#half-arsed background

[annokan]

POV: You make eyecontact with the ticcing weirdo in your class. For real, 15 year old Tobs was death sentence to teenage me I am weak for black turtleneck clothes, gosh darn that's illegal.

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

Whyyyy did I decide to do a background 🫠

[my-castles-crumbling]

graduation - may 22 - black brothers - background jegulus - @black-brothers-microfic - word count: 429

“I’ve got a present for you,” Sirius said smugly, walking up to Regulus, still clutching his Hogwarts diploma.

“Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? I’m supposed to get something for you for graduation?” Regulus replied, a bit more snarkily than he intended. He was trying his best not to be bitter about the fact that half his support system wasn’t going to be in school with him next year, but it was proving to be a bit difficult.

“Well, since when’s our relationship conventional?” Sirius chuckled, holding out a piece of slightly-torn paper.

“Erm…thanks?” Regulus said, blinking in confusion, flipping the parchment over and over in his hand. Was this Sirius’s idea of a joke, or was he truly just being an arse?

“James wanted to be the one to give it to you, but I pulled the big brother card,” the taller boy said proudly, oblivious to Regulus’s annoyance. 

“James also wanted to give me a random piece of parchment?” Regulus asked, still trying to be patient.

“Spare–? Oh! I forgot, I have to show you!” Sirius smirked, tapping his wand on the paper. 

All at once, ink spread out on the page, blooming into words and detailed illustrations. It didn’t take very long for Regulus to figure it out: “A map?” he gasped.

“We made it,” Sirius said, obviously trying to be modest, but pride ringing in his words. “Shows everyone in the castle, secret passages, hidden rooms, what have you. We figured you’ll get much more use out of it than we will, now, even if you’ll never pull of the legendary pranks we have. But you have to pass it on to someone else, once you graduate. That’s the deal,” Sirius said somberly.

Regulus was, admittedly, very impressed. “So this is how Potter kept finding me at the beginning of this year,” he murmured, remembering how his boyfriend used to show up at the most convenient times.

“Yeah, we had to ban him from having it by himself once he got borderline-stalkerish,” Sirius said cheerfully. “Dunno how he managed to make that seem romantic, to be honest.”

“All of you are equally odd,” Regulus shrugged, “and I’ve long-ago accepted that my taste in men is illogical. You really want me to have it?”

“Yeah. I trust you. Plus, you have to keep on the true family legacy, you know?” 

Sirius winked jokingly, but the idea actually made Regulus feel a bit warm. “Thanks, Sirius,” he murmured. With this reminder of his favorite people, he suddenly felt a bit better about next year.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

I'm actually kind of mad at how good Severance is. It would've been so fucking easy to fuck it up. They could've done like 2 cool things and just coasted on the premise otherwise. But nooo, they're out there actually interrogating every severance-related philosophical and personal problem they can think of, and not only that, they're doing it really fucking well. Mark negotiating with Mark and fucking it up so badly. Dylan and Gretchen. Helly's eyes when she just looks at him and says "I'm her", and sums up such a complicated relationship in two words. They could've half-arsed Milchik, he didn't have to have so much development, Corporate Boss In Background would've served the plot perfectly fine. They could've stayed at the introductory level of season 1 and they would've been fine but no, in season 2 they really had to knock it all the way out of the fucking park, especially with that unbelievable finale. I'm so angry, I cannot stop thinking about this amazing fucking show.

[phantasm-ae]

cw: smut, afab reader x ghost, p in v, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, slight angst

HEADCANON: Simon coming home to his little bird. Making up for all the lost time

PAIRING: Simon Ghost Riley x reader

You're in his shirt. Oversized. Threadbare. Dull and rough. Too teared. Too weared. The material too coarse for your skin.

You're barefoot. Bored. Sulking.

Telly droning in the background -- monotonous. static. a subliminal at this point. forgettable.

A pot simmers on the stove. a half-assed recipe you don't even remember brewing. fuck that. you weren't hungry anyway. you just needed to do something.

you bite your lip before you do it. palming your phone by your side and grasping the hunky and blinking metal in your hands before sliding the lockscreen open. tapping away through apps you keep to feel occupied. Useful. Hopeful. Almost as if your very existence wasn't solely based on him.

Fuck. You were done for, weren't you?

But of course. Every scroll. Swipe. Post. Somehow circles back to Simon.

You catch yourself lingering too long on some shitty video. A military edit. Some faceless bloke moving across their living room just like he usually did when he took over your apartment. Calm. Brooding. Silent. Space and breadth too big to accommodate the mass of him in your tiny living space. Suffocating and claiming. But you never did complain. Never could. Never wanted too.

And suddenly. The kitchen's too quiet. The air is too still. The pot on the stupid stove bubbles like another warning and fuck fuck fuck do you feel it. Sharp. Restless. Tugging. Gnawing. An ache between your ribs and chest.

"only be gone for a couple o'days birdie. don't worry yeah?", he'd said -- like that ever meant anything. Like your body hadn't memorize the precise ache only his presence and absence fills you.

"i know that. doesn't make it hurt any less", you whisper back softly. the breath of your voice tickling his bare chest as you lay there in his arms. Spent. Sated. A few moments of solitude between the two of you after he practically made you boneless and aching after several rounds of trying to make up for what would be lost time again.

Simon scoffed at your words. Hands calloused. Careful. Grip tightening slightly at your hip. He didn't answer. Just lets out another quiet hum like he usually does when he wants to bare something but doesn't quite know how. Emotionally constipated arse of your boyfriend

The memory stings you like a scalding poker through and through. Ache. Ached. Aching. You don't bother stirring anymore after. Letting your phone shut itself off as you stare mindlessly at your reflection in the dark screen. Eyes rimmed red. Fuck were you crying?

And then --

Like summoned --

The door clicks.

Not slams. Doesn't burst open like some grand declaration of returned war. Just... clicks.

Soft.

Deliberate.

Heavy.

Your breathe catches

There's a beat. Two even.

The door creaks open and familiar boots. Muddy. Slow. Tattered and torn. The shoes you constantly made fun of him for moves across the space. Calculating. Hulking. A sigh you'd recognize in the dark. And that scent -- gunpowder. Sweat. Leather. And the faint ghost of whatever godforsaken soap his military base supplies.

You don't move. Don't need to. Never do with him because he was already there. In the doorway to the kitchen. Leaning. Watching with you an almost predatory stupor.

Masked gone. Hair overgrown and messy. Beard thicker. Face almost gaunt. Shoulders tense like he was still carrying the war on his back. But his eyes -- Eyes are only on you. Always was. Always will be.

You blink. Breathless. Drowning

"Thought you said a couple of days", you manage. Voice small. Slightly shaky in what you can't exactly comprehend. Relief. Excitement. Longing? Anticipation?

His lips twitch. Not exactly a smile. Not quite not.

"Couldn't stay away from you birdie"

And then he's striding forward. No warning. No permission. No words.

Tattered fingers and rough hands cupping your jaw. Thumb rough and harsh against your soft cheek. The kiss he drags you in is all teeth and desperation. Hot. Claiming. Not giving you another moment to breath as he slips his tongue in and dominates your mouth. Taking advantage of your gasp and the slight hitch in your breath to devour every bit of your taste and sounds. A promise and an apology all at once.

Only pulling back when he deems it sufficient enough to speak. Not wanting to hear his voice either. Not wanting to show how fucking vulnerable he suddenly feels as he get to quench the initial thirst and ache his mind and body felt for you in weeks.

Breath ragged. Eyes dark.

"Missed you birdie"

Your hand fists in the front of his vest. Grounding yourself. Lip wobbling a bit at that

"You look like hell"

He laughs. Low. Frayed. But... genuine. Something real. Something authentic. Something only ever meant for the sweet little bird he has at home. For you.

"You should see the other guy"

And suddenly -- your kitchen isn't a kitchen anymore.

The floors that he installed, now just tiles and marble beneath your feet. And his hands on your waist. Grip tight. Anticipating. Waiting. Gnawing at you to give him permission. Wraps around you like an unbearable anchor. Pulling, Taut. Reminding you of the need that's been building since the second he left.

You whisper it before you can stop yourself. A plea.

A challenge.

A confession.

Madonna at the edge.

"Use me. I can take it"

You needn't say anything more as the words slip from your tongue. Simon, immediately hoisting you on the counter at that. Wood biting into your skin. Dropping you unceremoniously as the weight of your body rattles the table and makes bits of cutlery and dining ware shake and fall to the ground. Porcelain and glass breaking as he presses into you without another warning.

Nose brushing against yours. Voice dark and raw:

"Came all this way to ruin you. Came all this way to come back to this cunt"

He grinds into you. Once. Hard. A start. A promise of things to come. The pace between the heavy material of his cargos brushing at the soft fabric of your sleep shorts enough to knock the air from your lungs. Core pulsing. Core tightening. Wet between your thighs at that. Pooling. Drawing in. The scent, breath, and touch of him instinctively making you docile and warm. Trained. Invited. Saved for him and him alone.

But then... he stills

A low breath leaves him. Long and ragged. Reining something in. Like he might break you if he doesn't. The pause making you tense up in surprise and confusion as well. Looking up at him in shock and awe. Wondering. Silent. Waiting. The sight of Simon so... vulnerable feels so foreign and obtuse.

His forehead presses to yours as you blink up at him. Doe-eyed. Glossy but coherent. Mouth slightly parted in worry. Grounding. But you can feel it. His pulse thudding under his jaw. The tremble in his hands where they grip your thighs. Legs parting as his hands move to you thighs and then to your waist. Bordering on control. Aching. Tightening but holding back. Wanting to be gentle. But too loose to ever be cruel to his little bird.

"You sure?" he rasps. Voice cracked and wrecked. Almost like he needs to hear it from you again. Starving and parched and you're the only thing keeping him from mauling into a meal like a prayer.

A saint taunting and toying. God birdie just give him the words

"Simon", you whisper. Thighs only tightening around his hips further. Nails finding the meat of his shoulders. "You already knew the answer"

He exhales hard through his nose. A bitter little laugh that tastes like disbelief. Then he kisses you again. Slower this time. Deeper. Tongue sliding past your lips with reverence now. Less like a claim -- more like communion. A way to ground himself. To remember you.

Map you all over again.

You whimper into his mouth, the heat between your legs already too much. His pace, his patience, it’s killing you. Every inch of contact feels deliberate. Worshipful. The drag of his rough fingers under his shirt, up your ribcage, over every bit of skin he missed while he was gone.

Like he’s starving.

Like he’s trying not to inhale you all at once.

And then he’s sinking to his knees.

Wordless.

Controlled.

You barely have time to breathe before he’s mouthing at your inner thigh, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips twitch forward. You gasp, hand fisting in his hair, feeling how damp it is from sweat. He groans like that did something to him. Like he’s the one being touched.

His tongue -- slow, thorough, reverent -- starts to toy through your panties. The fabric dampening in both arousal and his saliva. The hint of his tongue. Moist. Controlled. Slides through your folds. Teasing. Taunting.

His dessert on legs and he's savoring every fucking bite

You choke on a soft whine when his nose nudges against your clothed clit. The friction maddening -- too soft to satisfy, too pointed to ignore.

His palms slide up the backs of your thighs, rough thumbs digging into your flesh just enough to keep you open for him, spread for him, vulnerable. Owned.

"Fuckin’ hell," he mutters, voice half-muffled against the soaked fabric. “You always this sweet when I’m gone, birdie huh?”

You don’t get the chance to answer. He presses a long, open-mouthed kiss directly over your cunt -- wet and unrelenting -- and you jerk, gasping. Eyes wide and glazed, a high-pitched whine crawling out of your throat.

"Didn’t think so," he breathes.

Then he’s hooking his fingers into the hem of your underwear and rips, dragging the ruined and drenched scrap of cotton to the floor. Torn and done for. Just like you will be. The exposure makes you twitch. His eyes flash up to meet yours -- dark, unreadable, devout. And then he’s feasting.

No more teasing. No more mercy.

The first lick is obscene. Broad and slow, flat of his tongue from base to tip, dragging a cry out of you that echoes off the kitchen walls.

He moans into you -- guttural, filthy, like you’ve just given him salvation. Like your taste is the only thing anchoring him back to earth.

And then he does it again. And again. And again.

Your head falls back against the table, eyes rolling, lips parted in a silent plea. Thighs trembling as he works you open, tongue curling and flicking over your clit with clinical precision. He’s not rushing. He’s dismantling. Unmaking you like muscle memory.

“Simon -- nghh oh my god -- Si,” you gasp, fingers digging harder into his scalp.

He groans in response, then sucks -- hard -- right over your clit, and your body jolts like it’s been struck by lightning.

“Fuck please -- don’t stop -- please don’t stop,” you’re babbling now, frantic and breathless.

He doesn't.

He never does.

He flattens his tongue, lets it glide over you like worship, like he’s praying at the altar of your pleasure. His grip tightens on your thighs when you start to shake, hips stuttering as the coil in your gut winds tighter and tighter, on the cusp of snapping --

And then he speaks. Low. Gravelled. The sound inside you as much as it is outside.

“Come on, birdie. Let me taste it. Let me have it all.”

The words shatter something in you.

You come with a cry at that, body seizing, legs clamping around his head. He holds you through it, relentless in his rhythm, sucking and licking until your orgasm crests and crashes, and you're left wrecked on your dining table -- gasping, twitching, drenched.

But he doesn't stop.

He wants the overstimulation. Wants the twitch in your thighs and the desperate tremble in your voice when you try to push him away, only for his hands to clutch you closer. Holding. Clawing. Unrelenting and mean.

"Too much -- too much, Si -- "

"You said you could take it."

His voice is calm. Dangerous. Almost tender.

And then -- he starts again.

Latching onto your pulsing and engorged clit like he’s got all the time in the world to make you come undone again and again. No teasing again this time though. No preamble. Just Simon -- your Simon -- devouring you like he needs the taste to keep going. Doesn't care if fat tears fall from your cheeks and you try to squirm away from his grip.

Doesn’t care that your thighs tremble violently around his ears, or that your fingernails rake through his scalp in desperate protest -- your body a livewire, every nerve screaming -- but he just groans, deep and filthy, like you’re the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth. Like he’d live here if you let him.

“Stay still,” he growls against your soaked cunt. A warning. Tongue never missing a beat, and it’s so mean, so commanding that your hips jerk toward him instead of away. Obeying. Because of course you do. Because there’s no version of you that doesn’t listen when he speaks like that.

His hands tighten like iron around your thighs, pinning you open like you’re something sacred, something feral. The burn of it all -- the scrape of stubble, the relentless drag of his tongue, the pressure building again despite the ache -- you can't breathe, can’t think, can’t be.

You sob his name.

Not even a plea this time. Just raw sound. A broken thing.

“Simon -- ”

He lifts his eyes then, dark and molten, lashes damp, lips slick and glistening with you.

"You’ll give me another," he rasps, voice so low it rumbles through your bones. “Won’t stop till you're fuckin' ruined for anyone else.”

And then he moans -- like he’s the one overwhelmed -- burying his face between your legs again, tongue stroking, flicking, curling until you feel yourself spiraling.

The edge hits harder this time.

It’s brutal.

Unforgiving.

It doesn’t creep up on you, it slams -- crashing into you like a wave made of heat and white light, and you scream scream scream, legs trembling violently, body writhing in his grip as he holds you down and makes you feel it.

Orgasm tears through you like punishment. Or mercy. Or both.

You’re sobbing now, barely able to breathe, wrecked and open and shaking -- and still he doesn’t stop. His mouth only gentles slightly, dragging your climax out till it feels like it’ll never end.

It’s not until your whole body slumps, twitching and boneless, that he finally pulls back.

Breathless.

Lips red. Chin soaked.

He stands slowly, towering, looming, and you feel small under the weight of him. He leans down, brushing his forehead to yours, voice ragged and reverent.

“Good girl,” he breathes, so soft it barely exists -- just a puff of air against your skin, but it lands like a brand. “Took it all, didn’t you? Gave me everything.”

Your eyes flutter, half-lidded and glazed, mouth parted in a silent moan. You can’t even nod. Your body’s gone -- wrecked and pliant, molded to the heat of his touch, the weight of his words.

His fingers trail down your jaw, calloused pads tracing the trembling line of your throat, your collarbone, until they settle -- possessive -- against your pulse point. He watches it beat. Watches you breathe. Like he’s making sure you’re still here. Still his.

Then, slowly -- almost reverently -- he gathers you into his arms. Lifts you off the table like you’re weightless. Precious.

You sag into him, limp and slick and dazed. Your face pressed against his neck, where sweat and salt and Simon all live. You breathe him in like medicine. Like air.

He murmurs something you can’t quite catch. Something low. Fragile. A confession meant for no one but the shell of your ear. But the way his grip tightens around you -- how his whole body clenches like he's the one barely holding on -- tells you everything you need to know.

You’re not the only one ruined.

But he wears it differently.

Masks it in control.

The shift is sudden.

Your back hits the wall with a thud -- not painful, but jarring. He pins you there, rough hands beneath your thighs, holding you up like it’s nothing. Like you’re nothing but weight for him to wield and use. The air is knocked from your lungs, more from the look in his eyes than the impact.

Dark. Possessive. Starved.

He cages you in -- arms locked, hips pressing flush to yours, the hard line of him undeniable through his gear. Still dressed. Still in uniform. You gasp, the cool of the wall behind you clashing with the heat of his body in front.

“Look at you,” he growls, low and biting, nose brushing your cheek as he presses in closer. “You let me ruin you on the fuckin’ table and now you’re trembling like a good little thing. You like that? Letting me use you like this?”

You can’t speak. Just moan, nodding weakly, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist like your body’s made to be held here. By him. Only him.

His hands slide under your thighs, rough and firm, hoisting you higher against the wall until your back arches, chest pressing into his. You feel every inch of him, steel and heat, rigid through the fabric that separates you -- and he hasn’t even bothered to take anything off. Not yet.

“You don’t even know what you look like right now,” he mutters, voice thick, almost reverent. “Drunk on it. On me.”

He rolls his hips up once -- slow, brutal -- and it knocks a cry out of you. The friction, the pressure, the weight of him. So so sensitive that the coarse fabric of his cargos meeting your overstimulated cunt ache ache ache … it’s maddening.

You whimper -- high and broken -- head falling forward against his shoulder. Fuck he was relentless. Grinding into you like he knows exactly where it hurts the most, where it makes you come alive again despite the wreckage.

"That’s it, birdie,” he snarls into your hair, breath hot. “Cry for it. I want those sweet little noises every time I move.”

Your fingers claw at the thick collar of his gear, desperate for something to anchor you, to remind you this is real -- this impossible friction, this overstimulation that’s bordering on unbearable.

And still, he doesn’t stop. He likes it like this. Likes the ache. The stretch. The mess.

“You feel that?” he grits, as he pushes his shirt higher above you to reveal your sopping and dripping cunt. Hole pulsing open and close on instinct as the tip of his fingers slowly inches there way in.

His breath shudders out when he looks down and sees it. Pupils dilating at the ravenous and erotic scene at the tip of his fingertips -- the way your cunt clenches around nothing, fluttering and desperate just for the teasing brush of his fingers.

“Fuckin’ hell baby,” he growls, almost to himself. “Look at you. Beggin' without even saying a word.”

He drags the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit -- slow, brutal -- and you jerk, another soft sob ripping out of you.

"Sensitive, yeah?" he mocks, but it’s low, almost affectionate. One thick finger presses in, breaching you just enough to feel the molten heat inside -- and you mewl, thighs trembling around his waist.

“Christ, birdie, you’re fuckin’ dripping,” he mutters, sounding wrecked, sinking the finger in deeper, to the knuckle. You squeeze around him so tight it punches a groan out of his chest.

"You’re gonna take me so good," he rasps, eyes locked to the sight of his finger fucking into you, your slick gushing around him. He adds another without warning -- a thick stretch, a sharp delicious ache -- and your head bangs softly back against the wall as you keen.

“That’s it," he hisses, scissoring them open, slow and punishing. "Stretching you nice and wide for my cock."

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. His fingers fill you, fuck into you with devastating precision, finding that gooey spot inside that makes your whole body seize and buck against him.

"Simon — fuck hic nghhh— I—" you cry, incoherent, and he smiles — cruel and sweet.

"You’ll take it, yeah?," he says, voice a razor across silk. "Every last fuckin' inch baby."

And then -- he pulls his fingers out, slow and filthy, strings of slick clinging to them. He smears it over the head of his cock as he finally frees it from his cargos -- thick, heavy, angry red -- and you sob at the sight, hips chasing him mindlessly.

"Yeah," he grunts, lining himself up. "You’re ready."

He doesn’t push in right away. Just holds you there -- suspended between the wall and the full, raw weight of him. The head of his cock resting against your entrance, twitching, aching.

His gaze stays locked on yours, as if trying to memorize this exact moment. Your blown-out pupils. The flush of your cheeks. The way you tremble even as your arms wrap tighter around his shoulders. Fuck look at that. What a sight you were. All the more reason his fingers ache with the need to kill.

To be brutal. To be mean. To tarnish and maul at his skin with the blood of a fresh kill.

All that. All this. All everything just for the taste and sight of you.

“Ready,” you repeat his words, voice barely there. A confession more than a word. A surrender.

Simon exhales, sharp through his nose like it hurts to hold back. His hands flex on your thighs, grounding himself.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours. “I know baby. I know.”

Then, slowly -- so slowly you feel it in every breath, every nerve ending -- he begins to push forward. Not just his body, but everything. The distance. The ache. The time. All of it crashes into you in that single, intimate act of him coming home to you.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. You feel the tremor in him. Hear the way his breath shudders out as he starts to bury himself inside you. The girth and familiar width making you softly whine again at the stretch. Rarely ever used to it. To him. To his cock pushing inside of your tiny little cunt like its where it belongs. Where it has always belonged. Where it will always belong.

It’s overwhelming. Not just the stretch or the pressure -- but the intimacy of it. The gravity of being held like this. Claimed like this.

Every inch is a promise: I missed you. I’m back. I’m yours.

When he’s finally seated deep, buried to the hilt, he doesn’t move. Just holds you there, wrapped around him, trembling and gasping, your forehead still pressed together like he’s anchoring the both of you with it.

His thumb brushes under your eye, catching the silent tear that had slipped out from the overwhelming feeling.

"Shhh shhh I know baby. I know", he coos. Mocking. Soft. But with fervor and just as desperate. Jaw clenching as you involuntarily clench again as he subtly shifts to hold you closer against him.

He cradles your face like it’s something sacred, like the salt of your tears means more to him than anything he’s ever earned in blood or bone. His other arm tightens around your waist, steady and unyielding, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“I’ve got you, birdie. Got you yeah?,” he whispers, voice thick and breaking at the edges. “Not going anywhere.”

You nod, or try to. It’s more like a quiver. Because he’s right -- it’s too much. Not just the fullness of him, not just the way your body’s stretched and shaking around him, but him. The weight of what he’s giving you, of what he’s asking without words.

Stay. Hold me. Let me stay.

He pulls back just a little, hips rolling slow, testing, and you shudder as he grits his teeth and whispers a soft fuck -- gasps tangled in each other's mouths. He watches your face, like he’s chasing every shift, every stutter of breath, every half-sob. You feel bare like this -- not naked, but seen. All of you. The need, the ache, the softness you save just for him.

You wrap your arms tighter around his neck and whisper it against his jaw, breath catching:

“I missed you. So much, Si -- ”

He groans like it rips something open inside him, burying his face into the curve of your neck. You feel the heat of his breath, the way his body trembles with restraint -- and then he starts to quicken the pace. Trying to stay slow. Still reverent. But deeper. Purposeful. Like every thrust is a vow:

I’ll make it up to you. I’ll never leave you empty again.

"Bloody hell baby. So tight for me. How are you still so tight for me?"

He grits the words out like they hurt -- like the feeling of you wrapped around him is almost too much, like it’s pulling him apart thread by thread.

His forehead presses against yours again, sweat-slicked and shaking. His breath stutters against your mouth as he rocks into you, quicker now and brutal, dragging every inch of himself through your walls like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.

Legs dangling at his forearms. Caged. Spread open like velvet on his cock.

You moan something helpless, wrecked, and his hand fists against the wall beside your head as he feels you tighten against him. Your spongy walls hugging his dick tighter like it doesn't want to let him go.

“You’re all mine,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fuck -- always been mine.”

You nod, gasping, eyes glassy. “Yours, Simon -- always, always yours.”

Something breaks behind his eyes.

He groans like it’s too much, too tight, too perfect, and then he slams his hips up into you with more force that knocks the air from your lungs. Once. Twice. A rhythm that’s no longer careful -- it’s desperate. Relentless. You feel it in your spine, in your ribs, in the heat curling low and fast in your belly. Pushing all the way to the hilt until he feels himself punch his way into a deeper part of you.

The tip of his hard cock hitting your cervix. The sudden and surprising intrusion making you gasp and scream. Nails unconsciously clawing at his arms, back, and chest. Quivering at the sensation as you whine. Eyes rolling at the back of your head at the almost painful feeling.

But that sight. God that sight and feel of you makes him growl and grow even quicker. Unmerciful. Mean. Brutish. Unable to stop as he thrusts again and again into your cervix at a bruising pace. Not caring if your mouth remains half-open in a silent scream at the overwhelming and paralyzing feeling.

The wet slide of him inside you, the sound of skin on skin, his name -- gasped, choked — on your lips over and over like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You feel that?” he growls, one hand gripping your ass, the other splayed over your lower back, holding you in place while he fucks you up higher against the wall. Legs stretched wider in his arms to the point that it aches your thighs. Using your hole like it was nothing more than a fleshlight. “Feel how deep I am? How perfect you are for me, birdie?”

You whimper, head falling back against the wall, letting him take, letting him have.

And still, somehow, it feels like giving.

He grunts, the sound guttural, vibrating against your skin as he drives deeper, harder, chasing something feral between your bodies. His cock drags against every sensitive nerve inside you, thick and hot and relentless -- and you can’t think, can’t breathe -- there’s only Simon, only the rough rhythm of him pounding into you, the overwhelming fullness, the heat building tighter and tighter until you’re right there again, on the knife’s edge.

He feels it -- the way your body clenches around him, desperate and fluttering -- and he snarls, fucking you harder against the wall, like he’s trying to carve his name into your very bones. Punching deeper and deeper into your womb like there was any more space left for him to worm his way into.

“Shhhh I know baby. I know -- fuck -- That’s it, baby -- take it, take all of me,” he pants, forehead pressed hard to yours, sweat dripping from his temples. “You were made for me. Fuckin’ made for me.”

Your legs quake around his hips, nails raking down the broad span of his back, and you sob his name, high and broken, as your orgasm tears through you -- blinding, brutal, endless.

You’re still coming when he continues to thrust again -- deep, possessive -- pulling another cry from your lips that’s more instinct than sound. Groaning lowly as you whimper at the overstimulated feeling.

“Si -- I can’t -- I just -- ”

But he’s already shaking his head, mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, your lips.

“Yes you can,” he breathes, voice ragged. “You will. Gonna give me everything, birdie. fuck fuck yeah like that -- Every fuckin’ time.”

And he keeps moving, hips grinding into the heat of you, wet and pulsing and too much -- but not enough. Not for him.

Your whole body trembles, wrecked and overstimulated, your fingers digging into his shoulders like they’re the only solid thing left. And maybe they are. Maybe he is.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours again, eyes wild and wide. “You squeeze me like you don’t wanna let go. Like you can’t.”

You sob, raw and breathless, head falling back -- and he chases it, kisses your throat like a man starving.

“I’m not stopping,” he whispers against your skin. “Not ‘til I know you feel it. Every part of you. Every breath. Every fuckin’ heartbeat — mine.”

You can only whine, tears starting to fall down your cheeks in both pain and pleasure. Bordering on hurt and the aching feeling to please and feel all of him after so long

"Said you can take it didn't you birdie? -- Yeah fuck -- So you will yeah?"

masterlist

[crescenthistory]

can u do a remus x reader where they are best friends and remus has been in love with reader forever, and reader is kind of a player because she also loves remus but didnt know that the feeling was reciprocated

i did a bit of a different take on this, hope you enjoy it babe

Words: 4.8k

Warnings: suggestive references and themes (talk of shagging, etc.), drinking and partying in hogwarts, fem!reader, use of y/n, sirius' pov for half then your pov (with all the mental tirades that includes), partier!reader more so than player, you have snogged james and mary (in the past), platonic!sirius but borderline fwb at one point, platonic!wolfstar, pining!remus, secretly pining!reader, no slutshaming, background jegulily, confessions, happy ending ofc

a blurb about everyone's reaction

Sirius was in a bit of a difficult situation.

On the one hand, he had a beautiful girl all but crawling into his lap in the middle of an admittedly good party and he knew she would be a hell of a great time.

On the other hand, he was absolutely certain that his best friend was in love with her, despite his many denials, and he was not sure if she herself knew yet.

She had to, right? You had to know that Remus was in love with you with how he had been making puppy eyes at you more or less since first year. The two of you were the best of friends and went everywhere together – it was simply impossible that you had not had a conversation or two about it. But then again, Sirius and Remus were also the best of friends and he had not heard so much as a squeak about any such conversation taking place, let alone him admitting his feelings.

Could you truly be so oblivious? You had to know, and are choosing to live your life as you wanted regardless, as is your right. Would Sirius be an arse if he rejected your current casual advances because of Remus? If he was, would he be an arse for telling you about Remus' feelings or for dictating how a woman conducts herself based on the feelings of a man?

Sirius was way too drunk to be thinking any of these thoughts.

Yet, immediate action was required in order to handle the situation at hand. You and Sirius had been sitting beside one another for a while now, your leg thrown over in between his thighs, his arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, your hand on his chest. The music was absolutely blaring, the alcohol was flowing freely through your bodies, making the places where you touch that much hotter, in all semblances of the word. Sirius knew that if he was to tilt his head down to look at you, your lips would surely smash together.

It was not uncommon for you to shag some lucky bastard at these parties. You were carefree and fun in that way that made you fit seamlessly into your group of friends when Remus introduced you. It was never serious or deep on either front, Sirius knew as much – you and Mary had an arrangement of mutual fun going on for a while and you had even snogged James once before he got with Regulus and Lily.

Sirius participated equally as enthusiastically and the two of you were good friends, so really, it made sense that you ended up in this situation at last.

Still, sirens were blaring in his head screaming "BAD FRIEND, BAD FRIEND" the longer he sat with you like this. Because whenever you did find someone to hook up with at a party, you always left Remus' side to do so, as you were otherwise attached at the hip. And Sirius was the one left to watch him struggle to keep his face from crumbling every time. He was also always the one to poke the bear – or the wolf, if you please – by confronting Remus about his feelings for you constantly, both in a playful and serious manner.

As the designated campaigner for "Remus get your shit together and kiss her yourself", he should not be making that more difficult for his best mate.

He also should not get involved in whatever delicate situation you two had going on, but when his eyes flicked across the room, terrified to make eye contact with Remus wherever he was, determination grew in his chest. Something had to be done.

"Are you good, Siri?" you asked from beside him, words slurred just enough for him to know you were tipsy but not so much that he was concerned.

He took a deep breath. "Actually. Can we talk? Alone?"

Your body grew a bit tense against his, enough that he knew you understood this was not some scheme to get you alone. "Sure," you said wearily, already detangling your body from his.

The two of you got up and hastily made for the portrait hole. Sirius hoped that the cool stone walls outside would help him sober up enough to be able to communicate effectively.

His heart sank just a little bit when he caught sight of familiar tawny hair leaning against the wall by the exit. He knew all too well how this looked. Remus' eyes lit up when they landed on you, his mouth opening to make some sort of greeting when the words died on his tongue at the sight of a guilty Sirius trailing behind you.

You seemed nonplussed. "Oh, hi Rem," you said brightly, almost giggling around your words from the alcohol. You stepped off your path for a second to press a kiss to his cheek, smiling softly at him. "You having fun?"

Remus' face seemed strained, but he kept his smile up, even if just for you. "Yes, dovey. Are you?"

You nodded and squeezed his hand before taking a few steps back and away from him. "Very much so. We're just heading out for a quick chat."

He looked quickly between you and Sirius, never quite meeting his eyes, and Sirius felt as if he was being incriminated just by standing there with his hair slightly tousled from you playing with it. The hurt he could see play across his best mate's face was exactly the type of thing he was hoping to avoid by the awkward conversation he was about to have.

Remus' smile grew more thin-lipped than before as his gaze settled somewhere on your cheek. "Great. Have fun."

You just nodded once more before turning on your heel and making a beeline for the door, seemingly unaware of what just transpired between the three of you. Sirius stalled for a moment, wondering if he should say something, but decided against it in case Remus tried to stop him once he realised what the chat actually would be about.

It didn't much matter, though, because Remus stalked off without ever meeting his eyes.

With a heavy sigh, Sirius hurried over to the door to the common room that you were holding open from the outside, smiling back at him. You truly were such a lovely girl, and he hoped to Merlin he was not fucking anything up for you right now.

Stepping through the portrait, he let the Fat Lady’s frame slam shut behind him, cringing at the sudden silence that enveloped the two of you. Though, the air was as much of a welcome reprieve as he had expected it to be, and he breathed in a huge chunk of it to steel his nerves.

"Listen, Sirius, if things got too touchy in there then I'm sor–" you tried to begin, but he all but threw his hands up between you in a display of innocence.

"No, no, dollface, don't you worry about that one bit," he laughed out nervously. "I was very much enjoying myself. I just realised– fuck how do I say this?"

He tried to think clearly and find a way to communicate what he knew in his heart to be true.

"No swearing in my halls!" The shrill voice he knew to belong to the portrait that had tortured him for seven years sounded behind him.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said rather petulantly and held out his hand for you to take so that he could lead you down the hall and away from her. He also hoped you read it as the display of well-meaning friendship that it was.

You accepted his hand gracefully and his heart did calm down just the slightest from it.

The two of you hurried down the hallway, feeling every bit the teenagers that you were, settling down in a corner just far enough away for privacy. The cool stone did marvels for his overheating, and Sirius took full advantage of it by leaning his head back against them.

"What did you realise?" you asked then.

"Huh?" he answered, admittedly quite dumbly.

You had the decency to laugh at him instead of mock him. "Earlier. You said I didn't do anything wrong, but that you realised something."

Sirius heaved a deep breath. "Right, right," he murmured before clearing his throat. Was he overstepping? Possibly. Would he be ripping the bandaid off anyway? Absolutely. "See, I was having fun earlier and saw it as what it was – just two friends having fun, yeah? But I fear not everyone feels the same."

"I swear to Godrick, if you accuse me of having feelings for you, Black, I will chuck you off the Astronomy Tower," you said through a laugh.

"I'm thankfully not that conceited, babe. It wasn't you I was referring to."

You looked at him as if to say who, then?

"I think– or no, I actually know for certain, even if the stupid sod won't admit it. Erm, okay, so. Wow, how do I explain that? He's my best mate, you know, and I–"

"Sirius, you are making no sense right now."

"Remus is in love with you."

You had opened your mouth to volley back, clearly expecting him to still be stumbling over his words, but now it was just left hanging open as you stared at him, baffled. The two of you sat in silence for much longer than Sirius could have expected, or perhaps that was just his nerves dragging out the moment. You seemed to be fighting for breath.

"Excuse me, what?!" you breathed out, voice increasing in crescendo throughout your sentence. The what ricocheted down the hall; Sirius grimaced.

"So, you didn't know," he surmises, having answered his mental tirade from earlier. "I honestly don't know how you haven't seen it, that boy has literally been mooning for you for years. I'm surprised we haven't had to keep the actual Moony from tracking you down and wagging his tail at you once a month."

Your face told him that this was not a time for jokes, yet somehow you still laughed at that. Sirius realised with horror that your laugh sounded rather wet and saw you aggressively wiping at your face, as if you were about to start crying. "I'm so confused," you whispered.

Sirius sat there rather dumbly, unsure how to make it any more clear. "I don't know what to tell you, babe. He has feelings for you, always has. I don't blame you if you don't return them and I'm sure neither will he – but, yeah no, I figured you should know. And while I totally respect you shagging whoever you want, I just don't think he could handle it if it were me. So I have to back out."

Miraculously you nodded in understanding, despite his ramblings. Your movements were slow, as if you were trying to let his words settle in your bones, processing years of misinterpreting in a matter of seconds.

Sirius wanted to help. "I've tried to get him to tell you himself, but he hasn't even admitted it out loud yet."

That seemed to snap your attention back to him, a fierce look growing rapidly in your eyes. "He hasn't told you? Then how do you know?!" You waved your hands between the two of you to emphasise your point.

Not quite what he expected, Sirius found himself scrambling for words. "Everyone knows! It's literally written all over his face whenever you're near!"

"I've been looking at that same face a lot and I haven't seen that?" you question then, wielding your argument as if you were about to disagree with him.

"Y/N. Baby." Sirius tried to articulate his words clearly. "Remus has feelings for you. I swear on my life. You don't have to do anything with that information, I just had to tell you."

You narrowed your eyes at him, seemingly scrutinising every inch of his face. "If this is a prank, you're dead, Black."

"It's not a prank. I swear on Effie and Monty Potter, the absolute angels they are." He held his hands over his heart for emphasis.

"You could be wrong."

"I'm not though."

You hummed in consideration, still not letting him out from the hold of your inspecting eyes. "I have to go find out." You said it as if it was plain and simple, and before Sirius knew it, you were standing above him.

"What?" he said, again dumbly. He should never drink again.

"Thank you, Siri, I'll see you later," you called as you were already moving down the hallway at an impressive speed, given you had been shocked still mere seconds ago.

Sirius remained sitting on the floor letting his head drop back against the stone and his eyes fall shut. He has either taken one for the team or massively fucked up – the best part is that he still had no idea which one it would be.

This was bound to be an eventful evening.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Your heart was resounding through your entire body and you could barely feel the tips of your fingers – not at all because of the alcohol, you were actually quite certain you had more or less sobered up by now.

No, it was because Remus loved you. Remus Lupin, the best friend you could ask for, the unrequited, unattainable love of your life, for some unidentified reason loved you.

According to Sirius, at least.

Merlin, how you would skin him alive should he be wrong.

The party had picked up its pace in the few minutes you and Sirius spent outside in the hallway. Someone had conjured up a light fog to roll around on the floor, allegedly to help with the atmosphere but no doubt it was really because the floor was becoming too filthy to look at directly. Warm bodies pressed into each other everywhere and there was a smell of sweat and drinks that on another day might have been enticing. Right now, you only had one focus.

"Where's Remus?" Your words were rushed as you latched onto the nearest arm you could find, grinning brightly when the familiar face of James came into view.

"Hiya, love," he greeted merrily, his other arm wrapped protectively around Lily. "What's up?"

"Remus. Where is he?" you repeated, albeit a bit more abashedly as you saw Lily glance at James sideways.

"Oh," James said and furrowed his brows, as if he was thinking. Then, he turned his head down to look at Lily who was already regarding him. "Where do we think Moony is, darling?"

Lily shifted her gaze between the two of you while biting her lip. She seemed to be making a quick appraisal. "I believe he headed up to the dorm early. Something about feeling tired?"

Nothing got past Lily, and you could tell from her somewhat smug yet concerned expression that she knew something you did not. Or, perhaps you did.

You let out a quick breath. "Oh." You couldn't help the slight guilt that settled in your stomach – even though you still couldn't know for certain that it was because of you. "I'll go find him, then."

"Are you sure?" Lily asked. "He might want to just sleep it off."

Sleep it off?

You nodded, confidence in your choice growing with every second. "I'm sure, yeah, but thanks Lils."

There was not a speck of judgement in her eyes, though her smile remained apprehensive. "I mean, he always wants to be with you, so it should be fine." She winked at you and suddenly your stomach was dropping because did everyone but you know?

Well, perhaps not James because he looked between you and Lily, entertained confusion written all over his face. "Okay, then. Great? See ya later, yeah?"

You squeezed both of their forearms in thanks before stepping backwards away from them, almost knocking into two people on the way. God, this place was packed. You threw some general sound of agreement that hopefully sounded as warm as you intended before all but running towards the stairs to the boys' dormitory. On the way, you swear you almost lost your life twice, tripping over feet that grew invisible in the fog.

By the time your steps landed on the stairs, you were able to squeeze into the stone wall and quickly run up while avoiding those hanging over the railing. Truly hazardous, these Gryffindors.

The trek down the hall to the dorm Remus had shared with his friends for all seven years of your friendship was as practiced as it was easy. Yet, as your mind was replaying your conversations with Sirius and Lily over and over at record speed, it felt like it stretched on for miles, your own road to Calvary.

Your fingers acted off of instinct as they reached up to quietly rap on the door with two knuckles.

"Sod off," you heard Remus' muffled voice call through the door. You couldn't help the small smile that spread across your face.

You cracked the door open just enough to poke your head through and catch sight of him sprawled out on his bed, face down. Your smile widened. "Me too?"

It was as if his body was a push poppet that suddenly had its strings drawn taut again – his spine straightened and his head whipped around to look at you wide-eyed. He clearly had not expected you. He made some sounds that could probably classify as guffawing before he snapped his mouth shut to sit up and collect himself. The whole process was barely a few seconds, but the syrupy effect on time from the hallway seemed to have joined you into his dorm. Relief washed through your body when he smiled at you, even if it seemed somewhat strained.

"Of course not dove, sorry."

You slipped the rest of your body in through the door and shut it quietly behind you. The silence in this dorm had never felt so complete before.

In your rush to get to him, you hadn't once thought to think of what to say to him. How could you ever possibly breach the topic? It seemed like he could sense your hesitation because he sat more comfortably on the edge of his bed, woolsock-clad feet planted firmly against the floor. He had an inquisitive yet somewhat nervous look on his face.

He beat you to it. "You alright? Shouldn't you be out there, having fun?"

You couldn't help reading some judgement in that, knowing what you now maybe know. "What's that supposed to mean?" you asked, not quite able to hide the potential hurt in your voice.

Remus could pick up on your every mood and his eyes widened comically and he raised his hand as if he was about to talk to a scared wild animal. "Nothing! No, not like that, I just meant – it's a party. You love parties. Did someone hurt you?" His voice grew small by the end of his sentence. You feared someone was referring to Sirius, the only reason he could imagine you leaving a gathering to go be alone with him. You hated the idea.

There were probably a hundred better ways to go about this, but your mind felt muddy with the overwhelming feelings, your earlier drinks and the damn fog that somehow had made its way into your lungs. And you just could not believe any of it.

You were not proud of what you said next.

"Remus, are you in love with me?"

If it had been quiet before, there were no words for the shift in atmosphere after that question. It was like you were alone in a black hole, just the two of you.

Remus' head actually reared back from shock, both from your suddenness and the question itself. His pretty mouth hung slightly open, bottom lip making a slight jerky movement you could only describe as quivering.

"I– what?" He let out, somewhere between a gasp and an exclamation.

You took a few steps closer, so that you were standing in front of him, feeling the sudden need to be near, to hear, to know. "Sirius told me."

Remus jerked up too, standing upright within arm’s reach. His eyes were fluttering and his mouth opening and closing in a way that almost confirmed it on its own. "Y/N, I–"

"Remus." You interrupted quietly, sensing his continued shock and oncoming fib. "Don't lie, please."

"I'm so sorry," he whispered then, eyes growing glossy as they flicked all over your face. "I– I'm sorry."

Your eyebrows furrowed as you took in his pained expression. "I don't understand?" you said weakly. Why was he apologising? "Remus, are you in love with me?"

He shut his eyes and turned his head to the side. Your fears were confirmed when he brought up a hand to wipe at the part of his face you couldn't see. "Please," he begged. "Don't."

Don't make me say it.

You have to.

"Remus." Your tone matched his despairing one – his name was your plea.

He turned his head back to you and met your eyes head on with his own red-rimmed ones. A slow sigh was let out through his nose, the sound of defeat, giving in to you as he always did.

Gods, he always did.

"I'm in love with you," he whispered then. Clearly, without any hint at insecurity or deceit.

You took one small step closer, bringing your trembling fingers up to lightly ghost over his cheeks – not quite holding his face, but almost, millimetres apart. You were sure you looked half-crazed as you stood there in silent shock, studying his face in a flurry.

There was no contempt in his face at your stupor. Just guilt and sorrow.

"Why?" you breathed out.

"I'm sorry," was all he offered, once more.

"No, no, don't say that," you insisted, voice suddenly growing stronger. More certain. Your hands made proper contact with his cheeks, and you could feel him deflate beneath your touch. "Please don't be sorry."

At last some confusion drifted into his eyes as he regarded you. "Don't tell me not to apologise; that just makes me want to apologise for apologising." There was light humour in his tone, a smidge of hope. Hope that you wouldn't believe him awful for falling in love with you.

He was in love with you.

You laughed then, not just at his poor attempt at a joke but at the situation, at the prospect.

"You love me?" There was no hiding the absolute awe in your voice.

The guilt was still there, but it made room for softness as he gave you the smallest, saddest smile. "Of course, dove."

You breathed a sigh of relief and leaned forward to kiss his smile into a happy one.

Remus’ body immediately stiffened beneath your touch, shock radiating through him. Then, beautifully, you felt him soften once more beneath you, felt his eyelashes brush your cheeks as his eyes fluttered shut, felt him blow the air from his lungs through his nose in a long sigh, breath warm and inviting against you. Slowly, you parted your lips and brought his between yours, deepening the kiss. Unlike your movements earlier, there was no urgency, there was just him in your hands, him against your lips, his tongue against yours.

You let one of your hands travel to the nape of his neck where you played with his shorter strands of hair, breaking the kiss to lean your forehead against his. Your eyes remained closed as you soaked up the moment, but you could feel his own burn through your skin. Could hear him guffawing again. A smile settled permanently onto your lips.

“You love me?” you repeated, knowing the answer, but wanting to feel the words on your tongue once more, mixing with him.

He nodded fervently against you, jostling your head slightly to which you let out a soft giggle.

“You– I–” he began, cutting himself off. “You’re not… Do you…?” he trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

“I love you,” you whispered, in awe at getting to say the words aloud in this context. “I’m so in love with you, my sweet boy.”

His body disconnected from yours briefly, forcing you to open your eyes and support your own weight, as he leaned back to stare at you incredulously, confused, shocked. His eyebrows were furrowed almost as if he were mad, but you knew in your heart that he was not.

“I– no, that makes no sense,” he whispered almost to himself, shaking his head as he tried to process your words. You fought not to laugh at that – because it would seem like you were laughing at him and that was not nice. You would have more than enough time to be not nice later, for now he needed your patience. “You? Love me?”

You nodded with a smile. His body was still close to yours and you took the opportunity to wrap your arms around his waist, interlocking your fingers at the small of his back.

There was so much emotion and vulnerability swimming in his eyes, you would almost feel bad if you weren’t so unbelievably happy.

“I never thought you could have feelings for me,” you confessed breathlessly, grinning wickedly despite the pain you were sharing. “Here I’ve been, running around thinking the greatest love I had ever felt was wholly unreciprocated.”

This only seemed to confuse him further, though he was relaxing beneath your touch. “You… This whole time?”

“I suppose so,” you mused. “I only realised two years ago, though.”

Remus let out a groan and a laugh at the same time and then – thanks to any and every god – he leaned his forehead on your shoulder, burying his face in you. “I cannot believe I’ve been torturing myself and you’ve been… in love with me too. This whole time.”

You dared to kiss the side of his head from where he was leaning against you and tightened your hold on him. Something you had done a thousand times over as his friend, yet this sent entirely new sparks through you.

As if he just thought of something, he lifted his head suddenly to furrow his brows at you. “Why would you ever think I couldn't love you?”

You tilted your head at him. “How many times have you not brushed Sirius off when he makes jokes about us? Or said you would never want to be in a relationship? I thought you might view me as a sister by now.” Despite your teasing, residue hurt still clung to your words.

The grimace was instant and Remus shook his head as if that is the worst thing he has ever heard. “Gods, no, I sure do hope not.” 

You both laughed quietly, carefully. His hands were slow as they went up to hold your jaw, fingers brushing the side of your neck in reverence. “I’m sorry I made you think that, dovey.”

“Don’t be. Then I have to be sorry for snogging our friends in front of you.”

Remus flushed slightly at your words, but the awed affection plastered all over his every feature did not waver. “I don’t want you to be,” he murmured while still caressing you carefully. “I just… I just want you. Will you be mine, dovey?”

Your face inched closer and closer to his, your grins growing mirrored against each other. “I am yours,” you whispered against his lips before closing the distance once more.

The most heavenly kisses you ever shared would be those with your lovely Remus.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Oi! Pads!”

Sirius flinched with his whole body, looking over his shoulder with a sheepish smile to face his inevitable death in the form of one Remus Lupin. He had been waiting for it all night as he partied with James, and had managed to get halfway through his second game of butterbeer pong before it was time for his execution.

Reaching out for James’ hand, he shook it firmly and matter-of-factly. “Lovely knowing you mate, take good care of my brother, yeah?”

James seemed entirely nonchalant to the whole ordeal, shaking his hand in return. “Yeah, sure, safe travels Padfoot.”

Sirius then turned to Remus who was descending the stairs from the dormitory, holding his hands up in defence. “Okay, hear me out–” he begins but he was cut off.

He was cut off by a hug. 

Remus borderline slams into him, locking his arms over his shoulders and dragging him close to his chest. Awkwardly, Sirius returns the favour, patting him on the back and making what the fuck eyes at Mary over Remus’ shoulder.

“You’re a meddling bloody bastard,” Remus said into his ear. 

Here we go.

“But thank you.”

Oh. Oh.

He reared his head back so that he could see Remus and the shy yet pleased smile he wore, and Sirius’ whole face split into a painful, beaming smile. “It worked?” he asked giddily, jostling Remus where he was still trapped in the hug.

“Yeah, yeah,” Remus mumbled, though his grin grew.

The victorious, screeching holler Sirius let out was so loud it could be heard down to the dungeons.

[luxcuriousao3]

Fevered Mistakes

Summary: Ghost, a formidable Alpha, is captured and dosed with rut inducers. You are the omega he's tossed into a cell with. WC: 3429 Warnings: a/b/o, graphic nonconsensual sex, nonconsensual drugging, unprotected PIV sex, referenced torture/experimentation, blood, vomit, death, hurt no comfort, background ghoap, POV switches denoted by triple asterisks (***) Notes: Based off the first half of this post that I made a bit ago. Ngl, I don't really like how this one turned out, but y'all were begging for it so, so I feel bad just letting it rot in my google docs lol. There are two scrapped versions of a second chapter that would make this fic farrrrr less angsty, but idk if I'm ever gonna continue this, so I'm treating this like it's a one-shot with the warnings. If I ever do post a continuation, it will be linked on my masterlist, so you can check for it there. And hey, maybe if y'all share your thoughts about this in my inbox or whatever, it might entice the brainworms again lol. Taglist: @captainsherlockwinchester110283

There was a girl in the cell.

She was small and soft in the way that almost all omegas were, though it was her scent that really gave her status away. Sweet and alluring but soured by fear, it invaded his nostrils and made him all the more dazed. The blow to his head, the one that had landed him in this situation, would have been hard enough to kill him, had he not been an Alpha.

He’d been sloppy. Let his feelings for Johnny get in the way of procedure. But seeing his beta, laid out on the floor, bleeding from his head, still as a corpse… he couldn’t have controlled himself if he tried. And at that point, he hadn’t wanted to try.

He’d gotten distracted, and he’d paid the price.

It had been three days since he'd been captured, by his best estimate. It was hard to measure, between the head injury and being kept in a room with no windows. All he had to go off of was how often someone came in to torture him for information. He never gave any up, of course. Even compromised, he never would. He'd been trained far better than that.

Still, he wasn’t in very good shape. Beaten to hell and back, his head scrambled… his feet dragged uselessly as he was pressed up against the bars, one of his captors unlocking the cuffs on his wrists while the other two kept him restrained. The fourth jammed a syringe into his neck, injecting him with some unknown substance. Ghost tried to break free, to throw a punch or a kick, anything, but his reflexes were sluggish, his thoughts painfully slow. All he succeeded in doing was annoying them, and he got an elbow to the back of his neck for the trouble.

He was no omega, couldn’t be immobilized by a simple scruffing, but fuck if that shit didn’t still hurt like a bitch. He collapsed to the concrete floor of the cell with an animalistic howl, and the sourness in the omega’s scent spiked, her heart rate speeding up. Ghost couldn’t find it in himself to care—the very last of rational thought was beginning to abandon him as the pain spread from the back of his neck throughout his entire body, growing unbearable as it reached his groin. He felt like there was fire raging just beneath his skin, and his senses sharpened as his dark gaze locked onto the wide-eyed omega curled up in the corner, neck cracking unsettlingly with the speed at which he turned. He had time for only one more thought before instincts took over, his heart dropping out his arse as dread turned the blood in his veins to ice before it began to boil all over again.

Rut inducers.

***

When you woke up, you were escorted to the cell in which you spend your heats. That confused you, since your next heat wasn’t supposed to be for another month at least.

It also terrified you.

Though you didn’t remember much of what happened during your heats, you did remember the pain. The desperate, burning need for an Alpha’s knot, and the aching, gaping emptiness when you were denied it, the only thing that could bring you any relief. This cell held nothing but bad memories, and you didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

But you had no choice. For as long as you could remember, you did as you were told, the way a good omega should. In your sleep, you thought maybe you saw glimpses of a time when things were different, when there were no scientists in white coats and men and women in military uniforms controlling your life. But you knew those were just dreams. None of it was real.

You sat on the thin mattress in the cold, dank cell for hours before something finally happened that could explain why you were there. A man was brought in—massive and with a terrifying skull mask on his face—and you barely had to take a whiff of him as he was shoved into your cell with you to know that he was an Alpha. There was that familiar smell of damp, scorched earth after a lightning strike, and you knew from the intensity of it that he was angry. No, not just angry. Furious. The very air reeked of electricity and burning plastic, overwhelming any hint of his natural scent. This was an Alpha that was ready to rip, rend, tear, kill. And you were stuck alone in a cell with him.

“Не сопротивляйтесь,” one of the uniformed men told you, expression entirely unsympathetic. It was almost worse than the look of sadistic, scientific glee on the face of the white coat next to him. “Ты сделаешь только хуже.”

Don’t fight back. You’ll only make it worse.

Your eyes widened, and you barely had a chance to shake your head before the unfamiliar Alpha was on you, grabbing your ankle in a brutal grip and dragging you away from the corner you’d curled up in. You screamed in pain as you felt the bone snap like a twig under his large palm, instinctively hitting your hands against his broad chest as you tried to fight him off. If you had been in heat, you wouldn’t have cared, wouldn’t have even felt the pain from him breaking you, would have spread your legs and begged him to knot you. But you weren’t, and so your survival instincts overtook those of your omega. You knew you would be punished later for disobeying, but at the moment, you didn’t care. Anything was better than being knotted by the feral Alpha on top of you. He would maul you to death while he fucked you, you just knew it.

The Alpha grabbed your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head. The other ripped your shirt off, causing your back to arch and your tits to spill out of your bra. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply and letting out a satisfied growl. You tried to headbutt him, and he snarled in your face, wrapping a hand around your throat and squeezing tight enough to make your vision go black around the edges in less than ten seconds. By the time you caught your breath and were able to think again, his hands were busy yanking down your pants and underwear in one harsh tug. You let out a hoarse shriek of fear, flipping onto your belly to try and crawl away, ignoring the searing pain in your shattered ankle. But that was your fatal mistake. His beefy palm met the back of your neck, fingers digging in as he lifted you slightly by it, his other hand coming around to roughly grope your breasts.

And you stopped.

You stopped moving, stopped screaming, you nearly stopped breathing. You were limp as a ragdoll as he scruffed you, utterly and completely paralyzed. You could do nothing but take it as he shoved your face into the dirty concrete, pried your legs apart, and forced himself inside you. You could feel the agonizing pain as his cock practically tore you in half, could feel the ice cold fear freezing every cell of your body, could feel his blunt nails digging into the ultra-sensitive skin of your nape. You could feel everything. But you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

It seemed to go on forever, and yet take no time at all. One second, you were pliant and supine beneath the Alpha as he pounded into you, his weight constricting your lungs and making it difficult to breathe. The next, the restrictive grip on your neck was gone, replaced by a sharp pain at the junction of it and your shoulder as his teeth sunk into your flesh. Into your mating gland. Your own screams were echoing in the tiny cell, now, no longer confined to your head.

“M’sorry, M’sorry, M’sorry,” a rough, wet voice chanted in your ear. It was the Alpha, speaking to you in English. You could understand it, even if you couldn't speak it. He was still on top of you, still inside you, his knot stretching you far beyond your limits. And yet he was… apologizing? You stopped screaming in your confusion, the terrified screeching replaced by the sound of your heaving sobs.

“M’sorry, M’so sorry, they dosed me, M’sorry,” the Alpha continued, voice slurred. You struggled to focus on his words, distracted by the liquid you could feel dripping down your thighs. It was probably blood, you realized distantly. His knot wouldn’t have let any of his seed escape. That’s what it was there for.

That, and to keep you from running.

The Alpha’s voice grew more and more gravelly as his knot began to deflate, his apologies interrupted by grunts as he began to move his hips again, thrusting in and out of you shallowly. You whined, clawing at the floor, trying to wriggle free, but he just settled nearly his entire weight on top of you.

“Don’ fight,” he growled, and you could tell from the strain in his voice that he was at least trying to resist his instincts. It didn’t make you feel any better, especially not when his fingers inched closer and closer to your nape again. “Don’t, or m’gonna have to— fuck, I don’t— fuckin’ be a good omega an’ take it— m’sorry, fuck— don’t fuckin’ fight me—”

You were still sobbing, shrieking like a dying thing with every quick, brutal snap of his hips against yours. Too out of it from being scruffed, you missed the warning in his jumbled plea threat, continuing to struggle underneath him. You felt your ribs crack as he pressed the rest of his considerable weight onto you, and the strangled, stuttering gasp that left your throat was the kind of sound that belonged in a horror film.

The Alpha seemed to think so too, as he moaned in a horrid mixture of pleasure and abject misery before he scruffed you again. You went still, once more trapped in your own body. It was the worst sensation you’d ever felt, worse than the experiments the white coats ran on you, worse than your punishments, worse than your heats spent alone. Worse than the shattered ankle or broken ribs, worse even than the feeling of him ripping you apart from the inside. You were always helpless and vulnerable, being an omega, but this… when you were scruffed, you were no longer a person. You were just an object, to be used as your Alpha saw fit.

Your Alpha.

The man on top of you—who was knotting you for the second time now—was your Alpha. He’d claimed you, the pain in your shoulder was proof of that. You would wear his mark forever, now. You would belong to him for the rest of your life.

You prayed that it was short.

Your Alpha released his painful grip on your nape again, but you didn’t try to get away this time. You were far too disoriented. Being scruffed once was bad enough, but twice in as many minutes? You could easily go into shock from that. You probably were in shock, but you didn't panic, feeling too distant and floaty. The ice in your veins was numbing you from the inside. That was nice… you leaned into it, letting your blankly staring eyes flutter shut—

“Omega!”

Your eyes snapped back open and you whimpered, trying to curl in on yourself. That only caused pain to flare up all over your body, the burning between your legs as you tugged on his knot pulling another scream from you.

“Stay still,” the same harsh voice ordered, and your instincts forced you to obey. The command was a little more collected this time, a little more coherent, even if he was still groaning and slurring.

“Don' move,” your Alpha panted, each word sounding like it was dragged out of him. He started to fuck you once more. “Don’— don’ wanna scruff you ‘gain.”

You didn’t have it in you to be grateful. Didn’t have it in you to be sympathetic to his situation either, not while he was still rutting into you like an animal.

They dosed me, he’d said. You wished they’d dosed you. At least then you wouldn't feel the pain…

***

Simon had never hated being an Alpha more than in that moment.

Bollocks deep in a pretty little omega, one already stuffed full of his come and wearing his mark… he wished fervently that this was just another of his nightmares, the ones that stuck with him like a bad smell even after escaping Roba.

Between the disorientation from his forced rut and the nasty head injury, he almost let himself believe that it was. If it was a dream, he could give in, and he wouldn’t actually be hurting anyone. He could just ride it out, come in trousers wherever he was sleeping, and hopefully, it would end faster.

But her screams were far too real.

She wailed like she was being flayed alive as she struggled underneath him, and his Alpha—after being denied a partner for his ruts for over a decade—was brutal and swift in its response. Scruffing her like a scrappy mutt, growling in pleasure at the way she submitted to him—the way she was forced to submit to him.

It was nearly impossible to think around how fucked his head was—by instinct and injury both—but after he'd knotted her for the second time, he was able to act a little more like the trained soldier he was, and not like a panicked civvie.

He didn’t argue with himself any longer. He accepted the reality of the situation as it was. He was in rut. He was trapped with an omega. He had brutalized and claimed her. If he kept focusing on trying to stop himself altogether, he was going to kill her. He needed to give up on that and instead just try to minimize the damage.

Starting with stopping her from going into shock, and then stopping her from fighting back. It only made his Alpha all the more eager to dominate her—by any means necessary.

It sickened Simon that that part of him existed. Deep down, he feared that it always had. That Roba hadn’t created it, back in the desert. That he’d just unearthed it. All of Simon’s evilness, all his wicked desires…

It was why he’d never taken an omega before. Never even let himself date one, back when that was something he did.

Johnny was perfect, in that way. In many ways, really, but him being a beta—it soothed Simon’s fears. The fears that were being proved true.

He didn’t know how long passed before the rut inducers wore off. It had to have been hours. The omega—his omega—was still facedown on the ground when he pulled out of her for the last time. She was bleeding from where he’d bitten her, and where he’d bred her, his cock drenched in her blood, her own thighs stained with a mix of it and his come.

Simon threw up at the sight. He told himself it was just from the head injury.

He was naked, except for his mask, which was pushed up past his nose. He didn't remember taking off his trousers, though he recalled that his shirt had been cut to shreds the first day of his captivity by his torturer. He didn’t remember a lot of his mini-rut, as was common when it was induced. But the evidence of what he’d done was right in front of him. The omega—not mine, not my omega, not mine—was clad in nothing but the scraps of her clothes. Her side, hips, wrists, and the back of her neck were bruised. Her ankle was bent at a funny angle. A small patch of hair near her nape was missing, leaving her scalp red and raw. Simon looked at his hands, and found the strands woven between his fingers.

She didn’t move.

Simon pulled his mask into position and Ghost took over. He moved towards the girl, feeling for a pulse. She flinched violently when he touched her neck, and he felt relief—and guilt—reverberate through him. Ghost was good at ignoring his feelings, though.

“S’over,” he told her, voice gruff. “S’done now. Promise.”

The omega didn’t acknowledge his words, just kept her shoulders tucked up by her ears, guarding her neck. Ghost didn't protest, simply felt along her spine for any breaks. He didn’t find any, so he carefully rolled her over.

Her breasts were red and raw, nipples bleeding from being scraped back and forth across the floor. There was a hand shaped bruise around her throat, and petechiae in the whites of her glassy eyes. Ghost ignored his horror at the sight, and began to palpate her ribs. She inhaled sharply when he touched the eighth and ninth ones, a pitiful, pained whine escaping her.

The ribs were probably fractured, if not broken. The bruising above them was clue enough. There was another massive bruise low on her belly, and Ghost swore. Internal bleeding. He may have actually fucked this poor omega to death. There was no way she survived the night if she wasn't treated soon.

He got his pants and trousers on, hoping it would help her believe the worst was over, and then got to work doing what he could—wrapping her ribs with the dirty blanket in the corner, and holding the scraps of her shirt between her legs to try and stem the bleeding there. It wasn't enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. He didn’t even know if it was really worth the discomfort it caused her—but he couldn't bring himself to just let her die. She was his omega.

Not mine, not mine, not mine.

He talked to her as she faded. Tried to keep her awake with the sound of his voice, though he knew it was probably the last thing she wanted to hear. He told her stories from his childhood—the few good ones there were—told her the plot of the last film he and Johnny had watched, told her about Johnny. That was the topic he lingered on the longest. It was far easier to talk about his beta than himself. And by the time her eyes slipped closed and her shallow breathing stopped, it was Simon that was holding her, not Ghost, despite the mask on his face.

It was Simon that watched her die.

It was Simon that realized he didn't even know her name.

And it was Simon that howled with grief and rage, clutching the broken body of the omega—my omega, my omega, mine—against his chest.

Footsteps rapidly approached the cell, and Simon snarled like a rabid animal as he turned towards the bars. He barely had a second to pull his omega—dead, dead, dead, she was mine and I killed her, she was innocent and I killed her—behind him before a familiar voice rang out. The only voice that could have possibly reached him in this state, that could stop him from giving into his instincts completely and going feral.

“Simon?”

“Johnny,” Simon growled, sounding desperate and broken. He felt broken. This little omega had managed to do what Roba and a hundred others had failed at. And she hadn't even tried.

“Let us help her, Si,” Johnny coaxed, moving closer while Price and Gaz hung back. Wise, because Simon could barely keep himself from baring his teeth at his own beta. Johnny didn't back down. “Si. Let us help her.”

Simon hesitated for a long moment, fighting his overwhelming instincts, before moving away. Johnny rushed in, immediately checking the omega’s pulse and starting compressions when he couldn’t find it. Simon tried to struggle to his feet, but he nearly fell over, Gaz and Price catching him. He snarled, weakly pulling away from them, but they held fast.

“We got you, soldier,” Price’s deep voice rumbled in his ear. “Stand down.”

Simon slumped, unable to hold himself up anymore, all his injuries catching up to him.

“I killed her,” he whispered raggedly, eyelids falling shut. He felt Gaz shake him to try and keep him awake, but he simply didn't have the willpower, anymore. “She was mine and I killed her.”

The mantra rang in his head even as he lost consciousness, and her screams of pain and the look of fear on her face as she lay dying followed him into his dreams.

-

less angsty ending

[dulmetra]

Hello guys! Long time no see! I know It's been a month and a half since I last posted and it is time for a new artwork and all buuuuut... ... Guess who decided it would be a good idea to paint three fully rendered pieces for just one post? Yep, that’s me! I have no idea why I thought it was a smart choice, especially since I draw like a sloth, but it is what it is.

The good news is, I’ve already finished two, and there’s only one left to go! Weee! 🎉 AND I’ve got a timelapse for you, starting from scratch

Sorry, lineart mostly because It's not Adobe I'm used to work in. It's another app I installed because I needed it's tools for background lining. (these old lady's hands are shaking with age, haha). It turns out it has a timelapse feature, so I condescended to give it a try. I managed to get through the lineart but when It got to painting, I mixed up all the hotkeys several times, my arse burned down and I rage quit lol.😂

This artwork is gonna be the last of the three I've planned. Gonna paint it soon (I hope soon lol)

[ashlynniis-bracketeers]

Y'know, I find it really interesting (and hilarious) that somebody can Corrode into something that looks even freakier (or at least weirder) than the E.G.O's source Abnormality. I have to wonder if they could freak/weird-out their matching Abnormalities lmao.

Putting a bunch of text under the cut.

Using the E.G.Os/Abnos in the images as examples:

The Rose Hunter is at least arsed to look vaguely like a normal dude 90% of the time (discounting his thorny stem/root lower half as seen in the E.G.O splash art background for Hong Lu's version of Lasso). Corroded Lasso Faust is similar. Corroded Lasso Hong Lu, however, is basically a rose with two long stems tied into lassos and his "lower body" connected directly to the horse, with only part of his ponytail left. Not even getting into the fact that both his "torso" and the horse's abdomen are "bleeding" rose petals and the fact that the horse's rein is tied around Hong Lu's neck akin to a noose. He actually reminds me a bit of a Nuckelavee with the really long arms and being directly connected to the horse.

The Heavenly Executioner's Scribe is a pretty simple statue-looking thing. Meur's Corrosion is a bit funky with the little hands on his wings, his floating hands, and funky mask... But his Corrosion is nothing compared to whatever the hell Corroded Pursuance Rodion has going on lmao. She's got chains and she seems to have eyes on her eyes. Eyes for days.

Der Fluchschütze is a variant of Der Freischütz but red, basically. Pretty simple design, nothing fancy. Both of the Fell Bullet Corrosions are pretty goddamn weird compared to Der Fluchschütze's design, with Heathcliff's version turning him into a giant heart filled with guns while Yi Sang's version turns him into a sentient reflection stuck in a jury-rigged mirror+gun setup, but Yi Sang's version of Fell Bullet isn't in the game yet, so we do not have the sprite, so I just put Heathcliff's Fell Bullet Corrosion there. To be fair, it deserves to be here. Der Fluchschütze would definitely be confused as to how it could cause... that.

The Dreaming Electric Sheep is... Well, it's a sheep alright. With really long, clawed legs and a bunch of spikes sticking out of its wool, but it's a sheep alright. Meur Corrodes into this E.G.O hard. Compared to Don's Corrosion, he goes full Sheep. Which just makes me wonder why he's got that weird Demogorgon-looking meat-flower-flap face in his attack, while the Dreaming Electric Sheep's version of the "Electric Screaming" attack does not have that. Sheep Meur, y u have weird meat flower face. His head is also inside the wool 90% of the time for some reason...

[starlightshadowsworld]

I need the behind the scenes of Atsushi’s entrance exam because the more I think about it the more chaotic it becomes.

Dazai didn’t even have a whole day to put everything together. Atsushi was found at night and had his exam was the next day.

Did they have to call Fukuzawa? Because they got his approval to conduct the whole thing. Was he asleep? Did his dad senses kick in and he answered the phone as soon as Dazai rang?

Because Kunikida mentioned Dazai buying drinks for everyone later so was Fukuzawa like do you kids need a ride?

…Actually on that, did they still go drinking? Was Dazai’s drunk arse rambling to Fukuzawa while Kunikida’s apologising for everything in the background.

They probably gave poor Junichiro a heart attack too. He’s underaged he wouldn’t be out drinking with them.

Did they just drag the poor guy out of bed like hi we need a crazed terrorist tomorrow and thought of you.

Atsushi’s fast asleep while Junichiro’s up all night practicing his lines. Because nothing says deranged murderer like sleep deprivation.

Did Dazai plan to get stuck in an oil drum for hours? Or was it just eh you know I’ve got time I’ll just try this out first then wake Atsushi.

I can just imagine Dazai and Kunikida fake arguing for authenticity and then both of them forget that it’s supposed to fake.

Make it look believable and it was way more than it should’ve been.

Kunikida was just out here pulling out real impressions for this public humiliation of Osamu Dazai because he doesn’t half arse anything.

Like the fact this thing went off without a hitch is actually impressive and I gotta know how many of them were hung over during this event.

Watch that be the reason why Atsushi didn’t have party, everyone was just too busy nursing their headaches.

[laswells-ashtray]

Sleepy 141 and co?

Instead of writing it as like a story, I'm just describing each of them at their sleepiest because it offers me more descriptiveness.

Price is always tired, to him the sheer weight of being alive is exhausting. But genuinely sleepy John becomes very quiet and he wishes everyone around him would do the fucking same. He'll sit filling out paperwork and when the blinks start to become the gateway into an involuntary nap he'll put on music to try and keep him awake with the noise. Around 40 minutes later Nikolai walks into his office to find John's face smushed into what is undoubtedly an important document as he snores and Nine Inch Nail's wax poetic about obsession in the horniest way possible in the background.

Ghost is used to being tired on missions but something about being back on base acts as a fucked up sense of comfort that turns him into a sleepy kitten. He just wants to find someone close to him, headbutt their chest and fall asleep. The 141 have their own little downtime room, Price claimed it under the guise of using it for important/ classified "no one can see" nonsense and they use it as a glorified living room. If Soap, Gaz or even Price is in there and sitting on the couch then he will just lie on their chest and conk the fuck out. Soap will just nap under him, Gaz will use his shoulders to rest his phone as he watches a YouTube video and Price will just rest the mug of the coffee he's probably drinking on Ghost's back. To be napped on by Ghost is an honour.

Soap is a sleep anywhere typa guy, if he's tired and can't be fucked walking all the way back to his room then he will just sit at a table with his head in his arms and nap. It hurts his back, it hurts his neck and it leaves his arms numb. He will not stop doing it. If you're sitting at the table with him talking then he will just wait for a break in the conversation to tell you he's going to nap and then get comfy before you can respond. Shameless napper. Also if you catch him at his sleepiest then his words are indecipherable.

Gaz is an "I'm not that tired" followed by an accidental 7-hour nap person. He never actually feels tired but if he closes his eyes then it's over. If they're in the heli coming back from a mission, he'll make a comment about how he's feeling surprisingly awake and then four and a half minutes later he's asleep like one of those babies that's soothed by being in the back of a car. He actually was one of those babies, if you wanted to get Kyle to sleep from birth to the age of six then you just put him in the back of a car and went on a ten-minute drive.

Nikolai, as I have said and stand by, is a cat. He's tired? Sorry, John is busy. Then he's nuzzling his face into that Englishman's chest until he's asleep. He's one sleepy day away from purring. He's naturally affectionate but when he's tired he's so close to John that you'd think that separating them would require surgery. John makes the mistake of trying to get up? Nuh uh, just because he's mostly unconscious it doesn't mean that he isn't just as strong. The captain isn't moving his pale English arse until Nik feels like it.

Laswell can function well while tired, plays it off almost expertly or so she thinks. She does not, she is so easily irritable when she's sleepy. If you aren't her wife, you're an enemy. She will kill. Even Shepard learned that there are limits to how much Kate will take when she's sleep-deprived. He got too snippy with her one time and she asked how his wife had been doing. He was newly divorced and Kate knew. But with her wife? She comes home while sleepy and finds her wife in the kitchen, by the time her wife is done cooking Kate is almost asleep standing against her back with her arms around her wife's waist. By the time her wife hauls her into bed, Kate is out of it. She gets her head on her wife's chest? She's out like a light.

Alejandro is so much more likely to agree to something while tired. He's less likely to get annoyed at rookies for mistakes, he'll just wave them away without a second thought. If you need him to say yes to something, ask when he's tired. Rudy is like two days away from getting him to sleepily agree to get a cat. He's also less likely to remember any conversation he has after a certain point of tiredness. Will agree to an entire day's worth of activities and only remember the next day when he's shown proof, a video where he does in fact agree to these things. Damn it.

Rudy's vocabulary is reduced to uh huh and vague grunts of agreement when he's tired. It's a language that only Alejandro truly understands. Soap asks him a question once when he's tired and Rudy just makes a noise back. Alejandro, without so much as looking up from his phone, translates. "Not tomorrow, he's doing one-on-one training with someone who's just back after being off with an injury but he can do it after three the next day." Rudy is a big fan of just smashing his face into a pillow and blocking out the world around him when tired but unsurprisingly he ends up asleep almost every time.

[biblical-chronicles]

Ms. Lennon

______________________________________

where Liam's brain short-circuits after meeting the daughter of a Beatle.

______________________________________

“Another bloody farce,” Liam muttered, half to himself and half to Bonehead, who stood beside him nursing a beer at the award show pre-party.

Bonehead chuckled. “Every year, mate. You’d think you’d be used to it by now.”

Liam was about to retort when something caught his attention across the room. His words died in his throat, his grip on his pint tightening slightly.

You’d just walked in, chatting casually with someone, your laughter reaching his ears even over the din. You weren’t doing anything particularly dramatic—just brushing a hand over your hair and looking around—but Liam couldn’t seem to look away.

He froze, his mouth slightly open, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background.

Noel quickly noticed the sudden shift in his brother’s demeanor. He frowned, glancing at Liam’s face to then follow his gaze. It didn’t take long for him to spot you, and when he did, his expression split into a wide, mischievous grin.

“Christ almighty,” Noel said, nudging Liam’s arm. “It’s her, innit?”

Liam blinked, snapping out of his daze. “What’re you on about?”

Noel rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t give me that. I’ve seen that look before. You’re starin’ at her like a teenager in a record shop.”

“Shut up, Noel,” Liam muttered, turning back toward his pint like it could shield him from the conversation.

But Noel wasn’t about to let it drop. “How long’s this been goin’ on, then? A few weeks? Months? Don’t think I’ve seen you this quiet since... well, ever.”

Liam scowled. “Piss off, yeah?”

“Ah, this is brilliant,” Noel said, laughing as he leaned closer. “You’re properly smitten. Who’d have thought?”

“I already told ya, go play in traffic,” Liam muttered, trying to seem unfased, but the red creeping up his neck betrayed him.

Noel wasn’t done yet. “You gonna stand here all night gawping at her, or are you actually gonna do summat about it?”

Liam tensed, gripping his pint harder. “It’s not like that.”

Noel raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Not like what? You’re practically droolin’, mate. You want me to go over, introduce meself, maybe mention you while I’m at it?”

Before Liam could respond, Noel made a show of taking a step toward you.

“Noel!” Liam snapped, grabbing his brother’s arm and yanking him back with more force than necessary.

Noel laughed, delighted. “Bloody hell, you’re proper wound up! What’s the matter? Worried I’ll charm her before you’ve had a chance?”

Liam glared at him, his jaw tight. “You don’t get it, alright?”

Noel cocked his head, still grinning. “What’s there to get? She’s fit, you fancy her, end of story. Grow a pair and go talk to her.”

Liam shook his head, glancing at you again. “It’s not that simple.”

Noel frowned, finally catching on to the seriousness in his brother’s tone. “Why? What’s the deal?”

Liam hesitated, looking at his pint for a long moment before finally muttering, “That’s Lennon’s family.”

Noel blinked, then let out a low whistle. “As in John Lennon?”

Liam nodded, his expression guarded.

Noel let out a disbelieving laugh. “Well, that explains a lot. You’re not just shittin’ yourself ‘cause she’s fit, you’re shittin’ yourself ‘cause she’s related to your celebrity crush number two. Christ, Liam, you’re a right mess.”

“Shut it,” Liam muttered, but there was no heat in his voice.

Noel shook his head, still grinning. “You’re actin’ like she’s got a crown on her head or summat, she’s just a person mate. A person you clearly fancy the arse off, but still.”

“Leave it, Noel,” Liam said, his voice low and tense.

Noel shrugged, taking a step back. “Alright, fine, your funeral. But don’t come cryin’ to me when someone else gets there first.”

With that, Noel wandered off, leaving Liam standing there with his pint and his thoughts. He glanced at you again, his chest tightening as you laughed at something someone said, completely unaware of the effect you were having on him.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself. “What am I even doin’?”

When he looked back in your direction you were suddenly walking—no, gliding, it felt like—straight towards him.

“No,” he muttered under his breath, glancing quickly over his shoulder as if to confirm there was someone else behind him. But no, it was him. You were coming toward him.

His heart did a little flip, and he forced himself to look the other way, pretending not to notice. Maybe if he looked bored enough, you’d change your mind, or someone else would intercept you.

But then, there you were, standing right in front of him, and his name fell from your lips like you’d known him for years. “Liam.”

He froze, his brain short-circuiting for a second before he looked at you, wide-eyed. “Oh, fuck, you know my name?” he blurted out, his voice almost a squeak.

You laughed softly, “Of course, I know your name. I’m a big fan. Been listening to you for a while now, would love to catch one of your gigs sometime.”

Liam blinked, then swore under his breath. “Oh, God, I said that out loud, didn’t I? Shit. Sorry, it’s just—I’m a big fan too. Of you. And your dad, obviously, but you—bloody hell, you’re brilliant too, not just your dad of course-.”

The words tumbled out of him in a rushed, jumbled mess, and by the end, he felt his cheeks burning. You just tilted your head, a little amused, a smile playing on your lips.

“It’s fine,” you said, your voice warm and teasing. “I get it, I do. I just wanted to come over and say hi.”

“Hi,” he repeated, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, trying to recover some bits of cool. “Right, yeah, hi.”

You took a half-step closer, your confidence catching him off guard. “You know,” you said, your tone light but with a flirtatious edge, “you’re even cuter in person.”

At that point Liam's brain almost shut off completely. “Cuter?” he echoed, the word foreign on his tongue.

“Mm-hmm,” you replied, your gaze locking onto his.

He stood there, stunned into silence for a beat too long, and you took some pity on him. “So,” you said, brushing your hair back casually, “are you free after the award show?”

“Fuck yes,” Liam answered immediately, far too quickly. The words shot out of him like a reflex, and he winced at himself.

You laughed, a bright, easy laugh that only made him feel warmer under his collar. “I’m glad,” you said, stepping even closer.

Before he could say anything else—before his brain could catch up with what was happening—you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

His breath hitched, and as you pulled back, your eyes lingered on his for just a moment longer than necessary. The air between you felt electric, and before he could process it, you leaned forward again, brushing your lips lightly over his.

It was barely a kiss, more a whisper of one, but it left him completely undone.

You stepped back, your smile soft and knowing. “See you near the front door in a few, yeah sweetheart?”

And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there awkwardly, his cheeks flushed red.

His hand flew to his lips as he watched you disappear into the crowd, and before he could stop himself, he whispered under his breath, “Well, fuck me sideways.”

______________________________________

proper love the idea of Liam being shy and his brain short-circuiting over owt to be honest, so thank you me lovely anon for the request, hope you like it !!

(it honestly stresses me out when anons request like did you get to read it? did you like it? was it okay? love you still)

and ofc hope all you lovely lot enjoyed it as well xx

Noel version inspired by this one here

[soundslivemagazine]

The music industry has a funding problem

Earlier this month, Newcastle-based indie singersongwriter Sam Fender released his fourth studio album, People Watching, and embarked on a week of media duties talking about what influenced the new album. In an interview with the Sunday Times, Fender talked about his working class upbringing, and how difficult it was for an artist without a moneyed background to make it in the music industry today.

Sam Fender. Hannah Victoria Kenyon for Strong Island.

“The music industry is 80 percent, 90 percent kids who are privately educated,” he said. “A kid from where I’m from [North Shields, Newcastle, UK] can’t afford to tour, so there are probably thousands writing songs that are ten times better than mine, poignant lyrics about the country, but they will not be seen because it’s rigged.”

It was like a lit match to tinder. Many artists spoke up confirming that they were currently facing challenges staying afloat in the music industry despite hitting many of the milestones that traditionally looked like success in the music industry. Many talked about how funds were the main things separating them from their peers who had ‘made it’. Many others have talked about how money has hindered them from taking steps that would greatly advance their music careers.

Beloved artists like Little Simz and Rachel Chinouriri have over the last few years had to cancel international tours that would never add up for an independent artist without the backing of a major label, or great personal expenses. Songwriter Kate Nash, who was in the news recently for turning to OnlyFans to sell pictures of arse to fund her upcoming tour in a campaign she called ‘Butts For Tour Buses’, estimated that the production cost of each show she puts on a single night, costs her about $10,000. A cost even half of that would be devastating to a kid starting out in music with no savings.

Little Simz. Dave J. Hogan/Getty Images

There is another aspect to this discussion. Last week, British indie songwriter Ellie Dixon was asked on her social media about the phrase ‘industry plant’, a highly contentious word meant to indicate that an artist has not authentically reached the level of success they are at, and instead owe it all to some undisclosed industry connections that were allowing them access to avenues of career growth unfairly.

On surface level, this would seem to be something that only adds to the woes of independent, hard-working musicians, once again locked out of opportunities that should’ve rightfully been theirs if only some golden child with the right connections hadn’t swooped in and snatched their livelihood right out of their hands. In reality, who and what this ‘industry plant’ really is, is less clear. Often, it is used as a catch-all phrase to indicate that you don’t think someone deserves the plaudits they are receiving. But whether or not a certain kind of music is inherently deserving of success or not can only ever be a matter of subjective taste, and so something as concrete as having insider connections, becomes a matter of opinion where stylistic preferences become equated with worth, and the word loses all meaning.

Rolling Stone magazine, in a recent article defending the rising rap star Doechii, wrote a good piece about how the phrase is being misused to discredit artists who have put in all the work themselves over the years, only to be unfairly torn down by people’s fundamental misunderstanding of the phrase.

Doechii receives her Grammy for Best Rap Album. Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images for The Recording Academy.

Money in music is a really important conversation to have, namely in that it is simply not possible to sustain a career in this (or any) industry without it, and that artists, the backbone of the industry, have seen increasingly diminishing returns on it. We find ourselves returning to the music industry of old, where as rents go up and incomes for independent artists dry up, many musicians find that it makes sense for them to rely on traditional record label deals.

This has been enough for many people to start lobbing the accusations of ‘industry plant’, somehow mistaking having a label put any investment into an artist as some sort of insideous and undeserved, unfair advantage, as if the music industry was exclusively meant to be run from bedrooms of one and from behind YouTube and TikTok accounts.

If anything, artist development is only a recently neglected area by labels, opting to let artists themselves be the creators, marketers, publicists, cinematographers, bookers, promoters, merch and poster graphic designers and much more, all on that lucrative label budget of $0.00.

Who can afford to do all that? An artist that can either afford not to have a full-time job outside of their self-employed music career, or someone who can afford to pay others.

Which brings me back to the discussion about wealth in music. Sam Fender was completely right when he spoke out about how hard it is for working class artists to break through. The Dublin-based singer CMAT (incidentally, on tour supporting Fender at the moment) talked about how she wanted to write a guide on how working class musicians can make it in this treacherous industry, because to realise that everyone living your dream is doing it on the back of wealth you can never cough up is quite demotivating. Working class artists slog for a decade before being recognised at the level that the backing of a label could achieve in a year, there is no hiding from this. (Also, CMAT only half-jokingly said this but she is right: rich kid music also just lacks bite. There’s an urgency and potency to working class music that genuinely holds up a mirror to society that an artist who doesn’t have to face every aspect of the world sometimes simply cannot put into words in the same way. It is absolutely crucial that we do not lose working class voices in art.)

CMAT live. Sean McMahon

So really, we need to focus less on tearing down working class artists with unfounded accusations of being ‘industry plants’, something that also seems to disproportionately be levelled at women, musicians of colour, queer artists and other marginalised communities by men who cannot understand their success, and focus more on preserving the funding and pathway programmes that have historically tried to place working class artists on the same footing as richer artists.

The problem with the music industry isn’t so-called industry plants— it’s that funding in music stays at the top while grassroots artists suffer. Spotify CEO Daniel Ek is reportedly worth 7.5 billion USD, while Canada has lost 15% of its small music venues since the beginning of 2020. The UK, where the Music Venue Trust keeps clearer track of the state of grassroots music venues, reports that the UK loses a grassroots venue every two weeks currently. When burgeoning young talent don’t have the venues to hone their talent, make their mistakes and develop their sound and stage presence, future stars are lost forever, working class or otherwise.

So good on Sam Fender. Himself a working class kid, he’s done something good for working class musicians everywhere even just by starting this important conversation with a platform as large as he has built for himself.

[lagerloutfic]

hot rookie slagsss rides again! 'tis the season to have normal thots about your co-workers. thank you to @ctimenefic and @latecomersprivilege for making this one billion times better.

read part one - alex albon and his foot thing

Lando has no idea where he is. Couldn’t tell you the time for a million quid. He might be in a completely different country. There’s been a bottle in his hand since he stepped onto the podium. Champagne, beer, shots. 

A bottle of water was thrust at him at some point but Party in the USA blasted over the speakers so he poured it over Andrea making him squeal. 

He’s drunk. He’ll admit it. Probably passed drunk a few miles back. Totally hammered, as promised. He’s not the only one.

Everyone around him is grinning like mad. Hands clap him on the back so often he’s sure he’ll be bruised between his shoulder blades come morning. He doesn’t know who half the people are but it doesn’t matter. It’s all love tonight, everyone high as kites from topping the Constructors and whatever else is getting passed around.

It’s a good feeling. One of the best he’s ever had. It makes him really – 

Horny.

Like, disturbingly so. 

Disturbing because when he spots Oscar in the corner – looming over Lily with her back to the wall, one hand braced beside her head as she pulls him in by the collar to snog the pants off him – everything else shuts down apart from the klaxon in his brain screaming: I want, I want I want. 

It’s confusing. It doesn’t make sense. 

It’s – really hot how Lily doesn’t stop snogging Oscar as she turns his cap around, hand on the back of his neck pulling him closer. Really gives it to him with both barrels. Oscar’s hand creeps around to her waist, holding her close. Lando is glad the music is so loud so no one can hear him moan. 

Lando pulls out his phone. The background is super blurry, battery on a precarious 3%. He has to squint one eye as he peers down, tongue between his teeth as he opens Hot Rookie Slagsss. 

Lando: how do u ask some1 4 a 3some

George: Oh good, you’re alive

George: Don’t bother replying to any of the other fifty messages

Alex: who are you asking

Lando: no one

George: just a hypothetical question at 4 in the morning

Lando: dont use big words

Alex: imagine you’re asking us

Lando: u and russell?

George: Surely Alex means us and our girlfriends

Alex: surely

Lando thinks about asking the boys and their fit girlfriends for a threesome and, yeah. Obviously that’s a nice thought. There are so many nice thoughts flooding Lando’s brain right now he feels a little sick.

Lando: alex do u & lily wanna have 3some

George: Oh, of course you ask Alex and not me. Typical. 

Alex: now, now Georgie, don’t be jealous

George: Unbelievable. 

Alex: Lily says you’re too short

Lando: im a NORMAL HEIGHT

George: Whatever Frodo

Lando: ever think u 2 r freakishly tall

Alex: no

Lando is distracted from the bickering in his phone by the way Lily’s hands are moving down the back of Oscar’s ugly too-long shorts to cup his arse. Lando wants to be in the middle of it, to feel their hands roam over him, to let himself float in space as two sets of lips press against his neck. 

Oscar’s being so sloppy, licking along Lily’s jaw, sharp teeth biting down before thrusting his tongue back in her mouth. Jesus Christ. 

Lando: guys im dying here

George: in my experience, one simply waits to be asked

Lando: thats not gonna happen

George: Maybe for you…

Lando: wait

Lando: who did u have a 3some with

Lando: WHO

Lando: alex who was it

George: Alexander don’t you dare

Lando: WHOWHOWHOWHO

Alex: as discussed, Lily likes tall men

Lando: omgggggg

George: You’d best count your days Albon because you are so fucking dead

Alex: Lily wants to know what hotel you’re at

George: can we please take this to the other chat

Lando: WHAT other chat

Alex: secret threesome chat

George: I could do a murder and no one would blame me

Lando watches the three dots showing Alex typing and then his screen goes blank. He presses the power button furiously, willing the phone to light up but it’s dead. 

Lando considers flinging it across the room. Would be happy to never hear from his so-called friends again. The nerve, having secret threesomes willy-nilly behind his back. Absolute fuckers, the lot of them. 

There are cheers across the room. One of the mechanics has unearthed another magnum of champagne (where on earth do they keep finding these things) and is uncorking it, urging Oscar to tip his head back. 

It takes two of the mechanics to hoist it into the air. Oscar has to crouch, practically on his knees, mouth open wide as the fizz sloshes over his cheeks, foaming down his neck, soaking his shirt. Lando grips the sticky table in front of him, crotch pressed to the corner, his entire body throbbing in time to the music. 

Lily stands to the side, hand over her mouth, hair all mussed up from where Oscar’s been clutching it. She catches Lando’s eye and gestures at Oscar, silently asking him to get a load of this guy. 

Lando’s got a load of it alright. A big one. 

Lando doesn’t know how it happens but one second he’s humping the table and the next he’s on his knees next to Oscar, lukewarm champagne stinging his eyes for the hundredth time that day. 

It splashes all over Lily’s shoes and Lando follows the long line of her legs, her hips, tilting his head back to look at her face. She’s beaming down at him, totally unbothered by the sloshing between her toes. 

Everything is so wet.

“How do you feel about short blokes?” Lando slurs and she bends down, one hand on his shoulder.

“How short are we talking about?” 

Lando looks over helplessly at Oscar, two arms wrapped around some of the front office guys, wet t-shirt clinging to his chest. From this angle he can see the sharp grooves of Oscar’s abs, can count every single muscle straining as he laughs. 

Not that anyone cares, but him and Lando are literally the same height. 

Lily shrugs. “Reckon that’s ideal.”

George’s stupid fucking voice rings in Lando’s ears: One simply waits to be asked. 

He’s going to rub this in their handsome faces.

[homosexualgirlandbags]

I need a big strong woman to pat me on the head and dissolve all of my vows. Sigh.

Moving on, domestic NikPrice bullshit go!

"Nik, for fucks sake, would you stop leaving you-"

John stops as Nik turned to face him, motor oil still wafting through the air as he approaches the man, all smiles with an apron wrapped around his waist. It takes less than a second before Nik is kissing him hard against the door, helping the man put away his boots.

John notes that Nik is not wearing anything under the apron at all. He sees Nik turn back into the kitchen, and catches the man pulling out the purple string out of his arse.

Dinner was relatively fine. Nik hated anyone interrupting him whilst he was cooking. So John stood there in the doorway, leaning against a cabinet as he talked about senseless ramblings.

Nik drinks up every word like it's a verdict from God.

Blue eyes trailed up and down against tanned skin, appreciating every half healed bruise and jagged lines that decorated the man's skin, watched as Nik flexed his muscles while stretching, how he manhandles the food with such ease that it seemed like second nature.

He sees Nik stirring a pot of borscht, far too attractive to be a man in that moment. Rather, a still frame of a painting capturing a moment of time. A time of peace and love, where the two men in the room didn't have to worry about betrayals and death, and what not. Just the enjoyment of each other's company, and the decisions that follow the mundanity of life.

After all, they were only two very normal men, working in highly dangerous fields. That isn't much space for a routine or sense of normalcy for them, except for the piece of heaven on Earth they carved out for themselves.

And so, Price talks and Nik listens, the soft whistling of the kettle accompanying the soft background track in the kitchen. Nik dishes up the meal and John thanks him quietly for it. The air between them filled with unspoken appreciation as they ate. Nik leans forward and wipes a crumb off of John's face, and John kisses him after, quick and simple.

They both ended up crashing on the couch that night, blue light still glowing from the movie as they snuggle up against each other under a skull and duck covered blanket.

Because after all, what is life if it isn't to experience moments like these?

[inkformyblood]

guess (COD Kinktober 2024 Day 14)

Canon Era, Soap x Ghost x Price x Gaz, (Poly141). Sex toys. Lime.

“Package for you, Cap. And one for you, Lieutenant.” Gaz’s arms are loaded high with the recent mail delivery; backlogged for three months with their recent spate of missions and Soap can barely remember half the items he’d ordered while he’d been on leave. Some fresh paints possibly, a new sketchbook given that he was starting to run out of space in his current one and layering fresh drawings over old. 

Gaz drops a handful of parcels onto the table in front of Soap, a few letters mixed in, and Soap grabs for them before Gaz’s words could register.

Between the five of them, Gaz receives the most mail — a combination of a larger family and a minor addiction to the late night shopping channels — then Soap ��� his own family fairly well-spread, if disorganised, and his artistic hobbies lending themselves to infrequent purchases — but Price almost never receives mail, same as Ghost.

“What did you get?” Soap leans forwards, his own mail abandoned and tips Ghost’s package towards himself, peering at the shipping label. He only gets a glimpse, simplistic text on a plain background, nothing more than a company name, before it’s pulled away, Ghost snapping his fingers in front of his face. 

Gaz nudges Soap back into his seat, dropping onto his lap with a sigh. He’s a solid weight, Soap’s arms falling to his hips then wrapping around Gaz’s belly and squeezing him tight as he presses his forehead to the back of Gaz’s neck. The other man smells like the cheap toiletries in the communal showers, a lingering hit of rich smoke from Price’s cigars, and Soap lifts his face to bite at Gaz’s shoulder, just for something else to do as his mind races. 

Gaz sinks further down, tips his head back to allow Soap better access to his skin. “Same parcel that Price has got,” he murmurs, his gaze darting between the other two men. There’s something brewing between them, the parcels opened just enough to slide the invoices free and they have swapped them, dragging their fingers over the small text. Price is holding his far enough away that it could be grabbed easily…

“Don’t even think about it, lad.”

Fair enough. 

Ghost glances over his invoice, his eyes dark, and a shiver rolls up Soap’s spine, his teeth tight in the fabric of Gaz’s shirt. “Might as well test them out now.” Ghost tears his parcel open without another thought and crooks his fingers at them both. “Doors locked so bend over the desk and you’ll see what we’ve got.”

There’s a strange thrill to being any degree of naked in the main areas of the base, Soap and Gaz folded over the meeting room table and their trousers drawn down to the ankles. 

“Opening scene to a porno ain’t we, Gaz.”

Gaz catches his eye, grins wide. “Have we been naughty boys, sirs?”

A broad hand smacks against Soap’s arse first, low enough to catch the meat of his thigh, and he yelps, jerking forward on the table. Gaz groans into the second impact, burying his face into his hands and raising his hips up. Something rests against Soap’s spine, cool but not metal, a slightly tacky sensation as he shivers and it moves. 

“Eyes front,” Price barks. “Got a surprise for you, lads. Couple of toys for you to test out, but.”

“But, sir?” Gaz asks, chewing over his lower lip, slightly shifting against Soap as he sways his arse, raised high in the air once more. 

“You’re going to guess the size of the toy we are fucking you with. At stake are bragging rights and you can pick the movie tonight.”