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imorynn · 14 days ago

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⸻ ✛ 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬, 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞 (j. ramsey )

✛ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : Joan Ramsey x fem!reader ✛ 𝐰.𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 5k+ ✛ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 / 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 : SMUT, fingering, religious overtones, strap ons, blaspheming, blood, biting, marking, power dynamics 'using the Lord's name in vain', reader wearing a cross, masterbating, teasing, vaginal sex, mentions of oral sex, subtle choking 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 : @multifandomme ( thank you for beta reading and yelling at me, you impatient hoe :) ) @liliasenbyhusband ( thank you for beta reading, absorbing and matching my chaotic ranting, my friend 🫂) @awlwgeneraldinosaur ( thank you for sending me to heart failure with your compliments, ya lovely human being <3)

⸻ no notes. just read and enjoy life.

⸻“JOAN, c’mon, just move your hand for me…”

A rather swollen lower lip that belonged to you lolled once more between your teeth. The corners of your mouth had lazily twisted into a smirk. One that brought a prominent twinkle to your eyes, one that clashed with the silver around your neck, something gifted to you with joy by Joan herself; a pendant that swung languidly above her heaving chest, an obscene, not to mention exhilarating sight.

God help her, she had prayed over that piece of jewelry the night she gave it to you. She had clutched it between her shaking fingers and whispered blessings over it, thinking perhaps if she gave you something holy, it would wash away the filth consuming you both.

But now here it was — dangling between your breasts while you split her open with something much thicker than a crucifix.

The perspiration that clung to your complexion glistened with the flickers of simmering candles and warm lights within her bedroom, and your abdomen constricted with the restraint you so desperately contained from plunging into her sealed entrance.

“You can take it.” So light, so tender it almost sounded like a promise rather than a filthy condescension.

“I’m not sure I—”

The roll of your hips cut her mid-sentence, letting the faux dick stroke her — slick and swollen from the two fingers you had inside of her, teasing her open thirty minutes ago while she tried to keep her mouth shut.

This strap had been different from the one she was used to receiving from you. Bigger. Better.

Another jolt pulsed down the brown-eyed woman’s stomach, bottom lip jutting out as she exhaled in agitation, no less ardor. “I-it will not go in.”

A ‘tsk’ hissed from between your teeth, mouth puckering in a feigning disappointing manner, and a deep breath once more emerged from Joan. The pink flesh of her walls fluttered around the imperceptible while your plump tip teased her, her delicate palms applying the slightest of pressure to your lower stomach as if she could actually stop you.

Joan Ramsey was a master of disguise when it came to pretending, you will give her that. Pretending she was not lifting her hips to meet the leisured drag of your cock against her slit, her own body failing her the second she released that same quivering and virginal whimper, harshly shaking her head no.

Your head could not help but tilt in wonder while a crinkle appeared between your brows. Really, you could just disregard her commentary, ignore the way the surface of her fingers jabbed at your lower stomach without true purpose, or so she claimed to keep you from moving forward and pound her.

But how could you dismiss that endearing panic striking that fawn-like gaze? Really, you could have just grabbed those trembling wrists and pinned them above her head. Force her open. Fuck her dumb. Have her become a mess of nothing but tears and flesh. Where would the fun be in that?

So instead, the expanse of your thumb reached to tip her flushed face up to look at you. “It’s always the same little white lie with you, love,” you murmured so sweetly, so soft she nearly convinced herself you were being merciful. “telling me it won’t go in after my fingers just stretched you open, and yet, it always does, doesn’t it?”

Another lustful coat of chocolate glazed over her hues, making their shade darker, absorbed into those now dilating pupils of hers as she peered down your bare body and the veiny curve of silicone nudging at her sopping hole.

She then glanced back at her attire, the shredded fabrics were a reflection of her faith and sense of self. Or so what remained of it at least. Your stupidly impatient hands and lustrous incisors had ripped through the blouse until her full breasts were liberated and her weeping hole clenched from the biting air.

Your eyes could not evict from analyzing every tiny detail upon the canvas of her face; those lines upon her forehead deepened with her stifled sounds, her brow pinched as she watched how you devoured her every curve, her parted mouth moistened with her slick.

It was a reminder of how mere seconds ago, that greedy tongue of yours was between her legs, deliriously assaulting her clit, those prim hands fisting in your hair, fucking your face with all the clumsy desperation of a woman who had not been touched in decades. A wide and wet smile had sprawled across your face as you stared up at her crumbled expression before crawling up and smearing her taste across her lips.

You relished in this part; the battle that played out behind those irises. Every time you laid her out like this, she contemplated so viciously in convincing herself it was the last, that she would find her way back to righteousness as soon as the sun ascended. But here she was — once more, slick thighs branched out, cheeks flushed, breath coming out in those little broken gasps.

“I thought this was what you wanted, Joan?” Your query was assisted with an edge of taunt. “Hm?”

Her tear-cluttered lashes fluttered and kissed beneath her eyes. Her hands pushed harder at your stomach, but there was no real strength behind it. Just something for her to hold onto — some fragile, pathetic little resistance she could whisper about in her prayers later.

“I-I don’t know what I want.”

Such bullshit. You were well aware of what she wanted. To be relieved of herself; her guilt, her virtue, and her self-discipline. She wanted you to fuck her like she was just another weak, sinful little lamb, so easily led to slaughter — like the rules did not apply to her when she was with you.

It made you want to coo at her. Poor thing. So hungry underneath all that fear. Your thumb swept across her cheekbone, tender, before tucking into the pocket of her bottom lip.

The cross above your chest swung forward, right against her sternum and she flinched like it had scorched her. Those pretty browns swished between your face and the pendant, trying to decide which one was more blasphemous to stare at.

Your smile honed, teeth gleaming. “But you’ve been letting me fuck you for weeks now, and still, you can’t admit how bad you need it.”

Your hips inclined forward, just enough for the swollen head to push inside, just enough to make her wince and spasm around you all at once.

“You think God is watching us right now?”

Her nails sliced into your flesh, searing, ecstatic.

“Y-you… you should not s-say things like that.”

You grinned against her throat, at her pathetic attempt to regain firmness, dragging your teeth over the elegant stretch of her jugular. Right where you had left blemishes behind. Right where she will ghost her fingertips the next morning in front of her mirror; half-sickened, half-throbbing at the proof of what she had allowed you to do to her.

The rush of color across her cheeks and pronounced nose surged even more with how she felt your features morph against her pulse.

“You think He minds?” you whispered, so saccharine it made her lungs stutter. “You think He would’ve stopped us by now if He really wanted to?”

A shaky swallow worked her throat and then came rumination shaping her expression. Her hands descended from your stomach to your waist, not resisting anymore, and simply feeling.

“Move your hand, Joan. I won’t ask again.”

You slowly uttered it, as if you were speaking to a child. Like she was not a woman in her early sixties with your cock attempting to push inside of her, slick oozing down to the mattress beneath her ass.

She despised it when you spoke to her like that. She despised it even more that she clenched whenever you did.

The brims of your incisors found a niche below her jawline, seeking the faint puncture they had left minutes ago, and the mark enhanced once more as they sank in.

That was when her jaw went slack, rose lush lips shaping a pretty ‘O’ while her palms pushed at your dampened nape. Slender fingers threaded through your hair and wounded around the curve of your head.

You inundated each one of the older woman’s senses; your scent bled into her atmosphere, saturating each breath she inhaled. Your frame eclipsed her petite one, almost as if shielding her from His gaze. The chill of your lavalier grazed the heated swells of her tits — similar in cruelty as the edge of your teeth etched her.

Heat liquified through her limbs, sinew, and muscles quaking while her walls stretched beyond their threshold; she was made to mold around you, pussy halfway swallowing you. “Good gracious —”

Thrusting forward, half of the cock's width disappeared between her legs, and the twin-sized bed below created a screeching creak from the act. A droplet of sweat trickled between your brows as you grunted a low cuss word, teeth clashing together at the sight of her cunt swaddling around the shaft.

“Almost there, love, almost there...” Your saccharine croon was assisted with a stroke of your thumb over the strands stamping her temple, eliciting a muffled whimper from her throat.

Inhaling another ardent breath, she gave into a slow, involuntary little rock forward, like her body was attempting to fuck itself down onto you before she could control it.

The other half of your shaft soon followed until your pelvis hovered hers. All plump inches going beyond her capacity. Those eyes of hers were blown out now as she stared up and then down when your palm came to rest over her lower stomach— not only did your eyes broaden but so did that smirk of yours when you applied pressure to the flesh of her belly, finger pads kneading into the pleasure.

“Would you look at that beauty… fuck, this is what God wanted to keep me from seeing?”

Ever so lightly you pushed down, and when you did, whine after whine ascended from her lungs.

You did not dare to move though not until she gave you the green signal that she could, giving her time to modify and gain control of her inhales and exhales.

You were no better though, not when you stroked her tummy, not when she tried pulling you even closer, sputtering out a low chuckle and grimaced breath when she clawed at your neck. “And here you thought it wouldn’t go in—”

You were cut off by the way a dainty hand spiraled around the loose band drooped over your chest, enclosing it tightly around each length of her fingers until she was mere inches away from the pillar of your throat.

Your eyes widened at the sight of hers; round, abyss with lust. “Ruin me, y/n.”

Your rasped chuckle pulsated her insides, and a low groan erupted past your mouth when blunt nails sunk deeper as the octave of your taunting laughter picked within the deepest parts of her.

“I thought patience was a virtue? Don’t want me to ruin tiny innocent you if you don’t give yourself a minute—”

Your voice faded amongst the dense air, words deeper in its tangle with every twist and wind your necklace made, a subtle hiss created when her knuckles practically pierced the flesh of your throat, nearly leaving no passage for air to transmit through.

“Ruin me.”

“Well aren’t you a pretty sinner—”

Joan huffed, hands releasing your necklace and shoved you away. This caused you to stumble and lose balance, knees digging into the rumpled mattress and hoisting yourself up as she slid away from you, snug cunt releasing you with a wet pop that made the both of you moan out loud.

You were about to protest, to condescend as to why in the hell did she move, why she turned away from you. Yet all you could do was let your eyes follow the way she got on her knees, mapping the familiar terrains of her back and descending to the curves of her ass; no line left untraced, so fucking eye-catching and mouth-watering that you had to restrain yourself from craning forward to take a sharp bite.

Of course, she felt you watching, eyes searing through Joan, pooling down her body and between her thighs as they rubbed together to add friction to the burn. She had propped herself onto her forearms, leaving her whole ass up in the air and perfect display for you.

Brows perched high, grin stretching the more he arched, following the way her dress tore further when her torso pressed into the sheets. Your palm had slithered down your stomach, fingers wrapping themselves around the silicone when her adorable fingers reached back and parted the globes of her ass, parting them so fucking perfectly until both her holes were calling out to you.

“Fuck me, y/n.” She left no room for argument, pushing her hips further and further back until her ass met your front.

Oh, how well you taught her. Coaxed her into abandoning her fear for pleasure, her virtue for something unholy.

“I’ll be damned…” Lithe was your movement when you rose, and the sound of your palm colliding with her ass blocked out the creaking. “Whatever occurred to ‘won’t go in’, hm?”

You taunted her, yet she felt you align yourself once more, tip kissing her awaiting hole. “ ‘It’s a sin’? ‘It’s filthy human pleasure’?”

You slipped in just an inch, drenched were her puffy lips, cascading down the inner dips of her thighs. Of course, you thought a little teasing never hurt anyone, so you were quick to slide out as you slid in.

Desperate thing she was, squirming and canting her hips back for your touch, the blaze of your body mingling with yours. She moaned when you grazed along her pussy lips, teasing right over her swollen clit.

It hurt, ached terribly, the sexual frustration that consumed her carnal state. “Y/n..”

The noise she created would be humiliating if anyone else heard it — some frightened animal caught in the back of her throat. She could not even breathe.

Two digits of yours swirled in, the calloused texture rubbing over her adhesive, soft walls. “Is something wrong, Joan?”

Your arrogant voice conflicted even further if it were not for the way you whispered her name, tempting her like the forbidden fruit.

You took pleasure in this, smug in the way her walls became one with your fingers, watching the way she fell apart for you ; wearily moaning, pussy drooling with no shame. Not a proper fuck yet and here she was, her small silhouette disintegrating amongst your touch.

The very touch of yours within her began sliding with the assistance of your dick. One hand smoothed over her hip, gripping tight, feeling the fevered skin beneath your palm.

“Want me to fuck you?” Joan nodded eagerly, her forehead pressing against the mattress. “Then stop running from it.”

She released a strangled sound, pushing back onto you, beseeching. “Stop — stop playing your games.”

Nothing but another chuckle huffed out, amused at the way she moved, already scheming and toying with her pussy for as long as you wanted. “But you love it when I play with you.”

Screw you and your damn schemes.

Your mouth pursed in distaste at how she perched forward and away from your shining tip. But all you managed to do was roll your shoulders as you watched her shift into her back.

Your head slightly inclined to the side as you watched her hands begin to trace her freckle-dusted skin, thumbing her flushed peaks. “What’re you doing, sweetheart?”

You sharply inhaled, your throat being greeted with every droplet of drool collecting in your mouth at the sight of her in such a position, legs spread apart without shame, toes tipped high to the heavens. The room’s small scale of space only allowed the sounds of her labored breathing to enter its atmosphere.

A warning was close to spilling, yet she did not give you the chance. Your attention was punctured to her fingers, mesmerized to the way she slowly brought them lower with each second.

That damned, ignorant Christian.

Her gaze bore into yours, dark and daring, and then she moaned, sweet and filthy, as if to rub her rebellion in your face.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you—”

Ah, but Joan would. You, kneeling on her bed, were disposed of all for a pair of hands, hands that claimed would never be soiled by sin, that kneaded her swollen clit. You almost laughed, almost, at the sheer audacity of it all. The same woman who once scolded others for their sins, who once turned her nose up at indulgence, is right before you, defying you with every glide of her own fingers.

The celerity of those fingers muggled the liquid pouring from her cunt, seeping through every direction. You watched in awe at how it all came into little crystalline spheres, trickling down and pooling into an entire puddle absorbed by the disheveled sheets.

This was what she wanted from you, what she needed from you; to give her the pleasure she was providing for herself. Yet she had to admit it was enjoyable, the way your gaze stayed tranced on her pulsing bud, a twitch of your eye giving her the satisfaction that you desired to be the one making her feel this good. You desired to be the one she crumbled apart for, the one that cunt drooled for.

Yet you knew Joan was never a woman of forbearance. She would like to think she was, that her faith had gifted her such virtues, but at the moment? She was not in the mood for your foolishness.

“Look at my desperate girl.”

An incoherent response spewed from her mouth, no logic to her words whatsoever that it made you grin. The bed screeched once more, this time with your back flat against the wall but not before you reached out to pick up her body with ease.

You lowered her on your lap, and she could feel the hardness pushing against the area of her lower back. Her thighs were dangerously apart, and her faltering movements augmented when your palm, forceful and certain, enveloped her fingers and clamped more pressure there.

“Y-Y/N—”

Your laugh reverberated within her, adding to her helpless attempt to moan out a plea. “If you’re that needy for it, then do it how I taught you.”

The tension escalating in her lower belly became ferocious, you knew this rather quickly with how her slurs climbed octaves when you mouthed her neck.

Chin propped on her shoulder, you scrutinized her course of action when she mimicked your movements. Slow, prolonged, degrading, carving. Just as you have done to her a hundred times before.

But you were not as cruel as to just watch. You lent a hand, plunging one, then two fingers deep into her cunt and she squeezed deliciously around them, pushing her close to the edge and into the pools of ecstasy.

Fingertips smoothed perfectly over the mushy parts of her walls, one of her hands curling around your wrist. “There’s a good girl, that’s it—” your hushed voice joined her breathless and sharp exhales.

“I-I’m — goodness—”

An ignition flared your core, with her so fucking pressed up against you, at the knowledge of the woman nearly undone all over your hand, just for you. The more your fingers thrust in while the flat of your palm nudged her mound, the more cum oozed out; translucent and sticking to your skin and a wide smirk morphed your features, waiting to get a taste.

“You’re near, darling?”

Her chin pushed into her chest, jaw trembling as the words elongated, “Uh-huh, I-I’m close—”

“Gonna make a bigger mess for me?”

“Y-yes—” You withdrew your hand from her hip and over her belly, right near her pelvis area, pushing there. This emitted an increase of the dribble that was already splattering your fingers and thighs until the sounds had become an ensemble with her moans.

“Oh, fuck!” Blasphemy was torn straight from her soul.

You grinned. “Listen to you,” You planted soft kisses behind her ear, sweetly lapping the skin. “So filthy… c’mon let it out for me.”

Your hand was unrelenting, still spurting in with the same merciless force despite already reaching her peak.

“M-my God—”

“Nah, Joan,” you husked right in her ear, breath heating the delicate spot. “It’s me. I’m your God.”

The overbearing rapture she experienced slowly eased, bringing her down to God’s green earth. The pace of your fingers settled for a slow, sensual one and they jittered slightly within her when she pinched your forearm.

“Shut your mouth, you wicked thing,” she sighed out in disdain, glowering back at you who gave her a grin too lovely, too pure for her liking.

You pulled your digits out, groaning at the squelching sound her cunt created when you did. Though they were quick to hook beneath her thighs, lifting her just slightly so you could turn her around.

Her lips unsealed in astonishment at the way the damn girth rested against your stomach, fat tip shining with the trails of her arousal. It was unfair how alluring it was, how alluring your entire existence was to Joan. How quickly her resistance crumbled the moment you touched her. Spoke to her. And you knew this, reveled in it, and beamed when her pretty, blushed pout trembled.

“Still want me to fuck you ?”

With a tap of the head on her tummy, both her hands rested on your shoulders, stroking the subtle muscle there, silently admiring, pushing through, anchoring herself.

Her touch slid up your throat, trembling as they ghosted over your pulse, memorizing the rhythm of something real, tangible, something she could not find in the cold halls of a church.

She lifted herself without any trouble when your hands gripped her waist, her cum functioning as a lubricant as you slipped almost entirely in.

Her whimpered “yes” was all you needed to proceed, and the extent of fingers splayed over her thighs, thumb pushing below her navel. You slowly pushed her much further down, watching as the awaiting cock stuffed her.

“I can move, sweetheart?”

Brown strands swayed with frantic bobs of her head and that allowed you to refresh some manners in that pretty head of hers. Teeth excavated into the interstice where the graceful line of her neck ran and became shoulder. You did not release until the tang of iron became one with your taste buds, the smooth surface of your tongue wasting no time in lapping the trickle of scarlet leaving her abused skin.

A hiss whispered from her lungs, and you soon managed to sweetly stroke your wet muscle over the pain you were responsible for until it was nothing but exhilaration and murmured moans.

“Those aren’t the words I’m looking for, Joan.”

“For God’s sake, Y/N—”

“ ‘For God’s sake, Y/N’ is kind of an intelligent statement, love, don’t you think—”

Your sentence failed to reach its near end when her palms had latched onto the curves of your breasts, hips giving a slow roll before ascending herself until the thick tip of it remained slightly in and slammed back down with a throaty moan.

Your back pushed hard into the wall, and Joan saw your sly grin, bracing yourself for whatever action she had next.

One turned into two, two into three surprisingly hard impacts of skin and bone that had the silicone nuzzling further against her g-spot with each burning stretch.

“Just fuck me, goodness, I need you to ruin me. To turn me into nothing but a mess. Your mess.” she beseeched, she whined, not caring anymore to withhold herself from the indecency.

Chuckling, your hand curled around her wide hip. Your spine curved off the wall so your other arm could loosely curl around her midsection. The older woman had no other option but to surrender full control over you without a single complaint or shift, leaving it all to you.

Swiftly, you began rocking into her heated chasm, giving her almost no time to acclimate to your girth. You continued until the choir of huffs, moans, and whimpers featured with skin plastered and striking against one another recapitulated within the interior.

“Tell me it feels good to sin, Joan.” Protracted strokes sent apocalyptic waves of pleasure through her core, the feeling building and stacking on top of itself as it was evenly dispersed throughout her body. She felt it in her stomach, surging through her limbs, thighs, and shins, all the way down to her curling toes. “Look at how pretty you are...”

Vehement you grew when it came to sex and her, and every time, with every touch and utter, she mollified for you. This time was no different; the feel of you embedded in her innards was all the reason to bring her close once again.

She was deprived of words.

“Come on love, tell me how good I feel inside you,” you leaned forward, your lips sucking on the abused skin of her clavicle. “You wanted me to fuck you, and now I am. So tell me how good I’m stretching you.”

Joan whimpered, allowing your lust-charged words and the sloppy, sticky sounds coming from her cunt to heighten her arousal.

You did feel good inside of her, beyond the simple term of ' good'. Giving her aching pussy finally what it had been waiting for. Fingernails burrowed into your shoulders, disturbing the once-healing flesh there.

A nasty gurgle flew out her mouth as your dick brushed against her nerves. Not a response to your command, but it was all she had, too blissed out from the feel of being stretched and feel of you everywhere.

You tsk’d softly, dragging your teeth along her pulse point. “You don’t even realize what you’re saying, do you? My poor, stupid lamb.”

A pearlescent circlet scintillated at the base of your shaft, disseminating over the dark hue with every drag her cunt gave you.

Moan after moan dragged from her hoarse throat, revealing the pretty column of it with the head tilt she gave until an ache came upon her shoulders.

“You’re not gonna talk to me, huh?” You grunted in between strokes, hot exhale stinging her already boiling skin. “I think you like it when I make all those nasty little thoughts in your head just disappear. Make you go stupid.” You inhaled sharply, parting your lips against her jaw. “Fuck, you’re so wet. Look at how good you’re taking me.”

A blaze that flooded her cheeks, mortification. And on instinct, her face went to hide within your neck, tip of nose nudging your jaw. An act that seemed not permitted by you who did not falter in plowing her depths.

“Uh uh. Look at me, Joan.” Your hand dragged from her hip to the back of her head, tangling within her hair before giving a sharp yank that drew forward a loud groan. “I said, look at me when I fuck you.”

You bucked into her hole, hand keeping her head in place as you moved her against you, splashing her wetness everywhere. “If I’m gonna give you a proper fuck, I need to see those eyes. Do you hear me?”

She nodded in between muffled cries and through the burn of her thighs. She could feel her eyes rolling to the back of her skull, she was close. So close.

“Y/N—” Her first coherent syllable since you slipped into her cunt. Low but audible nonetheless.

“Yeah, love? Talk to me.”

“I-it does feel great.”

“What exactly feels great? The act of sin? Me?”

Her chin tipped up, then down, browns wide and frantic. “Y-yes.”

You frowned in taunting disapproval, and you watched as she winced when your grip on her hair twisted. You drew her in until your nose traced down the bridge of her own. “Yes? Yes what, Joan?”

“A-all of it! You feel great, this sin, it’s filthy — f-fulfilling—”

“You like how deep I am?”

“V-very much—”

She could see the glimmer of something dangerous in the depths of your irises, that silent strike of pride in your chest. It was a look she knew well. It appeared when you tried helping her in the kitchen when she softened and accepted you to lead in small, domestic moments. Or when you had first taught her how to touch herself, right in front of you, pleasure herself, drag it out, and relish in every touch without rush.

And it appeared then when you were hypnotized by how the thick strap tunneled into her oozing abyss.

Her eyes gravitated down to where you sat below her, and just because you were in that position did not signify you had lost the upper hand. She was focused on the bead of sweat that leisured down your forehead to your nose, then lastly to the intention above your upper lip.

She was tempted to lean forward and suck the droplet off your skin. Tears cleaved to her waterline and lashes when she peered down at the spot where your eyes were fixated.

Your sight was transfixed on the image of her swallowing you whole. Wonderstruck. Curving inside of her in the most exhilarating and immoral way.

“Are you going to come for me?”

The hot palm that was once in her hair released and made its way to her throat, unconsciously tightening there. It had her inhale cut short, heavy eyelids momentarily shutting. There was no way you actually expected her to speak.

You were still caught up in the way her pussy clenched around you over and over on command. Thumb finding its path over her throbbing bundle of nerves and rubbing.

Uncoordinated sentences left her tongue now, foreign to anyone besides you for you have seen Joan Ramsey in this state more times than you could ever count.

Her grunts grew louder with each sloppy thrust, incisor hooking over the corner of your bottom lip. Deep enough to nearly draw blood. “Talk to me, Joan.”

Your brows had pinched together, an affliction of your orgasm being the cause of their shape as your remorseless thrusts upward had settled for a slower pace, though the force did not falter, and though it brought a scorching pain to settle deep within her bones and muscles, she did not repent it whatsoever.

Mean, hungry, frenzied you became when you were on the precipice of an orgasm.

And Lord, in all sincerity, in all necessity, she would do anything to see you like this, keep you like this. Under her, on top of her. Inside of her. Everywhere. Anywhere.

“C—close, yes! Hell, I’m so close. I’m going to come all over your cock, please—”

Your stare snapped from her cunt to her eyes, stunned at her highly confident, thoroughly coherent, foul-mouthed declaration. You brought her closer, tips digging further in as the arm around her retracted, palm stretching and shoving the small of her back until her spine shaped a lovely curvature.

And you smiled again, long and wide. There was that swelling pride. Not just at her speech but how she allowed you to bend her to your will.

“There’s my filthy fucking girl.”

Your mouth cloaked her canted chin, palm applying more pressure to the lower column of her spine, swirling her over your girth as her whines increased in pitch.

She squeezed you tighter, and you could tell she wanted to throw her head back. Yet she would not dare let her gaze leave yours, not with the way you looked at her.

“D-don’t stop, darling—”

You kissed her through it, all lush tongue and wet lips until she was panting into your mouth, hands clutching at the nape of your neck like you were the only thing holding her together.

Perhaps you were the only thing that had ever properly held Joan Ramsey together in her miserable, righteous little life.

“That’s right, look at me. Keeeep looking at me. Right here.”

Her heaving hole locked your strap in place, allowing for one last stroke before everything stopped completely.

And then you felt it. Felt her warm cum spill around you immediately after. Eyes screwed tight as you watched tears trickle down her cheeks, and your heart snapped.

You were expelling your own stream of cum, watching how she felt so full, so whole. Pleasure surged through Joan, blinding her, immobilizing her as she heaved against you shaking and panting, mumbling your name in prayer and a string of other words jaggedly.

Your tight grip relinquished into a soft one around her neck, releasing her. Eventually, you were to ease your way out of her center, pulling strings and ropes of cum out before you so very carefully, very gently drew her into your arms.

It was an entirely different story when it came to aftercare, how sweet, how swaddling you were with Joan when she went boneless after, body melting into yours; your fingers stroked the damp tendrils of hair pasted to her forehead and cheeks, so you could actually see her and the features you had laid to waste, your mouth softly falling over her temple, cheekbones, neck, shoulder, with hushed praises meeting her perspired flesh.

You shifted a bit, bareback meeting once more with the coolness of the wall. You let your other hand spiral along the contours of her spine, featherlight, teasing. “You still with me, sweetheart? Must’ve been too much for you.”

A huff. Small. Barely perceptible, and you released a gentle laugh. Joan’s head lifted enough for her hazed gaze to find yours, a sluggish glare forming. “D—don’t. Don’t feed into that ego of yours.”

You bit back another chuckle because she was always like this afterward. Having to reclaim some piece of herself, like she had to remind herself she was not so entirely lost to you.

Endearing and futile it all was.

You softly repeated her words, two fingers stroking the delicate slope of her cheekbone. “Joan, I’m sure I had you praying a few seconds ago.”

She scoffed, a soft, weak, barely a protest of a sound but relinquished to your touch anyway. “And don't ruin the moment with your galling.”

“Galling is what we’re calling adorable now?” Your thumb swept over her swollen lower lip, humming at how the flesh simmered beneath your attention. “Then you’re galling when you’re pretending you’re not the neediest thing I’ve ever touched.”

You smirked at the whimper rumbling in the back of her throat. You expected anger, vexation brewing that coffee-hued gaze.

But Joan’s features softened, undone in ways she would never verbally acknowledge. But you knew it already when she sighed and burrowed further into you with a light kiss to your jaw, leaving alone the last scrap of a clever retort.

#joan ramsey ahs #joan ramsey #joan ramsey x reader #Joan ramsey x reader smut #patti lupone x reader #patti lupone #𝐢𝐫𝐲𝐧 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 ── 🎐ᝰ.

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slavicdolls4mangione · 21 days ago

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luigi supporting you making content on tiktok hc 💌:

shoutout to the anon who got my vision, this one’s for you! <33 as you can probably tell, i went HAM on this one 😭

- luigi hates tiktok. he finds it overwhelming, chaotic, and way too fast-paced for his taste. he’s more of a ‘read a book in silence’ kind of guy, so the idea of endless scrolling and loud trends just doesn’t appeal to him.

- that said, when you tell him you’ve started a tiktok account to talk about your favorite things—books, philosophy, movies, debates on different topics, and even your hot takes on agriculture and politics? he’s immediately intrigued.

- he loves how passionate and articulate you are, and he can’t help but admire the way your mind works.

- despite his dislike for the app, he downloads it just to follow you. he tells himself it’s to “support you,” but deep down, he’s genuinely curious about what you’ll share.

- your videos are nothing like the content he expected. you’re not doing dances or trends, you’re just yapping lol. you talk about your favorite substack articles, analyze the themes of your latest read, rant about why tea is superior to coffee (or vice versa), and even dive into deep topics like religion and politics. safe to say, luigi is hooked.

- he becomes your biggest hype man. every time you post he’s there in the comments, leaving thoughtful responses. if you talk about a book he’s read, he’ll add his own analysis. if you delve into a philosophical concept, he’ll write paragraphs agreeing with you or gently challenging your perspective. his comments are often longer than your videos, and it becomes a running joke between the two of you.

- sometimes, you catch him in the background of your vlogs, quietly sipping tea or reading a book. he’s always smiling softly as you rant about whatever’s on your mind, completely enamored by your passion and intellect.

- one day, while filming a tiktok about your favorite philosophy book, lu chimes in from the background. you’re mid-sentence, explaining why you love the author’s take on existentialism, when he casually interjects: “but don’t you think their view on free will is a little too optimistic?” you pause, turn to him, and immediately launch into a spirited debate. the camera keeps rolling, and your followers lose it over the unexpected cameo.

- after that, it becomes a recurring thing. your followers start noticing that the same soft-spoken voice in the background that’s always adding thoughtful commentary or playfully challenging your takes, is the same person leaving those long comments under every video.

- comments start flooding in like: “wait, is the guy in the background the same guy who writes essays in the comments???” “luigi_from_fiji in the comments vs. luigi in the background is the best character arc of 2024.” “the way he just casually drops the most profound takes while she’s filming… i can’t. they’re adorable.”

- one of your most popular tiktoks is a video where you’re talking about your favorite coffee shops, and ofc luigi interjects in the background: “but tea is clearly superior. it’s more versatile, and you can’t deny the cultural history behind it.” you stop mid-sentence, turn to him, and say, “oh, we’re doing this again?” before launching into a full-blown debate about coffee vs. tea. the video ends with both of you laughing, and your followers absolutely melt.

- one day, you decide to make a video about one of your favorite authors, fyodor dostoyevsky (self indulgent sorry). you’re gushing about how crime and punishment explores the psychology of guilt and redemption but halfway through your analysis, lu, who’s been quietly listening in the background, can’t help but chime in: “but baby don’t you think raskolnikov’s redemption arc feels a little rushed? i mean, after everything he did, the ending almost feels… too neat.” you turn to him, eyes lighting up, and say, “okay, first of all nicholas, how dare you,” before diving into a passionate defense of dostoyevsky’s writing. the two of you end up in a full-blown literary debate, with lu arguing that notes from underground is the better psychological study, while you insist that crime and punishment is the masterpiece.

- your followers go wild for the video with comments pouring in like: “luigi coming in with the hot takes on dostoyevsky?? i’m obsessed.” “the way she said ‘how dare you’ and then immediately launched into a 10-minute rant… mood.” “luigi’s face when she starts defending raskolnikov is priceless. he’s so whipped.”

- another time, you’re talking about white nights and how the dreamer’s idealism and loneliness resonate with you. lu, who’s been quietly reading in the corner, looks up and says softly: “i think the dreamer’s problem is that he’s too afraid to live in the real world. he’d rather stay in his fantasies than risk getting hurt.” you’d pause, tilt your head, and reply, “but isn’t that what makes him so human? he’s flawed, but he’s real.”

- lu smiles at you, his eyes soft, and says, “i guess i can’t argue with that.”

-the moment is so tender that your followers immediately start spamming the comments with: “THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER??? I’M CRYING.” “luigi’s a simp for intellectual debates and i’m here for it.” “this is the most romantic thing i’ve ever seen.”

- luigi secretly starts to enjoy tiktok but only because of you. he’d do anything to support you, even if it means spending hours on an app he claims to dislike.

#luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione imagine #luigi thoughts #luigi mangione headcanons

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s1utlvr · 1 year ago

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Candy ༯

synopsis: Your boyfriend’s an asshole, but everytime you break up without fail Clarisse always welcomes you with open arms.

a/n: hihi!!!!! I wrote this as a kind of quick drable to prequel feather but can be read as a one shot as well guess I should mention it is a college au sort offfff. General warnings asshole ex Luke suggestive themes weed things are implied but nothing outright said you know the drill read it or don’t!!!!

inspired by Candy by Doja Cat

You really didn’t mean to make it a habit.

But you knew if you went to your friends and told them about how you’d broken up with Luke for what had had to have been the fiftieth time this semester they’d tell you the exact same things they’d been preaching to you since the first time you “broke up”.

So there you were once again, standing outside of Clarisse’s dorm teary eyed in your pajamas knocking at her door.

It took one glance of you for Clarisse to figure out what had happened.

“So what was it this time?” She asked with a smirk as she motioned for you to come in.

“Good he was just being such an asshole about me going out with my friends” you say as you plop down onto her bed as you embraced one of her pillows.

“When is Luke not being an asshole?” Clarisse scoffed as she grabbed a lighter and a joint she had pre-rolled.

“For me?” You asked looking up at clarisse with bright eyes as she sat down next to you.

“No im just gonna smoke while you watch in misery” she responded as she lit up the end of the joint before placing it up by your lips.

Clarisse always knew how to make you feel better even if it came with a side of sarcastic commentary.

“Gee thanks” you replied with a sarcastic smile as you took the joint between your fingers.

You couldn’t help but admire Clarisse in this lighting. The way sweatpants hung low on her waist and the way her sports bra hugged her chest, but little did you know that you were staring…very hard actually..

“Stop looking at me like that” Clarrise scoffed snatching the joint that laid between your fingers her voice snapping you back to reality.

“Like what?” You asked.

“Like you wanna kiss me” She said taking a drag from the joint. You were staring at her lips now.

“What if I do?” You asked watching the smoke escape from her lips as she laid back.

“I wouldn’t let you” You frowned at her words as she passed you the joint.

“Why?” You asked placing the joint between your pouty lips before passing it back to Clarisse.

“Cause” she said taking a hit mid sentence “You know you’re gonna get back together next week and then you’re gonna feel all guilty for fucking around with me and I’m not gonna be at fault for that.”

You rolled your eyes at her words as you adjusted yourself your legs now on either side of hers as you straddled her

“I can handle my own feelings Clar. Luke’s probably out getting his dick sucked so who’s to say I can’t kiss you?”

“So do it. Kiss me.”

You didn’t even let the words fully leave her mouth before your lips were on hers.

Clarrise knew it was wrong of her to enjoy these moments so much. She knew she shouldn’t be hoping and praying that your dick of a boyfriend would pull a dick move so you’d end up on her doorstep all needy and desperate but gods she craved it so much. She knew it wasn’t real that it could never be that girls like you could never be saved from going back to your shitty boyfriends time and time again but aslong as it meant that she could indulge in you everytime you and Luke broke up she prayed that he would never change.

Your lips were the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted, and she was fucking addicted.

#luv aubrey <33 #percy jackson #pjo series #percy jackon and the olympians #clarisse la rue #clarisse pjo #clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse la rue x reader

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pathos-bathos · 1 year ago

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Piranesi? What are you doing in my "the priory of the orange tree"?

#niche content?#Piranesi #susanna clarke #the priory of the orange tree #tpotot #samantha shannon #mid read commentary

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sailorspica · 2 months ago

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the stars have all gone | ii

suggestive, with an allusion to assault and brief, clinical discussion of manslaughter. part two of a series. crocodile x f!reader, past basil hawkins x reader. selfshippy; reader is an astrologer, hawkins' former navigator, and a different race from both of them. post-timeskip canon au, 2.1k words.

"There's a man asking for you."

These days you did readings in the back of a the cafe near the bakery where you worked now. Your client base grew by word of mouth, and interested parties called your Den Den Mushi with their birth information, so the only people who showed up at the cafe asking for you by name were usually pissed at you—rarely a client themself, but more often than not someone in their life affected by whatever advice they heard in your commentary.

You checked your notebook of charts for the week. All women. Definitely not a client.

"What's he look like?" you asked the cafe owner.

His eyes shifted. "I like you, I do, I like that your business brings me business. I knew your past was something suspect. But—"

"I'm sorry, what?"

The owner stepped closer and stage whispered: "It's Sir Crocodile."

You didn't make a habit of hooking up with strange men, but you supposed infamous men were a trend in your single-digit body count considering you gave your virginity to a captain of the Worst Generation. That night, months ago, Crocodile easily tucked you into his side away from the from view of other diners as you left the restaurant, and you let yourself ebb along. You weren't even sure what you kept talking about, but his rich, low laughter sounded surprised at itself and thrummed in your veins the next morning when you woke alone in a suite at a fine hotel you'd only passed since settling here. On his side of the bed was a folded note, unsigned: "I'll see you."

You assumed they were empty words, or careful ones. Crocodile seemed to move around a lot, having no base of operations since he was stripped of his Warlord title, so you shrugged it off at the time. But now...

Surely they weren't sweet nothings. He was too sensible for that. So maybe you offended him and it was actually an oblique threat, in which case you'd better climb out the window.

"I'll talk to him. Is it okay for him to come in?"

The cafe owner blanched, then hardened. "If this means trouble, we're done."

He left to retrieve Crocodile like the notorious pirate was there for a chart reading (was he?), or like he was... calling on you, like a suitor (...was he?).

You shook yourself and tried to remember anything after the restaurant. What he tasted like under the wine, or what his pale skin looked like in low light. But you came up empty except for the smell of the cool spices of his aftershave in the sheets.

Damn.

His footsteps were heavy and leisurely before he stopped in the doorway, and you felt the breath leave your lungs. How was he so handsome? Other people would find his scars off putting, and there were several; you weren't researching him or anything, but you saw wanted posters from throughout the years, and they seemed to only accumulate along his face. His hair was dark as yours, but your skin was pinkish and cool while his was a warm, light olive.

"You keep odd hours," Crocodile more grunted than said.

"I do," you agreed. It was mid-afternoon, and only the start of your day. You had a little solitary time in your room at a women's boardinghouse before you did consultations, then spent the night studying for future clients until your pre-opening bakery shift well before nautical twilight, earlier than you'd wake up on the Grudge Dolph. Then you slept most of the time the sun was up, ironic for you and your diurnal chart, but you didn't believe in this stuff anymore.

"Long time no see," you said pointedly, and nodded at the chair across from you.

Crocodile looked too big for the cafe, like everything was doll furniture to his stature. You knew their were humans larger than him but wondered how the hell you two fit together that night since you woke up with minimal but tell-tale soreness. He angled his chair away from the table so he could cross his ankle over the opposite knee, and you swallowed, unable to pretend you weren't looking at the strong thighs crinkling his dress pants, before meting his gaze.

"I almost gave up," he said simply. "My associate would wonder why we bothered docking here with nothing to show for it."

Okay.

You were lost.

"Excuse me?"

He inhaled a good drag of his cigar. "'You're my captain,' you said. It was a thought exercise, to do with that instrument of yours, but I've warmed to the idea."

No.

"What do you say?"

He looked at you like he wouldn't be bothered either way you answered.

But.

"I'm sorry," you said against your better judgment. "I'm a little lost here. I don't... totally know what we discussed last time."

He wasn't expecting that.

"Hah." That bark-laugh-grunt he did that somehow also held a question, but not as undignified as a "huh?"

"It was a lot of wine for me," you said awkwardly. What were you, a kid? You're twenty eight. It's not that you were teetotal, but that was your first night of drinking in a good few months.

Crocodile seemed well and truly taken aback, and a bit of ash ungracefully plopped off the end of his cigar, which he caught with... a cloud of sand, and neatly floated off into an ash tray. Wow. Logia powers really were different.

His voice was tight. "What do you remember."

"Uhm..." You bit your lip, and his eyes flicked down there for millisecond. "We left the restaurant for your hotel. And then, uh. It was morning."

Slowly, with his cigar curled in his pinkie and ring fingers, Crocodile went to pinch the bridge of his nose. "That unremarkable, huh?"

Oh god.

This was that little bit of sensitivity to him you found so endearing. He'd never call it that, though; pride was a euphemism.

"If I was drunk enough not to remember shit for shit," you started, "Surely I must have... I don't know, puked on you, or something."

"No." His moment was over in the blink of an eye. "It's better this way. Just know we mostly talked."

Mostly. "About?"

"Your travels." You winced. Surely you didn't cry over your ex-captain to Sir Crocodile of all people. You had a pitiful lack of girl friends despite living with women for the first time in a decade, but even the widow who brought you to that restaurant in the first place would be a better choice. "What you want, and who's in the way of it."

That also sounded vulnerable, but the way he studied your face for your reaction made you think it struck him, somehow.

"What I want."

"You can map the stars along the Grand Line if you stick with a Warlord," Crocodile said simply. "Not one of your greenhorns."

Your breath caught.

That was the reason you joined Hawkins when he came back to your hometown after forming his crew of sycophants who'd never seen cartomancy before. You didn't want to be a navigator. You wanted to survey the Grand Line celestially because the sea crossed the equator. In reality, you wanted to move to the South Blue and study the southern hemisphere's sky, only after familiarizing yourself with the one you were born under. The Navy wouldn't let you move that freely, and the astronomers of Mary Geoise weren't practiced in geography, nor would they give you the time of day. The only course was to do it all yourself.

"It will be dangerous." Hawkins hadn't lied to you, yet. "You need to hold your own to be a pirate, but I'll protect you when I can."

You were the only woman on the ship and the only one who knew him before, the neighbor boy who complained he had to babysit you but cried when the two of you got lost in a fishing boat as night fell, and you used Polaris to get back to your home port.

"Former Warlord," you corrected. Crocodile's lip curled in annoyance. "You're from the Grand Line, aren't you?"

He humored you. "Paradise. But I've been in the New World for almost two years now."

So had you. Your ancestors were from this sea, too.

"I saw it," Hawkins said easily, and three of his cards arranged themselves midair: the High Priestess, the Eight of Cups, the Chariot. "You, leaving here."

You hated it most when you had the same interpretation, because it let him think he was right. He'd long since assigned the High Priestess to you and the Magician to himself since by pure chance you shared birth cards, and in one of your now-rare lighter moods, you'd sniffed, "The Chariot navigates. You be the Tower." But besides that, the Chariot was ruled by Cancer, a water sign, beside a pip from Cups, and here you were, underwater. Leaving him.

"I'm sorry."

"You're not."

The Pacifistas were terrifying. You followed your instincts to run and hide, and no one resented you for it, but the crew barely acknowledged you as it was. You were either a know-it-all of a navigator or the captain's tagalong. Both of you knew they assumed you were fucking, still, but nor did you do anything to disabuse them of the idea, and this is where it led.

"No," you said out loud. "Thank you. But I'd hold you back. I'm not strong."

"You think I don't know?"

Ouch. "You could flatter me a little."

"Can you even use that thing?" Crocodile inclined his head downward. How did he...? You were better about keeping your dagger strapped to your thigh these days, but today you were wearing a longer skirt that should've hidden it well, and you briefly had the thought was he checking out your legs? You wore stockings today. Maybe he liked that sort of thing.

"It was a gift."

Hawkins called it an athame. You'd killed only one person in your life, dragging it down a man's femoral artery when Hawkins wasn't there, didn't see you get separated from the crew.

"I can teach you," Crocodile said. "But you should trust the person you follow. I've survived this long."

I'll protect you when I can.

You blinked.

"You also went to prison."

"And left."

You exhaled. "You know what I wanted when I was young and stupid. But what are you doing now?"

"There's nothing stupid about knowledge," he said sternly. "It's a weapon more strictly controlled by the World Government than any blade or bullet."

"How political."

"Everything is."

You grinned, more to yourself. Even when he was pressing you one way, he was so easy to talk to. But you schooled your face to neutrality. "What did you want with Alabasta?"

"That was a long time ago."

"I don't care about a monarchy going down," you said impatiently. "If I join you, what am I participating in? And do you even have a ship? A crew?"

"You know, I believe I told you all this last time. But apparently..."

"Oh, don't you hold that over my head." The look he gave you was unimpressed. "What?"

"You insist you're not a pirate, but you're vulgar as any sailor."

"Vulgar? I haven't said anything." Besides 'shit for shit,' but he seemed distracted in that moment.

"I don't mean your vocabulary."

"Oh!" you said sarcastically. "Okay, sir."

Crocodile's brow hardened. "Watch it."

"Or what, sir? Did I call you that in bed, sir?"

He stood up, suddenly, and closed the few feet of distance between you. His golden hook came through one of the wide stitches of your sweater harmlessly as he butted it up under your jaw, tilting your head up. "What are you playing at, hmm? I decided I'd forget it to be fair to you."

You breathed deeply and the cardamom and tobacco of him filled your head like a fog. "Or you could remind me."

His gaze didn't leave your face. "It's poor form to sleep with a subordinate."

"I'm not under you."

He closed his eyes and exhaled, like you were really testing him. "What will it take?"

Feeling brave, you gently coaxed your sweater from his hook—stretched the damn stockinette, you'd have to tug the fabric to get it smooth again—and held onto it, like it was his other hand, petting it with your thumb. "Your pitch needs work. You just showed back up in this town hoping I'd be amenable? Based on a one-night stand?"

"I thought it was more like a date."

He sounded a little sullen as he nudged his chair closer to you with his foot.

"One of us has to ask out the other, you know."

"You're exhausting."

"Yes. Are you still sure you want me?"

"Yes."

You didn't know if he meant for his crew or otherwise.

#crocodile x reader #sir crocodile x reader #the stars have all gone #spicafic #crockat

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city-of-ladies · 3 months ago

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Although most of her writings did not survive, Pamphile (or Pamphila) of Epidaurus (fl. mid-1st century CE) deserves recognition. She is one of the earliest known female historians and the only ancient Greek woman historian about whom we have significant information. Additionally, she was a key figure in developing the genre of “miscellaneous history,” where authors retold anecdotes from earlier works.

A pioneer of historical writing

Pamphile stands among the earliest known female historians, alongside the Chinese scholar Ban Zhao (c. 40–45 – c. 117–120). This does not mean, however, that she was the first or only female historian of her time. For instance, there are references to a woman named Nicobule, who reportedly wrote a biography of Alexander the Great between the 1st and 3rd centuries CE.

According to Photios, Pamphile was a mature woman during the reign of Nero (54–68 CE). Conflicting accounts exist regarding her origins: Photios claimed she and her family were from Egypt, while the Suda, a Byzantine encyclopedia, stated that she and her father, Soterides, were from Epidaurus.

Pamphile was a polymath, likely with access to an extensive library. She attributed her knowledge to her own readings, her husband and the conversations she overheard from his visitors.

Pamphile’s Work and Influence

Pamphile’s main work, Historical Commentaries, survives only in fragments—eleven excerpts from the original 33 books, preserved in paraphrases by authors like Diogenes Laërtius, Aulus Gellius, and Photios. Her Historical Commentaries is considered the earliest known example of “miscellaneous history”. Later writers seem to have emulated her work and style.

In addition to this, Pamphile is credited with other works, including a collection of apophthegms, lectures, debates, and discussions on poetry. She also wrote an epitome of Ctesias in three books. According to the Suda, she authored a work titled On Controversies and a sexual manual called On Sexual Pleasure.

Deborah Levine Gera speculates that Pamphile might also be the author of Tractatus de Mulieribus Claris in Bello (Treatise on Women Distinguished in Wars), which recounts the deeds of powerful women from history, such as Tomyris and Artemisia I of Caria.

Pamphile described her work as poikilia, meaning a “tapestry” woven together from various sources and genres. She chose this approach to make her writing more engaging and enjoyable for her readers.

Enjoyed this post? You can support me on Ko-fi!

Further reading

Anonymous, Tractatus de Mulieribus Claris in Bello

MacDaniel Spencer, Pamphile of Epidauros: A Female Ancient Greek Historian

Plant Ian Michael (ed.), Women Writers of Ancient Greece and Rome : An Anthology

Photios, Bibliotheca

#history #women in history #women's history #historyedit #pamphile of epidaurus #1st century #female writers #greece #ancient greece #greek history #antiquity #ancient history #feminism #nicobule #herstory

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skyfallscotland · 23 days ago

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Quicksilver, by Callie Hart 🦋

She is moonlight. The mist that shrouds the mountains. The bite of electricity in the air before a storm.

Ohh boy. Personally I think she is none of those things, but that's me getting ahead of myself. God, I feel so anxious posting a book reaction after the Onyx Storm Debacle, but here we are, with a book I didn't love...again.

So...I started this one with a running commentary again (Throne of Glass style) but I couldn't quite commit. We will however approach it chronologically, because that's an easier way to show my thoughts as they evolved.

Would I recommend this book? No. And I’ll tell you why, but there are spoilers ahead so be aware of that.

Friends...I did not enjoy this one and I'm starting to feel like a crazy person. Is this just a massive reading slump? Or am I weird? Because everyone seems to think these books are the best thing since sliced bread and I've not liked a single one of them 😭

My first impressions? Saeris is so cliché. Like oh we're starving and can barely survive, you can see my ribs, but actually I can scale a giant wall and fight all these fully trained guards and win...ok, sure. It's giving 00's YA vibes but alright, I'm rolling with it.

I had no understanding of what it was I was doing, but if this was a world-ending gift, then good. Fuck this city and fuck this world. My family was already doomed, and what did I care for anyone else?

Bit dramatic, but whatever, I'll still ride with you. Who am I to judge? I did write Remi.

“I wear pants. Shirts. Things I can move easily in. So I can run, and climb, and—” Kill people.

"So cliché." I mutter to myself as I put the book down. Then pick it up again. Then put it down again and use the audiobook instead.

At some point, Layne would accept that I just didn't eat that much, and she'd stop loading up my plate with so much food. She'd slip an apple into her pocket for me or something.

*Deep breaths* Saeris would absolutely fit in on mid 2000's tumblr. Babe, this is such a weird flex to include when you’ve already made it very clear she was a starving orphan, ok?

We also met the infamous Carrion—more on that later—and her brother...who sucks. No two ways about it. I hated him immediately. Are there any decent book-brothers out there? Or just...no? I thought from the way he was acting he was going to be fourteen but no, he's like TWENTY, what the fuck 😭

So anyway, hooray! We've fallen through a portal to a new world and that's the stage set—then we meet Kingfisher. Oh man. Kingfisher.

Firstly:

This is a kingfisher. I just want y’all to know that. I know it’s not his ‘real’ name but it’s still what she’s crying out in rapture ok, a choice was made and it wasn’t a good one.

Anyway, surprise surprise, he's an asshole, but here’s the rub: he doesn't seem redemptive.

My jaw was screaming, I was clenching my teeth so hard. “Fuck—you—” “There you go again. Hungry, needy little bitch in heat, begging to be fucked…” he taunted. “Let. Go!”

I’m ok with enemies to lovers, but there has to be a hint at least that the ‘bad guy’ can be a decent person. There has to be something that hooks me about him—his entire personality can’t just be ‘asshole’, and above all, despite the fact he doesn’t like the FMC (even loathes her for all I care) he has to at least have some basic respect for her, otherwise I’m not down. That’s just my personal take, you don’t have to agree, but it makes me uncomfortable otherwise.

“I don't hate your kind. I'm just disappointed by how breakable you are. If I held you down and fucked you the way I'm imagining fucking you right now, I doubt that you’d survive it.”

Like that? That’s not cute or arousing in any way.

“That your body is betraying you in other ways. That I can smell you, Little Osha, and I'm thinking about drinking the sweet nectar you're making for me straight from the fucking cup.”

I do also think the smut was just not for me in this book, as a general rule, I did find it very cringe. Case in point ^

A FUNNY INTERLUDE:

—a look of rye amusement on his irritatingly handsome face.

LMAO this was meant to be wry, I assume? There were a few instances like this throughout the book, as well as typos and missing punctuation. Which, we’re all human, I get it, but it kind of annoys me a little when this was picked up for trad pub, pulled from KU (I bought it—twice!) and has since gotten a million dollar Netflix deal. Please, if we’re going to be doing that, the publishing house needs to edit the damn book. Honestly? I think it could have done with 200-300 less pages. A developmental edit was needed, let alone a final edit.

Anyway. Onwards.

So they make a blood pact, in which she agrees to basically do whatever the fuck he says, which is...tired. I'm tired. The book is tired. We're all a little tired here.

Kingfisher held out his hand and pulled me to my feet, making a derisive sound when he saw the cut I'd inflicted upon myself. “Baby.”

It’s just...this utter derision he has for her, his supposed (spoiler alert!) fated mate, that just gives me the ick.

Then there's this:

Kingfisher stunned me to silence when he dropped to his knees and started picking up the shards of broken cup. “It's all right, Archer. Hush, it's all right.”

Ok, this here is the first indication we get that he can be a decent person, and it’s not with her, it’s with some random character we’ve just met. Do I grow to like Archer? Sure, but right now I don’t know him from Adam, all this scene tells me is that Fisher is capable of respect and kindness, just not with Saeris. Be so for fucking real right now, that does not make you want to root for them. If this were your bestie you’d be screaming for them to run. This is the crux of it all. We had to get like 300 pages into this book for there to be a single hint of redemption in him and to me that's bad technique.

Clearly everyone else disagrees since they're out there praising it, but I've nearly DNF'd so many times by now, because you're 👏 not 👏 giving 👏 me 👏 crumbs. Please, give the reader something! It's all well and good for people to be out here going "well he's like that for a reason" (spoiler alert: the reason sucks, it's just the cliché 'I wanted to push her away for her own safety) but his reasoning means shit if people lose interest and don't get far enough to find out what it even is.

Note: by 'people' I mean the rest of the internet, not anyone here specifically, but since a few of you have said the same, just know that's a generalisation and I still love you! But I fear my point stands, his change of heart/any indication of kindness comes too late in the game for it to be an effective character arc (more on this later!!)

Anywho—

I shouldn't have moaned. I definitely shouldn't have told him that I wanted him. For the love of all the gods in all the heavens, why had I said that? I was going to throw up.

Same babe. Why did you? Why do you?

I couldn't believe we'd finally arrived here.

Me either!! 56% of the way in! We've basically done absolutely nothing but wander around and talk about how hot and mean he is for 300 pages but finally you're...doing things...with him 😬

Every part of me wanted to scramble from the bed and bolt for the door, but I knew that would be folly. Just like a hell cat, Fisher would give chase.

So terrified every part of you wants to bolt for the door...charming. Very hot. Love that for you.

“I could probably use a sho—” “Do not fucking dare finish that sentence,” he snarled. “I don't want a mouthful of soap and perfume. I want to taste you.”

Shower. She was going to say shower.

Another note, because I'm incapable of not shouting this from the rooftops when the occasion arises—vaginas are self-cleaning, there should be no soap or perfume going in there! You would have tasted her anyway you dumbass. You'd think he'd know that, given he's supposedly been in more of them than your local gynaecologist.

“And we can’t lie.”

*deep breaths* since WHEN? And that only makes it worse??

I'd imagined the words. Fabricated them out of thin air and somehow played them aloud in my own head in his voice.

Oh, hey Violet, how did you get here?

So anyway, then we enter the final conflict? Confrontation? Where she needs to go and save her newfound mate from under the mountain the bad guy's place! (oh and there's vampires, did I mention that before? No? Well there is now).

Anyway, turns out Rhysand Kingfisher was trapped there for 110 years with big bad Malcolm, who it's implied sexually assaulted him during that time, but we never address that. Why? Well this is romantasy and we only have six-hundred pages, why would we? Just throw traumatic experiences in there for the sake of it, why not?

Anyway—

“That's right. Fifty-five. He spent the next eight years trying to find the coin once he reached the center, didn't you, my love?”

I'm?????

55+8=63... what happened to the other 47 years? Guys? I'm????

Whatever, who cares about math! We're on the escape until—WOAH.

“It can't see or hear you. It tracks movement.”

Don't panic, don't panic, we all know how to defeat the middengard wyrm whatever that thing is! And we do. But not really, because everything in this maze regenerates, just like romantasy plotlines.

More fighting, more evil villain monologuing, etc.

THEN Saeris has to go and find a coin to break the blood oath Kingfisher made with big-bad, even though big-bad said he broke it himself five minutes ago during his evil monologue in order to make Fishie confess to...things.

“I release you from your oath to us, Kingfisher, Bane of Gillethrye. Now, go on. Tell your friends all about the deal you struck with us all those years ago.”

But no matter, we're off to find a coin and no worries, we've got that down! Of course in the process Feyre Saeris dies and gets brought back to life again as an all powerful fae/vampire queen hybrid. WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT?

Not me, even I couldn't have predicted that double-doozy. Probably this guy though:

Zareth. God of Chaos.

Which? NO. Nope. No. Too late. FAR too late in the game for this. I'm out.

The way we went through so many boring pages of nothingness to this in the last 20% is truly something.

OK! SIDE CHARACTERS:

Danya was a complete and total waste of everyone's time, she existed only to be the bitchy, elitist mean girl side character who was mean to poor Saeris and occassionally made her jealous. This one-dimensional treatment of female characters grinds my gears. Even Everlayne, Kingfisher's sister was entirely useless, making Saeris the special female unicorn. Pretty sure this book fails the Bechdel test.

Ren was nice, I liked him, poor long-suffering man that he was.

Lorreth. Man, y'all can't shut up about Carrion and you're really sleeping on Lorreth. This man saved me from DNF'ing, he was fantastic. Put some respect on his name! 10/10 no notes. The guy you'd actually want to get with if this book were real.

He'd still looked dumbstruck as he headed off in the direction of his tent, cradling Avisiéth like a baby in his arms.

Carrion. CARRION. Ok straight up...is that really a word we want to be using as a name? Really? Is it relevant? Like did we do that on purpose because he somehow reflects roadkill? I figured we'd find out, but NOPE 💀

Who fucking knows at this point though whether it is his name. I doubt it, given Kingfisher's name is apparently not Kingfisher either. Personally though I still think that should have been addressed in the book. It's over 200k words, you can tell us why certain nicknames exist.

The thief held up his hands. “You're right. I apologize. I'm just a little on edge right now. I'm not my best self.”

Hilarious, there to cause trouble most of the time, 10/10, almost no notes.

“Are you going to tell me about my parents, or are you going to start undressing each other? Because I can leave. I don't have to, but I can,” Carrion said.

Except the part where he turns out to be a thousand-year-old fae too and a secret, mystery, vampire-killing-prince dude or whatever, there's a note about that and how it's kinda unnecessary to drop in the final 5%. Was it foreshadowed? Not effectively, no. Also Carrion Daianthus? Roadkill, crows, and...pink flowers? Yeah. That's him. That's the one 💀

Onyx. Token wild animal taken in as pet/familiar trope. She can have this one. He's cute.

Elroy. Dude's definitely going to become important again. How much do we wanna bet he's Fisher's dad? Anyone?

Anyway, this was wildly chaotic and I don't really feel bad about it because so was this book. It started out well in the first 5-10%. It was a slog to read between the 10% mark and 60%. Honestly, it only got better once they'd fucked for the first time, which was because Kingfisher's character did a 180 overnight with a big fat handwavey motion, like our FMC's magic coochie cured him of his violent tendencies. Like not to be crude, but I'm not sure there's any other way of putting it.

I think it's just not a great book, which I also think is a shame because the world is interesting, I loved the parts of alchemy we got (which weren't enough, imo) and the swords, the magic, the portals, the quicksilver, etc. I think it had so much potential and that's ultimately why it also bothers me so much as well. It feels squandered through a lack of refinement and editing.

Will I read the next one? Maybe. I'll let someone else take the hit first and see if it's any better paced this.

This has gone on long enough lmao, so I'll just leave you with one last quote that I think really sums up this book so, so much:

“Not that. The brother part,” she said in a loud whisper. “That’s not common knowledge?” “Well, yes. And no. It's just not spoken about. And it's very, very complicated.”

Yeah...

#read with amy 🤓#quicksilver spoilers #please don't eviscerate me for this

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smystermy · 2 months ago

Text

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭

tags: geto suguru x you; canon-compliant; set some time after his defection; tooth-rotting domestic fluff; you both co-parent nana-mimi; you and he are somewhere between not being a couple and being one; this might be a bit too tender, methinks... but then again, geto deserves all the tenderness in the world.

warnings: none.

word count: 2325.

oneshot, loosely related to 'peel your heart like a pomegranate'.

The day clings to Geto Suguru like a shadow—long, heavy, and unrelenting.

By the time he steps through the door of the apartment, the sky outside is awash in hues of muted gold and burnt orange, streaked with threads of dusky lavender. The light spills through the hallway window in fractured rays, catching the fine dust motes in its path and painting everything in a soft glow.

He exhales slowly, the breath leaving him like the last note of a song played too many times. His shoulders slump, weighed down by exhaustion that seems to have seeped into his very bones. The scrape of his shoes against the threshold feels louder than it should in the quiet. He toes them off with a resigned sigh, the action mechanical, almost thoughtless.

The familiar creak of the floorboards greets him as his feet touch the wood, their uneven groan a sound he’s known for years. Yet, instead of comfort, it brings an odd pang of unease.

The silence that follows feels wrong, dissonant, like a chord struck out of tune.

He glances toward the living room, where the walls hold shadows that stretch and shift with the fading sunlight.

Normally, this hour carries its own quiet rhythm, a symphony of small sounds that speak of life and home. Nanako would be sprawled on the couch, her legs draped over the armrest as she flipped through channels with exaggerated commentary, her voice rising and falling like the tide. Mimiko would be close by on the floor, surrounded by her carefully arranged kingdom of stuffed animals, her soft, halting words as she read aloud filling the spaces between her sister's louder ones.

And you—his anchor, his constant in a sea of chaos—you’d be by the window.

The silhouette of your figure would merge with the light as you held a teacup delicately in one hand, the other hovering over the keyboard of your laptop. He could picture it so clearly, the faint furrow of concentration on your brow as you searched for online courses or worked on some quietly ambitious project. Your determination, quiet but steadfast, was a beacon to him, a reminder of the grounding he needed.

But tonight, the room feels hollow. The empty couch and scattered pillows are just that—empty. The table by the window stands bare, the chair pushed back slightly as if you’d only just left but taken the warmth of your presence with you.

The stillness presses against him, thick and suffocating, his pulse beginning to quicken. The unease coils tightly in his chest, the absence of sound more deafening than any noise could be. It stretches on, this silence, until—finally—a faint, rhythmic sound reaches his ears.

Soft snores drift down the hall, breaking through the oppressive quiet like a lifeline, and relief surges in a warm wave through his chest. The invisible bind around his ribs loosens, letting him take a breath that feels fuller, easier.

A quiet exhale escapes his lips as he moves toward the source of the sound, his steps deliberate and measured. Even as relief blooms, he remains careful not to disturb the fragile peace ahead.

The door to the twins’ room is slightly ajar, the warm hues of the setting sun spilling through the gap, casting amber streaks across the hallway floor. He nudges the door open, the soft creak of the hinges barely registering—but the sight inside halts him mid-step.

The room is a perfect tableau of chaos and comfort, a scene so achingly tender it roots him to the spot. The golden light filters in, catching on scattered Lego blocks that litter the floor, their bright, jagged edges glinting like tiny, sharp stars in the otherwise serene space. A few forgotten toys lie toppled over, silent witnesses to whatever grand adventure had played out here earlier.

And then his gaze moves upward, a surge of something soft and protective stirring within him when it lands on the bed where the three of you are tangled together in a mess of limbs and warmth that speaks of trust, of belonging.

Nanako lies sprawled across the middle of the mattress, one arm thrown dramatically over her head, her small form taking up far more space than it should. Her expression in sleep is unguarded, her mouth slightly ajar as she breathes in the slow, even rhythm of deep rest. Beside her, Mimiko is curled in a tight, protective ball, her tiny fingers clutching her favorite doll with a fierceness that defies her size. The doll's lopsided smile mirrors the one Geto often sees on her face, and the sight tugs at something tender in his chest.

And then there’s you, perched precariously at the very edge of the bed, as if even in sleep you’re making room for the girls. One arm is draped loosely over both of them, the curve of your wrist resting lightly on Nanako's shoulder—a quiet promise of protection and care. A strand of hair clings to your cheek, its dark line contrasting against the soft, flushed warmth of your skin. Your blanket lies forgotten on the floor, half-trampled by the earlier commotion, a testament to your restless slumber.

Geto exhales a soft, fond sigh, the familiar sight of the blanket on the floor more exasperating than anything else, yet it tugs at his heart all the same. Stepping into the room, he moves carefully, his feet avoiding the Lego blocks with the kind of ease born from countless similar nights. Bending down, he picks up the discarded blanket, shaking it out gently, his hands moving with instinctive precision.

As he straightens, though, you stir, a barely audible sound escaping your lips. Your lashes flutter against your cheeks, the faintest flicker of movement before your eyes open, hazy and unfocused, meeting his gaze—

“Geto-senpai?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, thick with the weight of sleep, each syllable soft enough to make something deep in his chest ache. The way you murmur his name, fragile and unguarded, pulls at him in a way he can’t quite put into words.

“Shh.” His voice is low, quiet enough not to disturb the peaceful rhythm of the room. He leans down, the blanket gathered in his hands as he gently drapes it over your body. His movements are careful, deliberate, as though afraid the smallest shift might shatter the delicate stillness around you. “Go back to sleep.”

Your lashes flutter again, the hazy warmth of sleep still clouding your gaze as you blink up at him. There’s a moment of disoriented hesitation, your brow furrowing faintly as if trying to place yourself in the moment. Then, stubborn as always, you make a sluggish attempt to sit up, your hand bracing weakly against the bed.

“Dinner,” you mumble, the word half-formed, your voice slurring under the insistent pull of sleep. “I need to—”

“Sleep.” His hand finds your shoulder, broad and warm, the faint weight of it grounding. He presses down gently, his touch firm but comforting, urging you to sink back into the bed. “I’ll take care of it.” There’s a steadiness in his tone, laced with a quiet resolve that leaves no room for argument.

“You will?”

For a fleeting moment, relief flickers across your face, soft and sweet, like a flower unfurling its petals in the morning light. But as your eyes blink open wider, clarity begins to seep in, and your expression shifts.

Your gaze sharpens just enough to take him in fully—his slouched shoulders, the faint hollows under his eyes, the weariness that clings to him like a second skin. Despite the drowsy slowness of your words, your brow furrows in concern. “No, you won’t,” you murmur, the frown on your face at odds with your sleepy tone. “What you’ll do is take a nap… You look like you’re about to fall over.”

A quiet chuckle escapes him, low and rumbling, slipping out before he can stop it. The weight of his exhaustion momentarily lifts, forgotten in the face of your unwavering care. There’s something about your stubbornness, even in this half-asleep state, that warms him, easing the tightness in his chest.

“You’re the one who’s been wrangling these two all day,” he says, his voice soft with affection as he gestures toward the twins. Nanako shifts slightly in her sleep, her arm flopping over Mimiko’s side, and he can’t help the faint smile that tugs at his lips. “And stressing over school,” he adds, his gaze flicking back to you. “You should be the one resting.”

But even as he speaks, you stir faintly, your eyelids twitching as though resisting the pull of sleep. Sleep weighs heavily on you, yet your resolve doesn’t waver. Your lips part, forming words weighed down by exhaustion but no less sincere.

“You… you need rest too…” you murmur, your voice barely audible, soft as the whisper of a breeze through the room. Despite the haze of fatigue in your expression, your concern for him cuts through, clear and steadfast.

He exhales, the sound half sigh, half quiet surrender, his resistance unraveling thread by thread under the weight of your care.

“Fine,” he concedes at last, his voice gentling, a small, fond smile curving his lips. His dark eyes soften as he watches you, his heart giving a faint, familiar ache at how stubbornly you always put others before yourself. “I’ll join you after I shower. Deal?” he says, his tone light, coaxing, like a soft nudge to soothe your tired mind.

You hum softly in response, a sound of sleepy approval, your head sinking back against the pillow as if his words have finally given you permission to rest.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath, and just like that, you’re gone again—drifting back into sleep with the same quiet trust that always leaves him marveling. He stands there for a moment longer, the faint glow of the setting sun casting a golden light across your face, as though the universe itself is cradling you. It’s in moments like these, small and fleeting, that he feels the quiet pull of gratitude—for you, for the twins, for the fragile but steadfast thread that holds his world together.

By the time he returns from his shower, the golden warmth of the sunset has faded, leaving the apartment bathed in the tranquil quiet of twilight.

The room is awash in muted silver and gray, the moonlight spilling through the window in soft streaks that trace the edges of scattered toys and faintly catch on the glossy covers of picture books. The soft, rhythmic sounds of breathing fill the space, a melody of comfort and stillness that eases the lingering tension in his chest.

As his gaze drifts to the bed, he notices the subtle shifts that have taken place in his absence. The girls have moved in their sleep, their closeness evident in the way their bodies naturally tangle together. Nanako now lies on her side, one hand loosely cradling Mimiko’s doll—an unexpected but endearing theft. Her small face is slack with sleep, making her appear younger, softer, free from the mischief she wears during waking hours.

Mimiko has burrowed further into your side, her head tucked against the curve of your shoulder. Her small fingers are curled tightly against your sleeve, clutching you with a quiet intensity, as though your presence is the anchor that holds her dreams in place.

And you, as if anticipating his return even in unconsciousness, have left just enough space for him on the edge of the bed near the window. The faint moonlight brushes your features, catching on the loose strands of hair that have slipped from behind your ear, and he feels a quiet, tender warmth spread through him—a gentle pull of affection that makes the world outside feel far away.

He steps quietly into the room, his movements deliberate and soundless, and slips into the space you’ve unknowingly saved for him. The mattress dips beneath his weight, letting out the faintest creak, and for a moment, he pauses.

His gaze lingers on the way you’ve curled around the girls, your arm draped protectively over Mimiko’s back, the rise and fall of your chest steady and soothing. Slowly, he drapes an arm loosely around you, his touch tentative at first, as if afraid to disturb the delicate serenity of the moment.

But as his arm settles, you shift instinctively, pressing back into him without waking, your body fitting against his as though it’s second nature. He exhales softly, his breath evening out, and allows himself to melt into the closeness of you, the twins, and the serene rhythm of the night.

And then, your eyes flutter open, the motion slow and hesitant, as though you’re fighting to remain in the pull of sleep. They meet his in the dim light, your gaze soft and unfocused, and for a moment, you simply blink at him before offering a sweet, sleepy smile.

“Oh,” you murmur, your voice thick and slurred with exhaustion, yet soothing in its warmth. “Forgot to say… welcome home, Geto-senpai.”

The words are so simple, so unadorned, yet they strike him with the kind of weight that lingers, softening the raw edges of his heart.

A faint, almost rueful smile curves his lips as he tightens his arm around you, his other hand reaching out to brush against Mimiko’s hair. His fingers graze the strands lightly before shifting to adjust the doll in Nanako’s grip, a quiet, affectionate gesture that leaves everything as it should be.

Drawing the twins closer, he holds all of you in the protective circle of his arms, the comfort of togetherness weaving a cocoon around him. Then, leaning down, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips brushing your skin with all the tenderness he can muster.

"I’m home," he whispers, his voice soft and heartfelt—

And in this quiet, profound moment, he feels it—truly, deeply, undeniably: He’s home.

general masterlist || geto suguru masterlist

#dividers by @saradika-graphics #geto x you #geto x reader #geto suguru x you #geto suguru x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #geto suguru #[my posts: geto suguru]

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