off an attack.

“These are a classic,” you argue, placing the plate down anyway. “Everyone loves cookies”

Mapi groans but still takes one, breaking it in half and passing the other half to Ingrid. Patri looks like she’s considering whether she can fit another bite of anything into her stomach.

Alexia sits beside you, finally giving up on trying to manage the situation. “You’re relentless,” she says, but her tone is warm.

“I’m passionate,” you correct, leaning your head on her shoulder.

“You’re something,” she agrees, stealing a cookie for herself.

The team might be groaning now, but by the end of the night, they’re all cramming Tupperware full of leftovers to take home. You pretend not to see Alexia slipping them extra containers, but the smug smile she gives you after is impossible to miss.

[sleepyangelkami]

PLAYTHING s.winchester

𝜗𝜚 WORD COUNT - 1.2K

SAM WINCHESTER X FEM!READER

𝜗𝜚 SUMMARY - though on the road with dean, sam always comes home to you whatever chance he gets. this time, he feels he's been gone to long and when he finds you sleeping in only his shirt... he aches for you.

𝜗𝜚 WARNINGS - smut, dom!sam, sub!reader, p!v, sleepy sex, praise kink, reader mentioned to be smaller than sam, practically porn with no plot, gentle sex, unprotected sex, petnames, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷

exhaustion coated sam as he fished around in the back pocket of his jeans, looking for the spare key to your house. it was late and by now, the stars covered the sky. he knew you'd be asleep, that's why he didn't bother knocking.

the door opened silently and sam silently cursed you for leaving your hallway light on. he was always telling you to turn it off before bed but without him there... you felt safer with it on.

he kicked his boots off, not wanting to make a mess of your carpet and found himself walking up the stairs, switching the light off as he went. he tossed his bag somewhere by the top of the stairs, knowing he'd come back to it in the morning.

all that mattered now was well, you.

he opened the door of your bedroom. it was dark but he could still make out the silhouette of your body. your leg was propped up, practically cuddling the duvet. he could see a shirt enveloping your body, too big to be yours.

as he slid his shirt off, he found himself longing to feel you, to touch you. it'd only been a week since he was in this room last and yet it had felt like an eternity that he'd been deprived of your touch.

whenever sam came home after his trips, he'd slide his clothes off and get right into bed. which is exactly what he did now. he wasted no time in enveloping his large arms around your body, pulling you in close.

the smell of your shampoo made his eyes flutter closed and the scent of his own cologne against the sleep shirt you'd stolen from him made his lips quirk.

"sammy?" your voice was a quiet, soft mumble. he loved the way you sounded when you'd just woken, so vulnerable. perhaps he loved it so much because he knew you wouldn't be so vulnerable with anyone else. just him.

"'m here, sweetheart." he felt you move in his embrace. he loved holding you like this, he wished he could get impossibly closer, as if it were possible.

you moved so that you were facing his chest, slightly lower down in the bed than he was. "how was your hunt?" even in the dark, your hands trailed up his arms. he was wearing nothing but his boxers. but feeling his body, there was something about it that just assured you he was really there. "missed you."

"yeah? how much?" the man ignored your first question, his hands sliding around your own body.

you couldn't describe the soft feeling of when he'd come home, feeling him, knowing he was there while he did the same to you. it was rather... lovely.

you felt his fingers inch higher, trailing past the flimsy material of his own shirt on your body. suddenly, you felt the base of his fingers against your panties.

"sammy." you practically whimpered out, low and sleepy. "'m tired."

"i know, honey." you felt him move your hair with his free hands, pressing gentle, damp kisses against your neck. not the kind of kisses he usually left, sucking and leaving marks, roughly and making sure everyone knew you were his. no, this was different. he wasn't kissing you to leave any marks or to induce pleasure, even. he was kissing you so softly, to let you know you were safe with him. "you don' have to do anything, okay? jus' lay there 'n let me do the work, yeah?"

a soft, "okay." left your lips, though your mind was still half torn between sleep and wake.

"good girl." pressing the same, simple kiss to your cheek as his fingers hooked against your cotton panties. you could feel him drag them down against your legs but truthfully, your eyes had fallen shut, tiredness seeping into you.

he pushed his own boxers out of the way too, discarding the clothing against the ground before grabbing his dick in his hand.

if he were being honest, he'd felt himself harden the minute he'd seen your body, pretty cotton panties on show, hardly covered by his own shirt.

perhaps he was being territorial now, but there was something so aching about seeing you in his shirt. he knew you were his, that was a known fact, but seeing you like this, it lit a part of him ablaze.

he moved his hand up and down his shaft, making sure it was hard enough before maneuvering it up against your wet hole.

he didn't push in yet, gently testing the waters as he pushed the tip around your cunt, softly against your clit and finally back down to your sopping hole again.

"jus' relax, baby." littering kisses against your skin. "gonna do all the work."

the hum that left your lips was slick with tiredness but when he pushed himself in, he was met with a stuttered gasp that left your lips. a grunt left his own, usually a string of curses would accompany it.

but not tonight.

often, he'd spend the first few minutes teasing you as much as he could.

but not tonight.

"good girl." he mumbled against your forehead which he had kissed tenderly. "doin' s'good."

he didn't speak much tonight, which he usually did. usually, he couldn't get himself to stop talking. dirty words and the sounds of loud moans would bounce from wall to wall. now, the room was filled with only heavy breaths and lazy whimpers that could be heard from you, buried in the crook of his neck.

but he didn't need you to say anything either. the mere feeling was enough.

it was different than usual. the feeling was indescribable, how comfortable you were with him. the realisation of that on his part was something so riveting.

even now, between the twisted blankets of your bed. you were half asleep, hardly able to keep your eyes open and yet you trusted him with the most vulnerable thing that you could. he realised how protected you felt with him, his large body enclosing around yours, hands gentle against your waist while your head stayed hidden between his neck and shoulder.

your gentle breaths, tiniest of whimpers in his ears was enough for him.

and it didn't take him long to get close.

perhaps he really had been deprived of you.

your breath grew slightly more shallow. "sam." is all you could whimper out, he knew exactly what it'd meant.

"i know, baby." he all but whispered back. "'s okay, let go f'me."

and when you came undone around his cock, he felt himself do the same.

even when everything was done, when the feelings floated away into the air and everything was replaced by this heavy weight of tiredness, he stayed inside you for a few minutes. he stayed inside of you until finally, he realised he was going to fall asleep if he didn't move.

and when he did move out of you, he still kept you close. his large hands trailed up your body, holding it as close as humanly possible.

"really did miss you, sammy." you whispered in the utter darkness.

it was enough for him to think. to really think. perhaps the life he lived wasn't worth it. if he had to give everything up just for a few moments like his with you, then he would.

"missed you so much more, angel."

and with the soft movements of one another's breaths, you fell asleep rather quickly, unable to fight of the tiredness that washed over you both.

sam made sure you didn't leave his embrace until the sun began to rise over the horizon.

main masterlist/sam's masterlist

[deathdetermineslife]

f/ovember ask game ~

♥️ - what's your absolute most favorite thing about s/i, if you had to narrow it down to one thing.

🐍 - if you two could own any pet, which pet would you own? is there any mythological pets or pets that are illegal to own where you live that you would like?

🕷️ - are either of you afraid of insects? who kills the spiders when one of you is scared? otherwise, who lets them out of the house?

⭐ - do either of you believe in zodiac signs? do you think your and s/is are compatible?

🌹 - what flower do you associate with s/i? if they were a field of flowers, what flowers would they be?

🌲 - do you have a favorite place to go with s/i? why Is it your favorite?

🐦‍⬛ - if you and s/i were birds, what kind of birds do you think you would be?

🌙 - do you like the nighttime? would you consider yourself a night owl? how about s/i?

🍒 - do you bake? do you and s/i bake together? do you have a go-to treat to make?

🐸 - ignoring s/is favorite animal, whats an animal that you associate with them?

🐈‍⬛ - do you prefer cats or dogs? is there any reason why?

⚜️ - have you and s/i ever traveled together before? is there anywhere you would like to take s/i?

🎀 - do you have a favorite outfit that s/i wears? what does it look like? do you ever help them pick out outfits?

🥬 - what's a meal, snack, or drink you introduced to s/i that they like? whats one that they introduced to you?

🖤 - has s/i ever told you a specific style of clothing that would look nice on you? what kind?

🐤 - would you and s/i ever live on a farm? what animals would you have? if you already do, what animals do you have currently?

🎈 - how do you like to celebrate s/i's birthday?

🌱 - do you like gardening? if so, what do you plant? and if you don't garden, whats something you would like to plant?

♣️ - do you ever play card games with s/i? do you have a favorite?

🐠 - do you like the ocean? do you have a favorite sea creature?

🖍️ - do you have a fun/silly pastime you like to engage in with s/i? what is it?

🍵 - do you ever make s/i tea or coffee? what kind? if you don't make them tea or coffee, is there something else you make for them? like hot chocolate?

✒️ - do you write s/i letters? or does s/i write you letters? both?

💛 - if you didnt know s/i, what would you guess their favorite color is?

💄 - what does a morning with you and s/i look like? do you have a routine, anything you two do together to get ready?

☘️ - do you have any superstitions? and quirks you do to follow those superstitions? (i.e, ringing bells before you leave the house to ask the spirits to watch over your home, knocking on wood to bring good luck, not opening umbrellas indoors, things like that.)

🎧 - is there any music that s/i listens to that youve started to like?

🌼 - do you give s/i flowers? how often do you give them flowers? what kind?

🍎 - is s/i picky? are you picky? if you go out to eat with s/i, is there any food you or they put on the others plate that you wont eat? (giving someone the pickles off of their burger, croutons off of their salad)

📗 - do you journal? what do you journal about? does s/i journal? have they ever let you read what they write?

🕸️ - do you like horror movies? does s/i like them? do you watch them together?

☀️ - how do you feel about the summertime?

feel free to use however you would like!!! please practice reblog karma and send an ask to someone if you reblog!!! I'm sure they would love some asks! feel free to send me some, as well, if you so choose.

[reidmania]

EVERYWHERE EVERYTHING | spencer reid

good riddance x spender reid oneshot series masterlist

summary; you and spencer go to a drive in movies, but you’re so in love.

warnings; mentions of death in movie, made up horror movie, you and spencer sickeningly in love. fem reader, little dialogue more focused on the feeling.

an: this one was so sweet i feel sick to my stomach.

Two bodies riddled with scars from our preteens Intertwine in a car's dirty backseat. Stare at a drive-in screen We didn't know that the sun was collapsing 'Til the seas rose and the buildings came crashing. We cried, "Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh" Everywhere, everything. I wanna love you 'til we're food for the worms to eat 'Til our fingers decompose keep my hand in yours.

It was a silly idea really, to watch a horror movie with someone who is just as afraid of horror movies as you were yourself, but it was the only half interesting thing showing in the drive ins. At first you were going to see a sweet romance movie -- but Spencer got called in to work that night, and by the time you were both free, the movie wasn't showing anymore.

You remembered telling him and him apologising almost a hundred times, kissing your forehead as he muttered how bad he felt because he knew how much you wanted to see that film -- expect to you it wasn't about the film in any way. You didn't care about what movie was playing on the big screen, all you cared about was being held in Spencers arms your head resting on his cheek, your hands intertwined as the wind blew around the car you were laying together in the back of.

Like you were right now.

"Do you think we would survive a horror movie?" Spencer muttered out randomly after a character's death. In complete honest you had been paying little attention to the film, nor the sound coming through the car radio. Your mind seemingly distracted by Spencers thumb rubbing back and fourth over your skin. You focused on every little callous and dint in the skin, his hands had grown rough over the years but stayed all the same soft when touching you. You noticed that.

You tilt your head back to look up at him upside down, your head digging slightly into the soft fabric of his shirt. His gaze was still fixated on the screen before he looked down at you, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips as he used his hand that was originally resting over your lower stomach to brush gentle hairs out of your face.

You could feel the love in his eyes make home in your ribcage, your stomach and the back of your mind as his eyes stayed softly on yours. His eyebrow quirked up at the lack of response as your mind grew distracted by every fail indent on his face, every freckle and beauty mark you knew like the back of your hand but never failed to enchant you everytime you looked at him.

"No" You breathed out, a smile on your face, and all in your words. The contentness of your body relaxed in his grasp as his fingers curled around yours, squeezing your hand a little tighter lovingly. His focus on the movie was long gone when he found you so much more interesting.

"No?" He quizzed, a mixture of mock confusion and offence on his face -- yet they could never take over the love that engraved every one of the wrinkles by his eyes or in the lines of his smile as he looked at you, his hand dropping from you face to rest back on your waist as your back laid flush against his stomach as you were laying in between his legs, basically on top of him. He adored every touch you had to offer.

You nodded, "Why not?" He asked, fingertips grazing the skin of your waist as his hand slipped under your shirt -- his shirt. The touch from his cold hands against your warm skin set it all aflame non the less, they burnt their path with every soft brush of his fingers, the paths that filled with love till they were overflowing. His hands while cold provided a warmth of no other.

"You might. I move too slow" You resorted, a soft rise and drop of your shoulders against his skin as you head fell dizzy when your eyes dropped back from his lips to his eyes. You watched as his pupils dialted, growing larger along with the smile that adorned his cheeks. There was a gleem that made his eyes pass as glassy everytime he looked at you.

"I wouldn't leave you behind" His voice expressive of every emotion held in his heart, as his eyebrows furrowed downwards slightly. You admired the crinkles that formed between them. Your eyes stayed locked on his as you watched the colours dance around his iris, resembling sunlight branches with the moss of an old oak tree, they held warmth that made you feel like the sun was shining down over your skin even with the sky dark. -- you wondered if you would even need sunlight when his eyes held the same sunburst effect.

A laugh left your lips, "You might have to, or else we're both done for." You head tilted slightly, before you hummed out, sitting up to turn slightly, leaning back against his chest but this time your stomach body facing him.

He let out a soft chuckle, his hands met your hips as he sat up a bit, allowing you free access to his hips. You accepted wordlessly as you straddled his waist, his hands staying in place on your hips underneath your tshirt, while yours slung loosely around his shoulder, intertwining at the back of his neck.

"I couldn't" He said quietly as his eyes ran along your face from your eyes to your lips, as if he was trying to pick up on any new details, wrinkles or marks he might've missed any of the other times he studied the features of you face. You let the deep delve honesty in his voice fill your lungs before you breathed it back out.

"We would be like that couple" You said, your hands loosing from themselves as they instead made their way to his hair, one resting gently on the back of his neck as the other tangled itself in the soft hair on his scalp as your fingertips stratched lightly. He relished in the feeling as his head instincitively tilted backwards in your touch.

He didn't need to question what you meant as he remembered the couple who died earlier on in the movie. It was an older couple -- the man was dying and the women refused to leave her side, her hand stayed tight in his which only ended up in her getting shot. They died together holding hands -- it was a sweet romance for such horror.

Spencer smiled and hummed approvingly, his head coming towards yours to place a gentle kiss to the top of your hairline, his hands tightening their hold on your waist for a moment, before relaxing again. "Exactly." He hummed out.

Your smile widened, "I love you" It came out unprepared, not thought about but it meant all the same. It was the words that filled your chest to the point the love you felt for the man before you came overflowing through your bloodstream, running through your veins as if it belonged there.

His eyes lit, something new, as if he realised something, as if something became clear. You couldn't figure out what by the look in his eyes but you could see it processing through them. You could see the clocks turning in his head as his lips twitched upwards further.with a soft shake of his head, he spoke in response

"I love you. I am going to love you forever."

Your stomach twisted into knots at the sudden declaration, they tightened as his hands brushed over your sides. Your eyes danced on his as your reflection gleemed through his pupils that amplified and declined as his gaze grew heavy on yours.

He breathed out and you breathed in, your skin warm and his hands cold. Both pairs of eyes filled with overbearing measures of love, to the point it consumes every inch of your bodies, and every sense of your mind. Your hand fell from the back of his neck as his left your hip to intertwin his fingers with yours, your gaze shifted from his face to your hands.

The way your fingers slotted perfectly between his and the tips of his rested perfectly between your knuckles, the way every bit of love flowling through your veins fell at fault as they reached your intertwined hands. His cold and callous against your warm and soft, palm to palm.

You couldn't imagine anothers fitting so well with yours.

The dialogue of the movie that rang out through the car radio, the sound of other friends and families from other cars giggling at the movie or at the person next to them -- it all fell on deaf ears between you and him.

There was nothing more than the love between you that consumed the air that filled your lungs, the blood you bleed and the tears you cried. It was the love that lasted a life time.