#its one of those where one draws the head

[emchante]

storytime seduction | m. verstappen

request: Mmm thinking about a storytelling stream w Max 🤭 he reads poetry or a smutty excerpt from a novel in that insanely hot Dutch accent, making flirty remarks here n there with those obscene low moans on purpose

softcore porn streamer! max

warnings: 18+/suggestive — minors dni.

request was sent by di!! can’t answer it as it isn’t in my inbox anymore, so the original ask is written above. so glad you guys are loving this au, because i love writing it! don’t forget to drop your thoughts in my inbox<3

you join the stream when you’re finally in bed for the night, and met with the usual display. max has a lazy grin on his face, the one that makes you both excited and terrified of what he has planned. the title had teased ‘story time with max’, which honestly left it quite vague.

you’re not entirely sure what to expect, but as soon as he leans back in his chair, holding a book up with an annoyingly suggestive smirk— your stomach twists.

max adjusts his mic slightly, leaning in as his deep, accented voice comes through like a warm caress. “alright, alright,” he says, opening the book up. he flips to the section he had bookmarked, and his other hand casually grips the hem of his tight tank top, lifting it slightly to scratch at his stomach. it’s a subtle move— but the flash of soft skin, the peak of his light happy trail— but it’s enough to send the chat spiralling.

“oh, this?” he asks, catching on and pulling the tank top higher, revealing his soft stomach with his large hand now splayed entirely across it. he watches the messages come in even faster as he exposes himself more, and he chuckles deeply before pulling it back down. “now, let’s set the mood.”

the lighting in his room is dim, soft and golden, casting just enough shadow to make the atmosphere feel.. intimate. he begins to read an excerpt from whatever erotica is in front of him, and it’s obscene how good he sounds. the words roll off his tongue like they were made to be spoken in that voice— low and rich with just enough gravel to send a rush of heat throughout your body.

“‘her breath hitched,” he reads, tone dipping lower as his lips quirk up into a slight smirk. “his touch—barely a graze— sent heat racing down her spine’,” he pauses, looking to the chat before pulling an innocent expression. “oh, too much? or should i keep going?”

that chat of course explodes, begging max to continue, spamming about how he knows what he’s doing— and the smirk on his face only grows as the chat begins to flood with pleas.

he laughs softly, the sound vibrating throughout your headphones and into your very soul. “okay, okay, you all asked for it.”

and then he’s back to reading the filth that he holds in his hands, drawing out the words like he knows exactly what he’s doing to everyone listening. his voice is velvet, dark and teasing, his dutch accent thickening around certain phrases— especially the more explicit dialogue.

you’re hyper-aware of every pause he takes, every low chuckle that escapes him when he sees chat losing its mind. when the writing starts to get more heated, he leans closer into the mic, and your skin prickles as if he’s speaking directly into your way.

“‘you like that?’” he reads, and then he turns his gaze towards his camera. he licks his lips slowly, tilting his head as he continues to stare for a few moments, before he turns to his chat. “hmm, i think i’ve heard that one before,” he teases, his grin downright sinful.

max shifts in his seat, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his waistband like he doesn’t realise what he’s doing. “‘her legs trembled as his hands slid lower, his fingers brushing the bare skin where her thighs met—’”

he breaks off again, this time with an obscene, low groan escaping his throat. “this is downright filth, isn’t it?” he asks, his hand moving from his waistband up to the back of his neck to scratch it, muscles flexing with the motion.

“‘her breath came in short gasps as his lips found her ear, whispering promises of what he’d do to her,’” he mimics it, leaning close to the mic and lowering his voice even further, eyes peering into the camera. “i could whisper to you too, you know. tell you exactly what i’d do if you were here.”

your breath hitches, heat flushing through you once more as his words seem to sink directly into your skin.

his hands trails back down his body again, thumb dragging itself across his chest and falling lower before brushing the line of his waistband again. “‘her body arched into him, begging silently for more— hmm, i should make you all beg for more, shouldn’t i? horny fuckers here to listen to me read you an erotic bedtime story,” he interrupts himself to tease the chat, licking his lips at the eager response.

“good girls,” he mutters, a deep heat flourishing from your core as the words do something to you— and evidently everyone else in the chat. “one last line. just for you.”

his voice dips even lower, barely above a growl now. “‘his hands slid under her thighs, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. his mouth hovered over hers, his breath hot and heavy as he finally gave her what she had been waiting for.’”

max shuts the book with a snap, tossing it aside like it’s nothing. “well,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. “i think that’s enough for tonight. don’t want to ruin you completely, yeah?”

the chat is still spiralling— as are you— but max only winks, stretching in his chair as a sliver of stomach shows again. “sweet dreams, everyone,” he purrs, “try not to think of me too much.”

and then the stream cuts off.

⋆˙⟡ enjoy this? i hope you did! please come chat to me about it in my ask box! publicly or on anon— i’ll answer everything <3

[pursuitseternal]

“𝓕𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓮, 𝓥𝓸𝓵𝓾𝓹𝓽𝓾𝓸𝓾𝓼, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓮…”

Ascended Astarion x f!reader | E | 1.3 K

A gift for Stacey Monroe, art on Twt and BlueSky

Full nsfw image

Summary: Pregnant and heavy with child, your Master takes a moment to worship your body, the fullness and signs of your condition only make him want you more… and again

CW: Pregnancy, body worship, postpartum body is beautiful, cock warming turns smut, milk kink, breast play, PiV, creampie, breeding.

Ao3 Link | BG3 fic Masterlist

A warm night. A summer night. A night where the air was heavy, and so are you. Months of life inside you, a swollen belly and aches and pains that wrack your whole body. Little gives you comfort at this stage, you know it well. Each year, you are swallowed whole by your heat, bred with the spawn of the Ascendant, your love, then you carry them for months.

You run your hands over your belly, its curves hard and swollen with the child inside you. And you look down at him, where he sprawls in the grass of your palace garden, the green blades matted from your vigorous fucking already done. His cock still throbs, hard and recently drained in your cunt. You grin, sliding your hands down the sweat on your bump to brace yourself on his chest.

For this was the one most delicious, most efficient, and most satisfying way he gives aid to your aches and pains of pregnancy. His skilled, nimble fingers run over your curves, where your skin is taut and stretched to its limits. The warmth of his palms slides up your belly to cup your breasts. So late in your term, so swollen, they are already full and tingling with milk. Primed and ready for the new life that’s nestled in your belly.

In fact, your body is so attuned to bearing life for your master, you had already given him heirs, spawn, so often before. Your breasts are already leaking early milk. It gathers in small beads of cream that he thumbs away as he squeezes them and warms them, one in each hand.

You whine a little, hissing. “My lord, they’re so sore,” you murmur, the pain making your hips roll with his cock still buried and warmed inside you.

But he only kneads them a bit harder, more deliberate to draw out a trickle of thick milk from your nipple.

“Pet… so delicious,” he purrs beneath you, one arm bracing himself as he sits. His head buries into the valley of your breasts, licking the sweat from them even as he coaxes more milk to leak. That warm tongue laves to your left nipple, lapping the stream of yellowish cream before he tenderly suckles it in his lips.

No teeth. No fangs. He knows your heavy, swollen body well enough to know what brings you pleasure-pain and what will break you.

A keening whine is loosened from your tongue, your hips grinding on his as you involuntarily bend with pleasure. “Master… love…” You roll your hips again, already spread open so perfectly for your Sire beneath you. In your body… in your mind you tell him hardening for you again. He raises his hips ever so slightly, that hardness inside you pressing against your swollen cervix again.

And fuck, it feels good.

Muscles are warm from his body, your tendons stretched open for him already, cock balls deep in your breeded cunt.

He gives a deep, husky sigh, contented and yet unsated once more. “My treasure, are you so eager? As if I could put a second babe inside your already swollen belly?” His laughter is languorous and vibrates between your thighs.

You expect his claws to dig into your hips, his own hips to snap up into you to bounce you hard and fast…

But he doesn’t. His crimson eyes trail over your form perched atop him, his cock your throne. The warm, nimble pads of his fingers trace those lines on your belly, where you’ve stretched to fit the life inside you… they linger and worship the few scars you have low on your belly, beneath your navel.

Where you’ve given life by different means, your battle scars from your birthing bed.

His touch is fond, attentive as he draws over their lines, memorized by heart. “My beautiful consort, my precious treasure,” he croons from the grass beneath you. “How the sight of you laden with child does things to me. I could spend hours buried deep in your cunt, marveling at the mystery your body is.”

Then, his hands resume their places in the crests of your hips, gripping you in place as he plants his feet to the earth. His hips rise and roll as he thrusts. Your name is a sweet little sigh on his breath as he groans, cockhead pushing into your cervix again.

You blush, your insatiable appetite for sex, for him, burns tenfold all the hotter with a baby in your belly. Fresh arousal leaks on his cock to cool on the planes of his pelvis.

Astarion gives a low growl deep in his belly, as he feels your heat multiplying with every thrust. “So good for me, so warm and supple, so round and ripe with my seed as it grows,” he croons his praises, crimson eyes scanning your every inch, his tongue licking his lips as if he can taste your arousal in the air. He grits his fangs, hands clawed into your skin, careful to take his time. Your cunt weeps, already so swollen and overstimulated, so sensitive from his earlier attentions. “My beloved consort, my most perfect creation…”

He begins to thrust into you a bit quicker, your hands coming to rest on his. Palms slide down his arms until you are bracing yourself in the fragrant grass, hands digging into the earth and framing his head. Taking your own weight forward, you buck, hissing at the force of the drag, his cock splitting you. The nerves in your walls are on fire with pleasure and pain, making you whine with urgency in time with every push of his cockhead into your cunt.

“Please… love… Master… Please,” you keen louder and louder, leaning forward to take him shallower, dragging the fullness of your breast against his face. His breath is hot on them, they hurt with milk, tingle nearly numb from overstimulation. The moment his mouth brushes one nipple, you scream, riding his cock faster. Claws dig at your waist, pulling you harder to meet his thrusts up into you.

With each movement inside you, he grunts, he growls, his tongue licking his lips as his eyes dilate to almost pure black circles ringed in the thinnest band of scarlet.

“Fertile,” he pants, “voluptuous,” he growls, “and most importantly… mine…”

His voice grates as he plunges into you, your body shaking, walls sucking him in deep as you shudder in agony and bliss.

It happens so fast inside you, the walls of your womb tightening, squeezing around the fullness you bear as you slowly come undone. Your arousal pours from you, wet and slick sounds as he fucks through your orgasm with his snapping hips.

You squirm on him, watching his feral, frenzied face grins at you. Adoration, delight, and primal lust shine in his eyes as he watches you come undone on his cock, his offspring tightened in your swollen belly. “Mine… mine… my mate… my consort… my… pet…” he snaps the last word short as he comes inside you again. Warm seed coating your generous slick.

You’re sure he would breed you a second time if he could, and the desirous light in his eye and his fanged, smirking grin only makes you wish it were true.

For a second, you rest on him until he rolls you on your sides. Cock still buried in your cunt, his hand runs over your side, brushing the aching swell of your breast where it’s sticky from your dripping milk. He trails it down your arm, gathering your hand in his, he raises it to place a reverent kiss on the back of your knuckles.

“Beautiful,” he praises your heavy laden body, “simply beautiful.”

[soulofapatrick]

"I’m your idiot" - Senami Shinazugawa x female reader

Summary: You get injured and Senami panics for once

Words: 4K 

Warnings: blood; injury 

Notes: I just finished Demon Slayer hehe

Y/N’s POV 

The Butterfly Mansion is so close now. Its rooftops peek through the dense forest, like a distant promise, barely visible above the treetops. The faint clash of swords echoes on the wind, sharp and rhythmic, a sound that’s both reassuring and agonising. Every step I take feels heavier, as though my body is being pulled down by invisible chains. My legs tremble beneath me, struggling to carry my exhausted frame. Blood, sticky and hot, pools beneath my uniform, seeping through the fabric and staining my skin. It’s a constant, unrelenting flow, a reminder that I’m barely holding on.

Sanemi’s going to be furious.

The thought cuts through the fog of pain clouding my mind like a blade. His voice, sharp as always, rings in my ears: Why didn’t you call for backup? What the hell were you thinking? Those words will bite—harsh and unforgiving—but what stings more than the anger in his voice is the worry that always follows. It’s the worry that weighs heavier on me than anything else.

I stumble, my foot catching on a loose rock, and I barely manage to grab hold of a tree trunk to stop myself from crashing down. My knees threaten to buckle, but I force myself forward, one step after another, despite the waves of dizziness that threaten to swallow me whole.

The courtyard is so close now—just ahead, an open space where the Hashira train. My heart stutters in my chest, a jarring mix of relief and dread. I don’t want him to see me like this, vulnerable, broken. But I know I can’t make it much farther. I’m too far gone.

By the time I reach the courtyard, my vision is nothing but a blur of shapes and colours, spinning as if I’m caught in a storm. The sound of sparring fills my ears—Mitsuri’s laughter, light and infectious, Obanai’s dry remarks laced with annoyance, the sharp clang of steel meeting steel as Giyuu’s blade clashes against Sanemi’s. The noises are distant, muffled, like they’re reaching me through a thick veil of water, as though I’m standing at the bottom of a deep well.

I take one more step.

My body betrays me. My legs give way beneath me, and the world tilts violently. The ground rises up to meet me, hard and unforgiving, as I crash to my knees. My palms scrape against the dirt, rough and raw, and a sharp jolt of pain shoots through my side. I choke on the coppery taste of blood in my mouth, swallowing back a cry that threatens to escape.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. The world spins, my vision darkening at the edges. The pounding of my heartbeat fills my ears, drowning out everything else. But then, through the haze, I see them—the Hashira—training under the sun, their movements swift and fluid, their presence grounding me, even as my strength fades.

“Y/N!” Mitsuri’s voice slices through the fog, high-pitched and laced with panic. My head jerks toward her, and I catch the sight of her wooden sword slipping from her hands, forgotten as she freezes in horror. Her eyes widen in disbelief, her face draining of colour as she takes in the sight of me.

Her cry cuts through the air, sharp and unrestrained, drawing everyone’s attention in an instant. Giyuu’s movements falter, his typically serene composure briefly disrupted by a flicker of concern that crosses his stoic features. Obanai stiffens, his eyes narrowing as they fixate on me, sharp and calculating, the gears in his mind turning in silence. And Sanemi—

Sanemi freezes mid-swing, his body tensing as if time itself has slowed. His sword, once poised to strike Giyuu with practiced precision, slips from his grip and crashes to the ground. The clang of metal against stone echoes across the courtyard, the sharpness of the sound making my already fragile heart skip a beat.

“Y/N!” His voice shatters the tension, cracking with raw, unfiltered panic, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

I barely register the rush of his footsteps—fast, determined—as he breaks into a dead sprint toward me. My arms tremble, the last vestiges of my strength giving way, and before I can crumple entirely to the earth, his presence is there, like a storm rushing in to steady me.

Sanemi drops to his knees beside me with such force that the earth beneath us seems to shudder in response. His hands are on me instantly—rough, urgent, but somehow tender—as he pulls me against his chest, cradling me like I might slip away if he isn’t careful.

“Shit, shit,” he mutters under his breath, his voice barely a whisper but full of panic and disbelief. His eyes rake over me, taking in the blood soaking through my torn uniform, the tremors that wrack my body with every shallow breath. His fingers press against my side, and I can’t help the sharp intake of breath, a flinch of pain that I can’t hide. “What the hell happened to you?”

The words barely reach my mind through the haze of pain clouding everything. I try to respond, but my throat is so dry, parched, that all that escapes is a weak, rasping sound—an echo of a voice that feels like it belongs to someone else.

“Damn it, don’t talk,” he snaps, his voice harsh, but the fury in his words is quickly undermined by the trembling of his hand against my side, the softness that lingers despite the anger in his tone. “You’re bleeding everywhere—how long have you been walking like this?”

I summon what little strength I have left to lift my gaze to his, meeting his eyes—stormy and frantic, filled with a mixture of disbelief, anger, and something softer, something buried deeper that I can’t quite place. With great effort, I force my lips into the faintest of smiles, even though every fibre of my being aches in protest. “Didn’t... want to bother you,” I whisper, each word a struggle, each breath like shards of glass in my chest.

His expression contorts, his lips parting as though to say something, but no words come. For a moment, he simply stares at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as though he's at war with himself. He’s torn, and it’s painfully evident—torn between the fury that surges within him and the vulnerability that threatens to break through.

“Bother me?” he growls, his voice thick with emotion, his hand tightening around me, but not in a way that would hurt. “You’re—” He stops himself, inhaling sharply through his nose as though trying to calm the storm inside him, trying to keep himself from unraveling.

Behind him, Mitsuri hovers anxiously, her hands clasped over her mouth, her wide eyes filled with worry. Obanai stands a few steps back, his usual calm indifference replaced by a rare flicker of unease. The atmosphere around us is thick with tension, heavy and suffocating.

“Giyuu, go get Shinobu,” Sanemi barks, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip, his command sharp and unwavering despite the chaos swirling inside him. He doesn’t look up from me, his focus entirely on the fragile weight of my body in his arms. He’s shaking, but he won’t let it show—not yet.

I hear the rapid retreat of Giyuu’s footsteps as he races off to find Shinobu. His footsteps fade into the distance, and in the silence that follows, Mitsuri takes a hesitant step closer. Her voice trembles, barely more than a whisper, as she asks, “Is she—Sanemi, is she going to be okay?”

Sanemi’s jaw tightens at the question, and his lips press into a thin line, a flicker of something dangerous flashing in his eyes. He lifts his gaze to hers, the flicker of panic momentarily giving way to a controlled mask of determination. But when his eyes dart back to my face, the fear he’s trying so desperately to hide is unmistakable. It’s there, in the way his pupils constrict, in the way his hand—still cradling me—quivers.

“She will be,” he says, his voice firm, though the conviction falters like a thread pulled too tight.

His forehead drops to mine, and I can feel his breath—hot, uneven—against my skin. His presence envelops me, grounding me in a reality that feels dangerously distant. “You’re an idiot,” he murmurs, his voice low, cracking with restrained emotion. His words sting, but it’s not the anger that cuts deep. It’s the tremble beneath them—the rawness, the fear. “You could’ve died out there, and for what? To spare me a little worry?”

I manage a weak laugh, though it comes out more like a dry, desperate wheeze, and a bitter taste coats my tongue. “Figured you’d... yell at me less.”

His fingers tighten against my side—almost painfully so—and his shoulders tremble with the weight of emotions he’s fighting to suppress. “You think I care about that right now?” His voice cracks, fragile and breaking. “You think I care about how much I yell at you when you’re bleeding out in my arms?” His words are strained, raw with anguish, and the desperation that laces his voice sends a chill through me, more potent than the pain. “I just—” He stops himself, biting back whatever else he wants to say, his chest rising and falling as he draws in a shaky breath.

“Sanemi...” I whisper his name, my voice barely audible, but it seems to carry the weight of everything unsaid between us.

His lips tremble, and then, before I can even blink, he interrupts me, his forehead pressing harder against mine. “I’ve got you,” he says, his voice a fierce promise, though the cracks in his tone betray the fear that’s clawing at him. “You’re going to be fine. Just—just stay with me, okay? Don’t you dare close your eyes.”

Mitsuri kneels beside us, her hands hovering over me, as though afraid that the slightest touch will make everything worse. “Sanemi, I think—” she begins, but her words falter in the air, swallowed by the tension.

“I know,” he snaps, but then his voice softens as my breathing catches in a strained gasp. “I know,” he repeats, almost to himself, a mantra in the silence that follows.

The world around me tilts, fading further into a haze as the darkness creeps at the edges of my vision. But still, I feel him—his strength, his warmth—as he gently, but urgently, lifts me into his arms. The movement is careful, as if he believes that any jolt will shatter me into a million pieces. And still, his heartbeat pounds in my ears—loud, frantic, wild—but steady enough to hold on to. His arms are like iron bands, yet there’s a tenderness to them, a desperation that breaks through the tension.

As he rises to his feet, his voice drops to a mutter, too low for anyone else to catch, but not too low for me. “You’re everything, you idiot,” he breathes, his words laced with an agony so pure it almost cuts through the darkness threatening to swallow me whole. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

And even as the shadows tug at my consciousness, pulling me deeper into oblivion, I cling to him. To the sound of his voice, jagged and frantic. To the heat of his body, holding me together. To the promise buried in the depths of his words, a lifeline tethering me to the world, even as everything slips away.

——

The first thing I register is the sterile scent of herbs and salves, mingling with the faint scent of wood and fire. My body feels heavy, weighed down by exhaustion, but the softness of the futon beneath me is a welcome reprieve from the unforgiving battlefield. Each muscle aches as if I’ve been torn apart and stitched back together again, but for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m allowed to rest.

I try to shift, but a warmth at my side stops me, pulling me back into the stillness. Slowly, my senses sharpen, and I realise my hand is wrapped in something rough, something solid. A warm, unyielding presence. I blink, my vision blurry at first as the light filters through the window, and my gaze lands on him.

Sanemi.

He’s slumped in a chair beside the bed, his body curved toward me like a lifeline, his head resting gently on my thigh. His white hair spills messily over the edge of the blanket, soft strands caught in the light like streaks of moonlight. His grip on my hand is firm, almost desperate, as if even in sleep, he’s afraid I might slip away.

I blink back the sting of tears at the sight of him, his exhaustion written across every line of his face. His brows are furrowed even now, as though he's still fighting, still caught in some nightmare he can’t wake from. I feel a pang deep in my chest—this man, this warrior, so strong and unwavering, yet here he is, vulnerable, caught between the worlds of dreams and fear.

My free hand moves without thought, trembling fingers sliding gently through the mess of white hair, like I can anchor him to me in the way he’s always done for me. His hair is coarse, yet soft to the touch, like him—tough and unyielding, but full of unexpected warmth. I thread my fingers through it, offering a gentle, soothing stroke.

He stirs almost instantly, his head lifting slightly, his eyes blinking open slowly, groggily at first. The confusion on his face fades almost immediately, his eyes locking onto mine with wide-eyed shock. And then, a relief so intense it fills the room with the weight of it.

“Y/N?” His voice is rough, hoarse, as though he’s been yelling at the world for days, his throat raw from disuse. But the fear in his eyes, the way they soften when they settle on me, tells me everything I need to know.

“Hi,” I whisper, my throat dry and scratchy, the words barely leaving my lips.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. His whole body freezes, like he’s afraid if he so much as blinks, I’ll vanish. Then, his hand tightens around mine, and he leans forward, his face hovering just above mine.

“You’re awake,” he breathes, his voice cracking, his face inches from mine. His hand drops from my hand only to cradle my face, his thumb brushing along my cheek in a gesture so gentle, it feels like the softest of prayers. “You—damn it, you’ve been out for four days.”

Four days?

I echo his words softly, my voice faint, barely audible. “Four days?”

He nods, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. His breath is shaky, uneven, and I can feel the tension in his body, the weight of everything he’s carried these past days, all of it pouring out in that single exhale. “Four damn days of you lying here while I—I thought I might lose you,” he mutters, the words laced with the kind of pain I’ve never heard from him before.

My hand moves again, resting softly against his cheek, feeling the roughness of his skin beneath my palm. His eyes snap open, and I smile faintly at him, the curve of my lips weak but genuine.

“I’m here, Sanemi,” I murmur softly, my voice a quiet assurance against the storm he’s been weathering. “You didn’t lose me.”

His breath hitches, and for a moment, he doesn’t speak. He only stares at me, his jaw clenching as if he’s fighting to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to spill over. And when his voice finally breaks the silence, it’s barely a whisper—so quiet, yet so charged with everything he’s been holding in.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, his voice low and trembling, the words laden with an intensity that shakes me to the core. His grip on me tightens, and I feel the weight of his heart pressing against mine, raw and unfiltered.

“Don’t,” he cuts me off, his voice sharp but his touch impossibly gentle. “Don’t apologise. Just... just promise me you won’t do something that stupid again. Promise me, Y/N.”

His words slice through the air with a force that makes my chest tighten. There’s a desperation in his tone that I can’t ignore, an unspoken fear that tugs at the deepest part of me. He’s trying so hard to be the brash, no-nonsense Sanemi—the one everyone knows, the one who wears his pride like armour—but here, in this moment, with me, he’s stripped bare, vulnerable and raw in a way I’ve never seen before.

“I promise,” I say, and the weight of the words makes them feel like a vow. I mean it—more than I can even put into words. I won’t put him through that again.

His shoulders sag in visible relief, and for a moment, he just holds me there, his forehead still pressed against mine, grounding me. It feels like time slows, the world outside of this room falling away until there’s nothing left but the two of us—this fragile moment, this fragile promise.

Then, almost as if remembering who he is, he pulls back slightly, his face hardening in the way only Sanemi can. But his hand doesn’t leave my face, his thumb still tracing idle patterns along my skin, a touch so soft it contrasts with his words.

“You’re still an idiot for not calling for backup,” he mutters, the sharpness in his voice still there, but it’s tempered with something softer, something more... tender.

I can’t help but smile at him, the corners of my lips lifting in a small, genuine way. “I’ll call next time,” I promise, the words coming easy now.

His brows furrow in mock frustration, but the softness in his eyes betrays him. “There better not be a next time,” he growls, and despite the threat, there’s a protective warmth in his gaze that melts something inside me.

I laugh weakly, the sound light, but enough to ease something in him. He lets out a breath, low and quiet, like he’s been holding it in for days, and then... he leans down. The pressure of his forehead against mine relieves some of the tension that’s been mounting in his body, but then, as if drawn by some invisible force, he presses his lips—barely a touch, a whisper—against my forehead.

It’s fleeting, a soft, warm caress that holds more weight than any words could. The kiss sends a spark racing through me, igniting something fierce and unrelenting in my chest. The fear, the pain, the exhaustion—it all fades into the background, leaving only one undeniable truth in its place: I almost died without ever telling him how I feel.

I can’t let that happen.

Before I can overthink it, my hand shoots up, fingers curling around his jaw. His eyes widen in surprise, and I see the shift—his guard goes up, just for a second, before I tug him down, closing the space between us. His lips are still warm from the kiss on my forehead, but this time, the kiss is mine to give.

He doesn’t pull away. There’s a hesitation, a moment of shock in his eyes before they soften, and then he’s kissing me back. The world outside of this moment ceases to exist—there’s only the feeling of his lips on mine, the pressure of his body against me, the taste of relief and longing. His hand moves to the back of my head, holding me to him like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he lets go.

When we finally break apart, my breath is shallow, my heart pounding in my chest as if it’s trying to make up for lost time. His forehead rests against mine again, and I can feel his pulse—rapid, frantic—matching my own.

“You’re... you’re still an idiot,” he whispers, his voice a little more hoarse than before, but there’s something softer in his tone now. Something he hasn’t allowed himself to say, something I can feel through the way his fingers tremble lightly on my skin.

“I know,” I breathe out, my voice shaky. “But I’m your idiot.”

He huffs out something between a laugh and a sigh, his lips quirking into a small, lopsided grin. “Damn right you are.”

The weight of everything we’ve been through lingers in the space between us, heavy but comforting, as if we’re both silently acknowledging the unspoken bond that’s been forged through our shared trials. It’s a quiet understanding—one that only the two of us can fully grasp.

Then, without warning, he leans down again, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that’s softer this time, slower. There’s no rush, no desperation. It’s about something deeper, something more meaningful. Every brush of his lips against mine feels like a confession, a promise of everything he hasn’t been able to say. It’s a tenderness I’ve never seen from him before, and it catches me off guard in the best way.

But, of course, nothing can stay perfect for too long.

Behind us, there’s a faint cough—awkward, yet still loud enough to interrupt. Sanemi jerks back slightly, his body stiffening as he glares over his shoulder, his face flushing an impressive shade of red. Mitsuri stands a few feet away, her hands pressed against her flushed cheeks, eyes wide with an excitement she’s struggling to contain.

“I—sorry!” she squeaks, her voice high-pitched and practically vibrating with excitement. “I didn’t mean to interrupt! I just—um—should I get Shinobu?”

Sanemi’s scowl is quick to return, but the harshness of his usual tone is absent, replaced by something softer, more resigned. “Go!” he barks, though his voice is far from venomous. The slight embarrassment in his eyes gives away his true feelings. “Just... go.”

Mitsuri, clearly trying not to burst out laughing, nods eagerly before darting off, her excited giggles trailing behind her like a whirlwind. I bite back my own laughter, my hand still resting gently on Sanemi’s face as I meet his gaze again.

The shift in energy is palpable. What had been a tender, quiet moment now feels lighter, more relaxed, even though a faint blush still colours his cheeks. Sanemi’s scowl softens as soon as he looks at me, and I can see the weight of his emotions finally beginning to settle.

“We’re going to talk about this,” he says, his voice firm, though there’s no anger behind the words—just an undeniable sense of care.

I can’t help but smile, the corners of my lips twitching up as I stare at him. “About what? The fact that I’m still breathing?”

His eyes narrow in mock suspicion, and I can see the mix of affection and frustration swirling in them. “Don’t push your luck,” he mutters, though there’s a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze.

“I’m serious,” I tease, my fingers gently tracing the outline of his jaw. “I’m not going anywhere, Sanemi. Not now. Not ever.”

His expression softens again, and for a moment, it’s like the world outside of this room has stopped spinning. It’s just the two of us, wrapped in the aftermath of everything we’ve survived and everything we’ve yet to face. The unspoken words between us are more powerful than any argument or confession could ever be.

He finally gives a small nod, his thumb brushing across my cheek. “I know,” he says quietly. “I just... I wasn’t ready for it. But I’ll get used to it, I guess.”

I laugh softly, the sound light and free. “Good,” I say, my voice full of affection. “Because I’m not planning on going anywhere either.”

Demon Slayer Masterlist To be made TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

[sun-kissy]

saudade — chapter 1

★ series masterlist

sirius black x reader

Sirius runs his hands through your hair, nails drawing gentle lines down your scalp. He moves his fingers down to your face, tracing every curve and dip contouring your features with all the delicateness he can muster. The tip of his finger brushes over your eyelid, trails down your nose, and presses into the soft skin around your dimple.

He pinches your cheek; you giggle, swatting his hand away. If heaven were a place, he was sure it would be here, with you. These are the days he likes best, he thinks. When the war doesn’t feel so impending, like it’s lurking around the corner with its claws out. When he gets to love on you like he was born to.

He catches your hand in his, threads your fingers together. He can’t help but ponder how beautiful it is that your palm was made to fit his, the back of your hand moulded for him to press his lips to. So he does exactly that, kissing your hand with a soft murmur of, “I’m gonna miss you.”

You laugh softly. It’s a beautiful sound, like everything about you is. You tilt your head towards him slightly from where it rests on his lap, and flatten your palm against his cheek. “I’m gonna miss you too, babe. But I won’t be gone for long, you know?”

“But still —” Sirius mutters, unable to stop himself from curling your fingertips towards his lips to peck them again. “Three weeks —“ another kiss to your arm as he pulls you up and forces a surprised yelp out of you, “is a long time,” the last one to your lips, threading his fingers through the hair on the nape of your neck. His other arm snakes around your waist to hold you up.

You grin into his lips, besottedness palpable. He feels like he’s melting into you, your soft lips and saccharine smile enough to drive the sanest of the sane crazy. He wouldn’t have noticed if the kiss lasted a lifetime. That’s what soft love does to a hardened man.

You finally pull away, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked. Sirius notes how lovely you look in that moment — swollen lips and strands of hair astray, moonlight from the window dappling your skin. You smile, he’s moonstruck. He commits the image of you in this moment to memory — the softness of your edges and the gentleness of your smile; and tucks it away in a corner of his heart for the nights alone to come.

“Three weeks isn’t that long,” you murmur, sighing indulgently as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Besides, I get to send you those crazy talking patronus things that Albus came up with.”

Sirius pouts, pulling you so your back is snug against his chest. “Even a day without you is long enough. And why can’t I go?”

“Because I’m much better at thinking before I act. That’s why the mission was assigned to me.”

“Yeah, sure,” he snorts, playfully flicking your temple before pecking the spot. “You just got lucky, sweetheart.”

You and Marlene were leaving the next day, with instructions to attempt to find the headquarters of the so-called ‘Death Eaters’. It would take at least three weeks, maybe longer. Dumbledore had mentioned finding the biggest lead yet; hoping it would amount to something. The Order had been coming up empty for weeks now. Voldemort and his army were always two steps ahead, such that every ambush resulted in the loss of your own members, every plan foiled before it could even begin. Fatalities were high, morale was low. This mission had to be a success — one way or another.

Sirius had been trying to hide it behind playful quips and whines of how much he was going to miss you, but he couldn’t deny how anxious he was.

He knew that you could handle yourself, and that Marlene was a damn good witch too. He just couldn’t shake off the fear that maybe the Death Eaters were better.

You notice the subtle dimming of his smile, and turn his face towards yours with a finger on his chin. “Hey,” you press your lips to the corner of his. “I’m gonna be okay. Don’t worry about me.”

He breathes out a heavy sigh, and forces a smile for you. “I know you’re gonna be okay. My girl is one of the brightest witches of her age, isn’t she?”

“Damn right she is,” you grin earnestly, giggling when he pulls you into another kiss. If you noticed his fake smile, you didn’t mention it.

Sirius lets himself get lost in the feeling of you, trying his best to ignore the growing sense of dread gnawing at his heart.

[thisisnotthenerd]

misfits & magic ii stat tracking: episode 10

the spreadsheet, for all to see

the penultimate episode.

i cannot believe we got criss angel mindfreak, clint kelmp, hell, and evan eating both of them in the first 45 minutes. he ate them, barfed up miskoro, and then had the meat sweats so badly that he was immobile until they were transfigured into hamburgers.

and we've gotten the final component of magic with erika stone cold clocking it! intention, material, performance, location, and time as elements that channel the magic of the world best into great workings. i love the process and it makes so much sense for an organic magic system rather than a rigid one. big magic is harder but the magicians can be better.

they've arrived at gowpenny and the gowcentric orrery. bombini is somehow still alive beneath the school. evan's killed him and yet somehow i think that's not quite the end of him. tabby's broken and they

as always, the tag is #mismag ii stat tracking if you want to follow along.

mechanical/lore notes:

the fundamental rules of magic: intention, material, performance, location, and time

evan's father, who dances in a dark forest that composes hell, is named clint kelmp. he and his wife performed a ritual to turn evan into a vessel for demons during his childhood--the ritual killed them and cast clint into hell, where he would open his rib cage and invite evan to dance in order to consume himed

older magic, older items, store greater potential. bombini's wand held 50 motes of magic. tabby, as a being, can serve as a ritual component and focus for the breaking of the orrery.

island/creature tracking:

the gowcentric orrery tracked the funnels of magic to the well at gowpenny. the orrery functioned to create a cistern of magic that could be drawn upon by those wizards that bound it initially and their subsequent societies--its dispelling will disperse magic through the world more evenly. great workings must follow the ancient principles in order to be accomplished.

galamanis, the blind hellbender of creation. feeds into the chaos. things can be drawn from the ether, and that which is brought forth may be shaped by channeling through the self or through the material that has been created. currently channeled by whitney jammer.

qohlye, the winged goat of divination. truth and all that it means, opening the eyes of the viewer to the world in all of its potential. but the things that exist there do not always want to leave. who takes human form to communicate. currently channeled by sam butler.

seegenpelater, the double headed camel of captivation. can convince the mind of anything and the body with it. but the doing of magic takes a great price, of destruction and violence, and the island will gild the edges so it does not feel as though the world has changed.

weugan, the inverted wolf of amplification. symbols that speak to the increase of extant energy, matter and system. the condensed amplification of magic bleeding across deadened ground. currently channeled by k tanaka

tadershecourt, the skull antlered bear of defense and depletion, who warns of the necessary fear of the capabilities of magic and draws away from that which exists. protection of the self and others, of mind and body and soul. the full aspect of which the tadeshacourt is a part. currently channeled by evan kelmp.

miskoro, the fish-tailed bat of transmutation. taking energy or matter and maintaining the amount and intensity, but changing its identity. at one point consumed criss angel mindfreak but freed by evan kelmp eating his father in hell.

the skye serpent who surrounded these pillars of magic in the storm, who was summoned to protect the orrery from a plane long forgotten and bound for millennia. who was freed from a eternity of servitude by the pilot program in their improvised ritual.

character profiles:

whitney jammer:

items: familiar (spalding), band-aid

motive: teamwork (+1) 2nd Progression

injuries: minor + major

melee: d10 (+1)

mind: d6 (+1)

magnetism: d6

maneuver: d12 (+2)

matter: d20 (+1)

mettle: d10 (+1)

mark*: d20 (+1)

magic: d20 (3rd progression)

k tanaka:

items: familiar (teddy), shadow boon

motive: network (0) 2nd Progression

injures: none

melee: d6 (+1)

mind: d12 (+1)

magnetism: d12 (+1)

maneuver: d10 (+1)

matter: d4 (+2)

mettle: d20 (+2)

mark*: d10 (+1)

magic: d20 (4th progression)

sam britain:

items: familiar (terminator 2), broom, avail oneselfie stick, shadow boon

motive: community (0) 2nd Progression

injuries: minor

melee: d8 (+1)

mind*: d20 (+1)

magnetism: d20 (+3)

maneuver: d20

matter: d4 (+1)

mettle: d12

mark*: d10

magic: d12 (3rd progression)

evan kelmp:

items: familiar (shadow), broom (pushbroom), backpack of holding, wingtip shoes, tome of nimble workings, wrench of fixing

motive: belonging (0) 2nd Progression

injuries: minor + major

melee: d20 (+8)

mind: d20 (+2)

magnetism*: d20

maneuver: d6

matter: d6 (+1)

mettle: d10

mark: d8

magic: d20 (5th progression)

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

All the Galleons

Pairings: James Potter x disabled!reader Summary: James wants you to take his money, and it's not because you need it. Warnings: Smut (public sex, p-in-v), fem!reader who uses a cane, implied sub!james, james has a findom kink (reader is undecided)

The Gryffindor common room wraps around you, a shroud of comfort and familiarity. You're seated on the plush couch by the fire, its light dancing across your face, casting soft shadows that flicker and play. Your cane leans against the armrest, an extension of your body now, but forgotten in this intimate space where friends are your eyes and guide.

Beside you, James's focus never wavers. The rest of the world may be a blur beyond the warmth of this room, but here, his attentions hone onto you, his gaze holding a spark that suggests mischief yet also a depth of caring reserved only for those he holds close to his heart.

"Here," he murmurs, sliding several Galleons into your palm. They're cold against your skin, but they quickly warm from the heat of his touch, a fleeting connection that sends a flutter through your chest. "Go on, take it." His voice is barely above a whisper, as if the moment itself might shatter under the weight of his words.

You shake your head, a faint blush creeping up your neck. "James, you don't have to—"

"But I want to." He interrupts, his tone firm yet tender, pressing the coins further into your hand. "I'd give you my whole vault if you'd let me, you know."

Your eyes roll despite the smile tugging at your lips. "You're impossible, Potter," you mutter, leaning into him, the heat of his body a welcome relief against the chill of the night.

"Perhaps," he whispers back, his gaze locked on yours. "But I don't want you to spend any of your own money if I can help it."

The common room buzzes with activity around you, but all you can hear is his voice and the thrum of your heart echoing in your ears. He shifts slightly, lifting you with an ease that belies his lanky frame, and settles you onto his lap. His hand rests lightly on your hip, thumb tracing small circles, anchoring you to him. The air crackles with an unspoken tension, a charge that sparks along your skin and makes your breath hitch. It's a dance only the two of you seem to know the steps to, a secret language whispered between shared glances and subtle touches.

Your skirt rustles as he draws you nearer, his hands guiding you into place. He holds you there, his gaze steady on yours, and for a moment the world outside ceases to exist. His fingers trail along your inner thigh, pushing your underwear aside with a feather-light touch. You catch your breath as he unbuckles his belt, opening his trousers just enough, adjusting you both so that even in the crowded room, no one would notice anything amiss. Your skirt falls back into place, hiding everything beneath its folds.

"Just relax," he whispers into your ear, his voice barely audible above the low murmur of conversation. Excitement thrums in his tone, infectious and impossible to ignore. "Let me take care of you." His lips ghost over the shell of your ear, sending shivers down your spine, and he guides your hips with a firm yet gentle grip. A soft groan escapes his lips as he slips inside of you, blending seamlessly with the background noise, a private symphony composed just for you.

The thrill of this—the secrecy, the audacity of taking you here, of being able to provide for your every desire—it fuels him, stokes a need within him that's both primal and profound. If he had his way, you would never lift a finger again, never spend another sickle that wasn't his.

He steadies you with one hand, the other tracing a path up your thigh, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your skirt. He presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, teeth grazing your skin just enough to elicit a shiver. "I'm yours," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "Always." The words feel like a vow, a promise etched into the very air around you, binding and unbreakable even amidst the chaos of the club.

His hands tighten around your waist, his breaths like warm promises against your neck. He moves you with a deliberate slowness, each thrust measured yet insistent, teasing out a pleasure that blurs the edges of reality. The raucous chatter of the common room fades, drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears and the low cadence of his voice.

"Just like that," he murmurs, rough silk and smoke. "I just want to take care of you, make sure you never have to worry again. Spend my money, love. Let me do this for you."

The suggestion coils something tight within you—a mixture of apprehension and a thrill that's hard to ignore. James Potter, willing to give you everything without asking for anything in return? It's almost too good to be true, yet here he is, offering himself up as if you're the one doing him a favour.

His hand slides from your waist, trailing down the curve of your hip and along your thigh. He guides you closer, pressing you down against his lap just enough to steal your breath away. His lips find the line of your jaw, soft kisses trailing upwards until they reach the shell of your ear.

"You feel so perfect," he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper yet laced with admiration. His fingers tighten around your waist, holding you steady as if fearing you might slip away. "I'd give you everything I’ve got. You could drain my accounts dry, and I wouldn't even blink."

The words blend with the rhythm he's guiding you towards, each gentle push sending warmth radiating through your stomach. He watches your face, his eyes darkening with desire, and the sight of him so enraptured by you pulls you closer to the precipice.

"James..." Your voice is a shaky exhale, a plea hanging on the edge of his name, and he responds by guiding you with greater assurance, his own breath hitching as he battles to keep control.

“That’s it, love,” he murmurs, his voice thick with awe and adoration. “Let go for me. Just want you to feel good… only ever want to make you feel like this.”

His words seep into your consciousness, a balm on the raw edges of your soul. You trust him, leaning into him as your body succumbs completely, pleasure cresting and breaking over you in waves that leave you breathless against him.

He holds you steady, his hands strong and sure, whispering quiet praises that add fuel to the fire consuming you. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, a tether in the storm. His own desire builds, stoked by the sight of you trembling and clutching at his shoulders to anchor yourself in the tempest.

It's the sight of you, the feel of your body surrendering to his touch, that pushes him past the point of no return. He gasps against your neck, his release a silent shudder that mirrors your own. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, an unspoken promise to protect, to cherish.

For a moment, there is only you and James, and the shared rhythm of your breaths slowing as the waves recede. The sounds of the common room filter back in, but they are distant, muted by the cocoon of James's arms. His hold remains firm, anchoring you to this moment, to him.

"Anything you want, love," he murmurs near your ear. The words carry the trace of his usual teasing lilt, but they're underscored by a solemn promise. His breath fans out across your skin, warm and reassuring.

[ninjasmudge]

sozo spotted

[shrublee]

guys I think he promised something but im just guessing....

[hostilemuppet]

Every update the answer you gave about Holly getting lots of tattoos when she's older runs through my head. Like with where her character is at now? You just KNOW they aren't going to be out of positive feelings. She feels trapped as an extension of her parents (Even being called John Dory's "illegitimate bastard child", which is FOUL) so I feel like they'd come from her desperate struggle to differentiate herself from them. (1/2)

FINALLY SOME GOOD FUCKING TDAU HOLLY ANALYSIS! we should all acknowledge holly more methinks. shes a celebrity kid desperate to feel valued as more than her parents child, and in the process stops anyone from respecting her

[aulerean]

[skunkes]

Did or does anything inspire your art? It’s so fun and unique

I do have artists (both Established and like Peers/Mutuals) I enjoy and I do pluck traits from art I like as I see fit to mold my own but I don't have any conscious inspiration ykwim...ive had ppl tell me my art looks like or reminds them of things i like, whether "vibe based" (stuffed animals) or a specific media (care bears) but i dont consciously draw inspiration from care bears ykwim... I could tell u i loved archie comics as a kid and i love the art style but thats not a good answer to the question bc it doesnt present itself in my work (and if it does its not on purpose) ykwim...i hope dis makes sense.

I always bring up Urasawa when this question comes up, like I love urasawa's art and often save lots of it for inspiration but my work doesnt really ever come out as an emulation of his as a result, it's more osmosed as I try to figure out how I want to draw, bc I haven't seen anyone who draws the way I'd like to yet. (Also using him as an example, as this is how I feel about all my other "inspirations").

Theres tons of different ways to draw every possible trait of a face or body etc, so I just do that, taking shapes and such from other artists i observe along the way without really picking up the influence (and if i do its never for very long), since I've yet to find anything im very happy with

[feisaru]

@soccerpunching you're genuinely one of the best people I've met here bc you like almost every media I like

Apropos fighting. Remember when Adora jumps on Catra at Prom. Just them rolling on the floor. I wanted to draw that but didn't get round to it. The scene had such an energy

[todayisafridaynight]

i went on a walk and came back 60% more evil

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[flyrobinflyy]

the world didn’t give me the ability to draw because they knew society wouldn’t be able to handle my babs design

[spearxwind]

do you guys have any fun shippy memes/posts I could use for drawovers or as inspo 👉👈 I have been wanting to draw the eels again but man im really outta inspo for art in general lately