#my body unspooling

[beyondthespheres]

My Body Unspooling by Leo Fox, Silver Sprocket, 2024

[haveyoureadthistransbook]

My Body Unspooling by Leo Fox

goodreads

Lucille and his body are constantly at odds. Lucille is too cold and too resentful for his body, and his body is too warm and too loud for Lucille. It’s time to ask God for a divorce. A minicomic by the author of Prokaryote Season and Boy Island , My Body Unspooling explores the push and pull between body and mind, and what ties them together.

Mod opinion: I haven't read this graphic novel yet, but it sounds really interesting and I hope to get around to it at some point soon!

[novelconcepts]

There once was a team, lost in the Wilderness. They can stay, the Wilderness says. They can stay, if they just invite the Wilderness in.

Lottie is the first to change. It’s unsurprising, the rest of them will agree later, that it begins with her. She’s been drifting out into the night, bare feet crunching on leaves. She’s been returning at dawn with pine needles in her hair.

She’s been giving herself to the Wilderness without even realizing. And so, when she returns with gold bled into her irises, with blackish-green veins ridged under her flesh, with nails glossy as river stones, it seems almost right.

[gghostwriter]

Level-One Intruder

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer apprehends an unexpected but adorable trespasser Trope:It’s fluff in a meet cute type of way w.c: 1.8k a/n: I'm a liar. I said I was going to post once I get over this flu but I couldn't help myself, not at all. I just really really wanted to share this cute cute fic I wrote with you all. Not proofread. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

The brown tweed coat on Spencer’s shoulders threaten to droop down his arms as he wrangled his keys to unlock his apartment door.

There was little light on the hallway, something that could be attributed to the late hour of twelve midnight. Muffled noises could be heard from next door—a new tenant must have moved in while he was away. 

The FBI agent could feel himself coming apart at the seams from the lack of proper sleep. The latest case took eight long grueling days to solve and the team had to make do with what the small town could offer as arrangements.

His back felt stiff from curling on the squeaky sofa bed, trying his best to make himself comfortable and now, all he wanted to do was decompress with a totem of a book and sleep like the dead until his alarm clock rang for the next day. 

Dropping his satchel on the ground, silently assuring himself to get the laundry going the next day, a tiny scuffle echoed through his heavily darkened apartment.

Spencer tensed, unsure if his overtly exhausted mind conjured up the noise or if someone else found their way into his haven while it was otherwise unoccupied.

Another sound confirmed the reality causing him to draw his gun from his holster, ends pointing down, as he slowly made his way around the sofa to the first bedroom, minding his steps to avoid the sections with creaking floorboards.

He rounded the corner, eyes straining to adjust to the minimal light the outposts provide him—and nothing. 

The room was stale from lack of use and everything looked to be in the right place. The stripped spare bed looked untouched and all the windows were sealed shut. Exactly how he left it.

Another noise caught his attention.

Spencer tightened his hold on the gun and tiptoe’d to the next room—the bathroom and in there, the first real evidence was uncovered. 

His eyebrows threatened to meet in the middle as he took in the unspooled tissue roll hanging from its holder. The unused sheets of paper now sat on the green titled floor, no doubt flooded with organisms and bacteria that the naked eye couldn’t see. 

He shuddered from the thought.

Quickly moving on, he shuffled his way to the open kitchen. Right away he spotted something amiss—rather a few items amiss.

First, the lower cabinet was ajar. It was where Spencer stored his cleaning supplies and it was rarely opened as it was.

Second, his favorite Star Trek mug that he left out to dry near the sink was now precariously near the edge, threatening to break into a thousand pieces.

And lastly, the empty plastic bag of bread on the counter that he was sure had two more slices before he went away for the case.

There was an intruder and it seemed like he was hungry.

Weapon still in his hands, he slowly he crept his towards the slightly opened mahogany door of the main bedroom. He took a deep breath before rounding up to the room, pistol pointing forward to the unsuspecting guest. 

Except there was no one.

“That’s strange,” he muttered to himself, holstering back the revolver to his belt and to his surprise, someone answered or rather, meow-ed back. A fluffy orange cat with a collar on his neck.

The agent smiled. “You must be my intruder—”

Meow.

“—Now, who are you and how did you get in here?”

The cat was silent, content with rubbing his body on his black pant legs, leaving behind stray hairs that Spencer would have to lint away before laundry.

He bent down to see if there was any information hanging from the cat’s green collar. 

“Mr. Chewie. Is that your name?”

Feline eyes stared into his and blinked once. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he sighed. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d believe you could understand me but actually according to studies, cats lack the cognitive skills to interpret human language so I still don’t know why I’m explaining that to you.”

Meow.

“Nope, I’m sure you’re just responding to the fact that I am talking to you and my rambling is clearly brought by my lack of proper sleep—” a knock on his front door interrupted his musings. “—one second,” he called out, swiftly unbuckling his holster belt and placing it on top of the dresser. There was no need to frighten the knocking neighbor with a gun. 

Spencer turned back to the cat inquisitively sitting next to his feet. “Don’t move.”

As he made his way back to the entrance, opening lights as he went, he could hear the click clack of the feline’s claws against the wooden floorboards. It clearly didn’t take his order to consideration.

Spencer swung the door open as the stranger was poised for a mid-knock.

“Uh—hi,” the woman breathed out. 

“Hi,” Spencer drawled out in reply. “Can I help you?”

You rocked on your heels, fingers pulling down the ends of your oversized sweater as if it could lessen your state of undress. Spencer didn’t judge, it was early into the morning after all, nor did he stare long at your navy blue shorts and pink fluffy socks adorning your feet. 

“I’m your new neighbor and it’s not really the time to introduce myself but by any chance is there—”

“An adorable intruder in my apartment?” 

You nod, sweetly smiling. The glint in your eyes filled with apologies.

“Yes actually, I was trying to ask him where he came from but I don’t actually speak cat and neither does he understand human.” 

You laugh sheepishly, fingers gently rubbing at the side of your neck. “I’m so sorry. I hope he didn’t make a mess or bother you at all. I left my fire escape window open for a little bit to let the breeze in and he must have explored out while I wasn’t looking. So sorry again, let me just get him out of the way—”

A rustle from behind made him turn, not before he caught your eyes widening to the scene inside his apartment. Your cat kneading on his brown throw blanket before settling on the sofa.

“Mr. Chewie, what are you doing?” You squeaked out.

Spencer laughed at the outrageous tone coating your voice. It reminded him of Garcia swatting the other agents away from her tech equipments.

The cat answered back with a meow.

“No, mister. You cannot sleep here, this isn’t our home! It belongs to this lovely gentleman over here—” you flashed Spencer a smile. “Now, please get your butt off the sofa and back to our apartment.”

The feline seemingly rolled his eyes and turned his back on you.

“Huh,” Spencer observed. “The studies might be wrong after all. I think he understands you.”

You laughed, shoulders shaking from the absurdity of his comment. “Mr. Chewie might be special or at least that’s what every pet owner believe to be. I never introduced myself have I? I’m Y/N. I moved next door a couple of nights ago.”

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he replied back. 

You tilted your head to the side. “Oh, is that why I haven’t seen you around, Doctor? Busy saving lives?”

He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. In a way, you weren’t wrong per se. His title did let people assume his career to be in the medical industry instead of having three PhD’s under his belt. The former was more plausible given how young he looked.

The sound of a door opening and closing at the end of the hall caught both your attention. Your eyes flashed back to his, twinkling. “So, Doctor. Will it be alright if I step inside and grabbed my cat?”

He cleared his throat. “Uh—yeah, yeah. Sure, come right in.”

You sheepishly smiled before entering his sanctuary. Eyes soaking in any piece of information that represented who he was.

Spencer felt your warmth as you passed his body. The smell of warm cookies wafting to his nose, dissipating the anxiety that threatened to creep up his spine from letting a stranger into his home. 

“Nice apartment,” you complimented. “There seems to be a lot of books.”

He tucks his hands inside his pant pockets. “I like to read.”

“Me too. It’s a great hobby to pass the time.”

You sweetly smiled before swiftly scooping up the lounging cat in your arms with little protest. “Again, I’m so sorry if he disturbed you in any way and please, let me know if he made a mess. I’d like to make it up to you—as a thank you and apology, I mean.”

“It’s no problem,” Spencer watched your cheeks match the color of your socks under the fluorescent light. It suited you, he thought. “Actually, can I just ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

“Why is he—” his calloused hands reaching to pet the orange feline nestled on your chest. “—named Mr. Chewie?” 

You giggled, the sound similar to wind chimes being rustled by a gentle breeze. It settled the ache caused by his lack of proper rest. It was fascinating, intriguing, and a little bit frightening if he had to be honest.

“Well, I actually named him after Star Wars, Chewbacca, because of how fluffy he is and the name just shortened itself once I found out how perpetually famished he is.”

“He’s named well,” Spencer surmised, the empty plastic of bread flashing in his mind.

“Well, I shouldn’t be bothering you any longer,” you slowly backed away from his space. “Thank you, Doctor, and have a good night.”

With a sleepy smile on his face, Spencer watched you push open your apartment door. “Good night.”

You flashed your saccharine smile one last time before closing it behind you, leaving him feeling light and bemused for the first time in a long while.

And as he woke up to the gentle streams of the sun on his face, feeling well rested and ready to tackle the paperwork on his desk, the emotion still lingered causing the corners of his mouth to rise up into a soft smile. An after effect of your encounter that he didn’t mind experiencing. 

It was a certain type of high. 

It was something bright and puzzling.

A note and a batch of cookies taped to his door caught his eye as he exited the apartment. The  treats were in this clear, non-labelled package. Handmade then, Spencer noted.

His smile stretched his warming cheeks wide as he took in the scripted letters written on the pink post it that reminded him of your blush and your fluffy socks.

See you around, Doctor! 

Have a great day saving lives! 

- Your Nurse neighbor & Mr. Chewie xx 

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[wordsinhaled]

Charles has settled on Edwin's lap in the wingback chair in a comfortable sprawl, his knees on either side of Edwin's. He'd gone about it with a practiced ease, as though this is something he's done a million times; as though he belongs here; as though he could search out this spot in his sleep, if ghosts could sleep.

Yet Charles being so near to him, and with such deliberate and specific intent—that being their mutual enjoyment—is a relatively recent development, in the grand scheme. Edwin is... ablaze with the newness of it. He has to tip his head back just to get the full measure of Charles perched astride him, of the low lamplight diffused across Charles' face, of the fond, familiar mischief that glimmers in his eyes.

Port Townsend may have opened Edwin to his innermost desires, but if he is very, very honest he can admit that his private longing for Charles is of much older provenance. He would have given Charles an eternity to sort out the shape of his own feelings, if he needed it. And if it had meant Charles' continued happiness, he would have been content to live out their days alone in his regard, content with a cherished friendship that never included this.

By some miracle, he does not have to.

It had not taken Charles anywhere close to an eternity to figure out the rest, so to speak. What is a single year, after all, to a pair of ghosts? Falling in love, Charles had told him, felt like waking up in a strange bedroom which became, as you shook off sleep, suddenly as familiar as your own. "Oh... bit of a weird metaphor, that," he'd said, wrinkling his nose in the way Edwin privately found exceedingly endearing. Then: "Sorry, mate. I'd been building up to this, you know? What I was gonna say to you. Had it all planned in my head and now. Well. Can't get it out right, can I?"

But semantics didn't much matter, in the end.

In the end, being in love with one another had come to them as easily as it had to fall into step walking through the gates of St. Hilarion's, away from their shadowed past and towards their intertwined future.

It is dizzying to acknowledge that this is real—not a game, or a trick, or a trap. Just Charles Rowland, whom he adores, looking equally smitten as he steadies himself with his hands on Edwin's upper arms, the better to give an experimental shimmy of his hips against Edwin's. Like an anchorless ship Edwin drifts on the sweeping tide of pleasure their proximity brings. He relishes how Charles’ gaze rolls over him, terribly tender in its focus and promisingly molten.

"Charles," he says in unspooled wonder, simply because he can. Simply because happiness, in this moment, takes the shape of his best friend's name in his mouth. To his own ears he sounds strangled. Transported. Not himself whatsoever. It ought to scare him, the difference Charles can work through him so easily with the barest effort; it both does and doesn't. "I am certain you'll be the death of me."

"You're already dead, mate," says Charles, "live a little," and he actually giggles, like he's just said the funniest thing in all the world; like it pleases him immeasurably to know he can have this mad effect on Edwin. The giddy edge of his laughter vibrates through his chest, and into Edwin's. And Charles sounds breathless, even though ghosts do not need to breathe.

Edwin loves him so much, just then, that it genuinely aches. Not the agony of hell or the shocking burn of iron, but something new altogether, an incandescence that lances sharp beneath his breastbone. Something else to add to his running mental catalogue of sensations he shouldn't be able to feel, along with the beginnings of a flush spreading over his skin and the welcome heat of Charles' body through their clothes.

It is, all told, rather overwhelming.

Charles must read something of the enormity of his predicament writ plain on his face, for in the next second he reaches out to stroke careful, calloused thumbs over Edwin's burning cheeks. It's only a feather-light touch, back and forth and back again, one that might irk him were it to come from anyone else—but Charles has always been permitted certain liberties, so instead Edwin finds it... grounding. Or exhilarating. He isn't sure which. Possibly both.

"Hey," Charles says. "It's all right. It's fine. Still going slow, remember? This is brills, just this. We can st—"

"I do not wish us to stop," Edwin protests, before Charles can even finish the unthinkable suggestion. He could remain suspended in this precise millisecond for the next thirty years without complaint. "It is only that I... I can feel you. And everything. Everything we are doing. And it—you—you are so very...”

"Good?" Charles supplies, grinning Edwin’s favorite of his grins—the wide, unfettered one that shows his gums and lets a bit of his tongue peek between his teeth. He looks hopeful, impossibly bright in his joy, and just a little wicked.

“Yes,” Edwin says. "Better than good." He smiles up at Charles, some distant part of him registering that he must look utterly besotted.

Charles laughs, delighted.

And he tips forward to drop his forehead onto Edwin’s shoulder; to put his lips to Edwin’s neck, just below his ear. He presses a kiss there, so quick Edwin might think he’d imagined it, except that Charles does it a second time. And a third, this one open-mouthed and lingering, sending little shivers skittering down Edwin's spine and drawing a soft noise from his throat.

“I like this,” Charles whispers into Edwin's skin. His voice is raw-edged, confessional in a way Edwin hasn't quite heard him sound these three-odd decades. “So much. Being like this, with you. Didn't know how much I would, did I? 'Course you'd see it before me. Brilliant, you are, Edwin Payne."

[tadpolesonalgae]

Flavoured condoms — headcanons

a/n: I’ve had this in my drafts for a couple of months but I kind of forgot about it 🤦 (and maybe was a little embarrassed to post it)

warnings: oral, obviously (m! recieving), Rhys is a little mean, reader’s a bit of a menace with Cass, Eris, and Lu

Rhysand: Strawberry

“What’s that look for?” You ask suspiciously as he enters the living room, finishing rolling up his sleeves over his elbows, showing off his forearms.

He comes to a stop beside you, leaning against the wall, gazing down at where you’re sat.

“Look?” He muses, a sinister glint in his sharp, violet eyes. “You want to talk about my look?”

You raise a brow, keeping your book open, lips curving at the edges, “what else?”

A muscle twitches in his jaw, and you allow your gaze to travel over him, deliciously muscled arms folded over his broad chest, long legs crossed at the ankles, raven hair just a little ruffled.

“You’re a smart girl,” he muses, “I’m sure you know what you’ve been doing.”

Heat unspools in your lower abdomen, crossing your legs as you lean back into the plush cushion of the armchair. “I’m sure I have no idea,” you reply, smirking.

His smile tightens, then he’s pushing off from the wall, tension uncoiling as he moves to be before you, broad palms settling with a rough edge around your waist, touching your hips as he effortlessly raises you from your seat.

“Rhys!” You yelp, book falling onto the side table as you squirm, using your hands to grip onto him as he turns you both around, tucking you into his lap as he takes your place.

“I was reading,” you snap, thighs spread over him, back arched a little out of instinct, hands pressed to his chest. He watches you keenly, an intensity simmering beneath his carefully crafted features.

“Are you going to fix that attitude, or should I?” He murmurs, hot lips brushing your own, dark power practically rolling off him in waves. Maybe you actually pissed him off.

But you smile, shifting closer, thighs parting more so your centre is right on top of him. “I thought you liked my attitude, Rhys,” you muse sweetly, subtly grinding down in his lap.

The stars wink out in his gaze, and anticipation bubbles away in your tummy, already beginning to ache for him, able to feel him pressing flush between your legs.

“Get on your knees,” he orders quietly, lips curved in a tight smile, jaw tense as he releases your hips.

“Yes sir,” you reply playfully, grinning as you pull away from him, sliding down his body to kneel between his long legs, giving you enough space to settle.

“You want to tell me why you were letting her put her hands all over you?” He asks lowly, watching as you hungrily take initiative, hands deftly undoing the buckle of his belt, mouth watering.

“Jealous, Rhys?” You smirk, glancing up at him, using your hand to palm against the prominent shape of him. “You know she was just teasing. She does it with everyone.”

“You’re taken,” he replies lowly, eyes darkening as his hand releases its tight grip on the arm of the chair, fingers sliding through your hair to forcefully pull you closer between his thighs. Wetness pools in your underwear at the dominance. How possessive he can become.

“By who?” You ask, still smiling as your back curves, gripping him as you pull him out, tongue flicking out over your lips. “You’ve never mentioned exclusivity. We aren’t even officially together.”

“You’re still mine.”

“Hmm?” You tilt your head teasingly, pushing against his grip, lessening your hold on him. “This is the first I’m hearing of it?”

“Don’t fucking lie,” he growls, roughly pulling your hair back with both hands so he can hold it all in one fist. “You’re with me. I’m the only one you see when you want pleasure. The only one who can give you pleasure.”

“You are?” You ask, still smiling, “because it felt pretty good to have her hands on me.”

“Because you knew what it would do to me,” he replies roughly. “What I’d do to make sure you learned your lesson.”

“And what lesson is that, High Lord?”

His eyes practically glow with power, feeling as it unspools around you, crackling in the air as tension threads through his shoulders, patience waring thin.

He jerks on your hair roughly, pulling you upward onto your knees, your hands steadying yourself on his hip and thigh, jaw tiled upward as he peers down at you.

“You only need me,” he growls lowly. “I’m everything you could ever want.”

You tilt your chin higher, staring him down, “I’m sure I could find good cock elsewhere,” you say, eyes twinkling, “you aren’t the first, Rhys.”

His smile stretches into a grin, nails scraping across your scalp. “I’ll make you beg before the hour’s done.” Then he’s releasing you, settling calmly back in his chair with malevolent grace—undoubtedly the High Lord.

You watch as he pulls something from his pocket, and your brow furrows as he rolls the condom over himself, irritation perking up before calming again.

“Rhys?” You ask, brows still narrowed, wanting to taste him.

His violet eyes gleam, relaxing into the plush cushion of the chair, thighs parting a little wider, goading your movements. “Yes?”

It’s your turn to grit your jaw, easing in a breath. And he has the audacity to complain about your attitude?

“I’m not sucking you off with a condom on,” you snap, “there’s no fun.”

“This isn’t meant to be fun,” he counters, male arrogance lacing his tone. “This is a lesson, remember?”

“Lessons can be fun,” you snipe, brow twitching with irritation.

“Maybe once they’re learned,” he returns with one raised brow, a cocky smirk on his damned mouth. “Now set to work.”

You scowl, rolling your eyes as you grip him, leaning forward to take him in. Your lips press together, kissing at his tip before laying your tongue over your teeth and lower lip, licking from root to tip.

You halt, swallowing. Blinking.

Above you, Rhys is chuckling lowly, at last tangling his hand in your hair, roughly guiding you back between his legs.

A noise is released from your throat as he fills your mouth, something like a whimper as wild heat flutters in your lower belly as the distinct strawberry flavour bursts across your tongue, mouth watering hungrily, desperate for more.

Rhys watches from above, breathing deeply, tan skin flushed with warmth as he watches you grip him eagerly, licking up the underside of him then reopening your mouth over his head, tongue swirling as you lick, suckle, and swallow him down.

You can’t get enough, greed making you desperate, taking as much of him down your throat as possible, hungry for his pleasure and your own, flicking over his tip as you go up and down.

You whimper when he forcefully pulls you away, a loose thread of saliva curving from your lower lip to his cock. A hot flush is warming your cheeks, breathless from arousal as you meet his hungry eyes dizzily, mouth watering as you move the flavour around.

“Pay attention, darling,” he muses, watching hotly as you mentally fumble. Loving how out of it you look, caught off guard by the play. You seem to like it.

You pull against his hand, anxious to return, to have his cock between your lips, to have that taste on your tongue coupled with the scent of his arousal and weight of him on your tongue.

His grip tightens, and you peer up at him, panic and hunger in your eyes so stark he feels himself twitch at the look alone.

“Want it more now?” He muses, slightly breathless, neither of you entirely in control of yourselves. He’s probably the more aware of the two of you.

“Rhys…” you pant, nails digging into the muscle of his thighs, pulling against his iron grip. Merciless and unforgiving even in the heat of the moment.

“You know the rule,” he breathes, smirking faintly, that arrogant twinkle in his eyes that has you tightening around nothing. “You know how to beg.”

A moan spills from your lips, hips winding independent of will, searching for some kind of friction. “Rhys, please…” you mumble, hardly managing coherency through your haze.

He cocks a brow, waiting for you to continue, knowing he’s got you under his control.

Teeth pull over your lip, eyes flicking over him as you scent his arousal, thick and musky, mixing with that lovely strawberry flavour. “Rhys, please,” you beg breathlessly, “I want you in my mouth. On my tongue. Please.”

He laughs lowly, eyes twinkling with male satisfaction. “That’s better,” he drawls, your lids fluttering at the sonorous timbre. “Have you learned your lesson?”

You nod dumbly, the intensity of his arousal too much to bear, singing to your own.

The corners of Rhys’s mouth quirk in a feline grin, butterflies erupting in the pit of your stomach, surprised you aren’t dripping onto the floor. “Good girl.”

Cassian: Cookie Dough

“Cassie!” You call, a note of mischief in your voice, grinning as you find him in your bedroom, trying to shove some weapons into a very full chest of drawers.

His wings twitch, then he’s standing straight, eyes narrowed as he glances over you. “Sweetheart?” He asks cautiously, “what are you after?”

You pad over to him, his large shirt hanging off your shoulders, its hem brushing your thighs as you push him toward the bed. “Do you have a moment?” You ask hotly, arousal warming your skin as you settle your palms over his broad shoulders.

Cassian’s pupils dilate fully as he watches you pull your hair back from your face in a way he recognises, thighs parting wider as he sits back on the bed. “Whatever it is, I’m sure I can make time for it,” he breathes roughly, his arousal making its way up to you.

Your teeth tug on your lower lip with excitement, kneeling between his long, well-muscled legs, hands already fumbling with the ties of his leathers.

“Want to tell me what you’re going to do to me?” He manages, accustomed to the interests he’s frequently subjected to, the various experiments you enjoy using him for. He can’t deny he finds them enjoyable, when your eyes spark with a new idea, and he gets to sit back and enjoy whatever new plan has taken shape in your mind.

“I found a shop recently, that I think I’ll be frequenting,” you smile up at him, mischievous and hungry, eyes flicking away from his as you pull him out, hands gripping him as he likes—an edge of tightness to your touch.

He watches with interest as you pull out the thin foil square, ripping it delicately with your teeth as you pull the condom from its packaging.

You roll it down, and Cassian’s palm cups the nape of your neck, thumb brushing your cheek as you peer up at him. “Please tell me what’s happening?” He requests, tan skin flushed as your hand moves around him, stroking gently—nowhere near enough pressure for him.

“Apparently,” you muse lowly, looking up from between his thighs, “they’re flavoured.”

He raises a thick brow, and you smile sweetly, before leaning forward, examining him, seeing if you notice anything different about it—nothing seems to be changed.

Opening your mouth, you deliver a slow lick to his head, dragging the flat of your tongue over him before pulling away to test the flavour.

Your mouth waters, that pleasant taste of cookie dough making you desperate for another lick.

“Oh, fuck, Cass…” you breathe, stroking him harder.

“You like it?” He pants, gripping your hair in the way you like, free hand fisted in the bedsheets so you can savour the experience.

“Mhmm,” you hum in response, opening your mouth over him again, lips sliding down over his tip, tongue swirling gently, lapping and suctioning as you get more of the flavour, taking him deeper so you can taste more…

“Sweetheart,” he growls, tugging on your hair, pulling you roughly from his cock, a string of saliva connecting from his tip to your lower lip.

It takes a moment for you to focus, but then a hazy smile is playing on your lips, clambering up his body to push your mouth against his, sharing the delicious taste, his tongue stroking against your own.

He groans hotly, and you release a pleasured noise from your chest, fingers tangling in his hair as you push closer to him, breasts pushing against his chest deliciously.

But then you’re pulling away, hungrily moving back down his body, kneeling down and swallowing him eagerly, tongue licking and lapping as you swirl over his tip, taking him as far as possible.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans from above you, not even having to apply force to get you to move in the right way, content to brace himself on the mattress, legs spread to let you work your magic. “So fucking good.”

You moan onto him, pulling off to lick from root to tip, sucking the flavour from the condom, winding your hips needfully.

“Fuck, you can go deeper, can’t you,” he groans, pushing so your nose brushes the dark swirls of hair at his base. “Trying to hold out on me. You should know better by now.”

You try to whimper, but the sound gets caught in your throat, unable to get it past his cock as you shift your tongue that’s pressed flat to the floor of your mouth, arousal dripping between your thighs.

“That’s better,” he groans roughly, “that’s how you fucking take it.”

Your spine curves as his hand grips your hair, slowly dragging you up and down, only occasionally letting you up to breathe, arousal intensifying.

“So fucking good at taking me down that throat of yours, isn’t that right sweetheart?” He groans, pulling you to his tip, allowing you to pause, knowing your jaw will be aching by now.

You whine, pulling against his grip so you can taste him again, but the warrior holds fast, not allowing so much as an inch of leeway.

“Want me back in that filthy mouth of yours, huh?” He manages hotly, cock twitching when you nod, humming eagerly, happy to play along if it gets you what you want. If he wants you to act needy and desperate, you’ll do it.

“Cassie,” you pant, peering up at him with fake innocence, brows curved as you grip him in supplication. “You taste so good.”

The General groans, loud and unabashed, hips bucking as his hold tightens on you. “Fuck, I didn’t even have to tell you to beg, did I? Just did that all on your own.”

You push your tongue out over your lower lip, silently ushering him back, and you tighten around nothing as he groans roughly.

“So well behaved aren’t you?” He moans, bringing you back to his cock, eager to feel that wet heat of your tongue, the tension of your throat around him.

“Well,” he drawls, “when you want to be.”

Azriel: Vanilla

“Az,” you murmur into your glass, concealing others from reading your lips.

Everyone knows his shadows are on you at all times—it’s far from unusual for the darkness to be wrapping carefully around your shoulders, like a black cat draping itself over you in a lazy sprawl.

The shadows flicker to attention and you take a small sip of your drink. “I want you in my mouth.”

The darkness writhes on a miniature level, simply looking like a vibrating mass before pressing tight to your skin, acting more like leather than silk.

Your lips quirk, smiling at whatever everyone else is in your group.

It’s not even minutes later that a presence is settling at your side, a broad palm sliding seamlessly around your waist with a possession that has your insides tingling pleasantly.

You glance up at him, hazel eyes locking with your own, features politely neutral before the large group, despite neither of you being even near the centre of the gathering. It seems Cassian and Feyre are more than happy entertaining the crowd, choosing the direction of conversation for tonight, and it’s fairly effortless to slip away.

Especially given the Spymaster’s area of expertise.

The darkness envelops you as soon as you’re out of the hall, swept up in his shadows as you pass through the night seamlessly, blending into puddles of shadow until you’re transported to the familiar chamber of his bedroom.

“So needful, aren’t you?” He murmurs, a hint of pleasure in his hazel eyes. Knuckles brush against the high of your cheek, and you tilt into his touch. “Food wasn’t good enough for that mouth of yours, huh.”

Teeth prod at your lower lip, pressing against him as you lay your palms over his chest, fingers brushing over the neckline of his shirt. An appetising dip at its hem, able to get a peek at the tan skin beneath, swirls of ink barely visible from where you’re stood.

“Mhmm,” you hum, peering up at him as you apply a light amount of force to his chest, slowly walking him back, as if in a waltz. “Do you have something else I can try?”

“I might have something in mind,” he returns, slightly breathless.

“Uh-huh, like what?” You ask quietly, feeling as he reaches the bed, pushing on his shoulders to get him to sit—he doesn’t need much persuading.

His lips curve with familiar hunger, shadows coming forward and your brows narrow as they push something into your now-opened palm.

“Give that a try for me,” he encourages lowly, and you eye the foil wrapping curiously.

“Vanilla?” You ask, reading the small inscription. A smile curves your lips, peering up at him with a feline glint in your eye. “For me, Az?”

“I know how those celebrations bore you, pretty thing,” he replies, hazel eyes softening as he cups your jaw with both his hands, tilting your upward. “I thought you might enjoy a reward for making it past midnight,” he breathes, “all without complaining once. So good.”

“Say more,” you murmur, between his legs as you slide to your knees, peering up at him with superficial patience—knowing how he likes the control.

He raises a single brow, hands slowly pulling the ties free, deft fingers loosening the tension of his leathers—teasingly; tauntingly slow. “Greedy thing,” he drawls, “do you deserve more? I think I’ve been rather generous.”

Arousal intensifies as he watches your pupils dilate, landing on his cock as he pulls himself free, and you shift on your knees as you make to roll the condom over him, your touch light and gentle—equally provocative.

“I think I’d like to hear more, regardless of whether I’m deserving of it or not,” you reply, hand wrapping around him, slowly pumping, delivering thorough strokes to him as you tilt your chin to meet his hungry gaze.

“Is that right?” He drawls roughly, fingers digging into the sheets to keep from gripping you and using you how he’d like. “What would you like me to tell you, exactly? That you have a filthy mouth? That it’s obscene how fuckable those lips of yours are? How good you feel?”

Your spine curves, kissing up the underside of him before flicking your tongue over his head, gripping his base. Arousal liquefies between your thighs at the deep-throated noise of pleasure he releases as you take him into your mouth.

“That’s it,” he encourages lowly, “so good. Like the taste?”

As he asks, you drag your tongue from root to tip, the flavour light as it fills your senses, heat flushing your skin. You don’t reply, but the way your attention intensifies tells him everything he needs to, even parting his long legs a little wider so you can press closer, swallowing him down, eager to taste and lick and suck.

His hand tangles in your hair, keeping it pulled back from your face as you keep your mouth sealed against his skin, nose skimming his abdomen, tongue rubbing against his underside in a way you know he finds pleasurable.

“Fuck,” he breathes lowly, the curse dragging from deep in his chest, rough and gravelly. “So good with that mouth of yours, aren’t you?”

You whimper onto him, and his hips buck, unable to help himself, a heat flushing your cheeks as a small noise is forced from your throat.

You gaze up at him as you lap up the flavour, suckling at his tip to taste the vanilla, tongue swirling appealingly, colour flushing his cheeks.

“Gods, you’re fucking sinful,” he groans, discipline slipping as he bucks his hips, his movements becoming slightly rougher, control waning as his lust takes over.

You moan onto him in encouragement, split between enjoying being able to have some control over him, being the one to ply it from him, and half wanting him to handle you onto the bed, head just at the edge so he can grip your throat as he fucks your mouth.

Your tongue licks along the underside of him, and his grip tightens on your hair.

Maybe you won’t have to be the one to make that particular decision.

Maybe he can make that choice for you.

Eris: Gingerbread

Eris gives you a look of slight exhaustion, and you grin, padding over to where he’s sat in the grand living room of your shared estate.

“You look tired,” you ask, smiling as you come to a pause between his legs, before setting over one of his thighs, both your legs between his. “Want a reprieve?”

He sighs, hand covering his face as his thumb and fingers rub either side his eyes, as if trying to push back his fatigue.

“You’re far too energised,” he mutters, arm falling away as they settle on the chair, meeting your bright eyes, gleaming in the firelight.

“Come on,” you whine playfully, fingers tracing over his chest, Eris’s amber eyes glancing down as his breathing shallows with the teasing trace. “For me?”

He sighs heavily, and you blink up at him, leaning a little closer.

“It’ll make me happy,” you murmur, smiling mischievously, “and you’ll definitely enjoy it…so why not, right? I just want to try it.”

“Fine.” Eris groans, tension at last vacating his body as he leans back in the plush armchair. “Fine. But this will not happen again, so enjoy it,” he mutters, unable to hide the slightly embarrassed pink on his pale cheeks.

You grin, kissing him on the lips before shifting between his long legs, deft fingers seamlessly working him free in a matter of moments, rolling the condom over him. Eris notes your enthusiasm but says nothing about it, putting his slight embarrassment aside in favour of your pleasure. Ultimately his, too, but you’ve been pestering him about trying this for a while.

Your eyes gleam with mischief as you glance up at him hungrily, and his brows narrow in warning—you shouldn’t get used to this, is what he’s wordlessly telling you. You give him a grin that tells him how easily you can see through his lie.

Eris sighs, resigned to your will as he leans back in his chair. Just his luck that his mate’s persistence would be enough to top even his own will.

“Ready?” You ask, lips curved with feminine delight as satisfaction gleams in your eyes. Arousal is already liquefying between your thighs, excitement pooling in your lower belly.

You don’t wait for a reply, happily leaning forward as you grip him, dragging your tongue from base to tip as you take in the flavour, examining how you feel about it. Arousal intensifies with pleasure, and you eagerly return, mouth and tongue wrapping around him as you take him into your throat hungrily.

Eris grits his teeth, colour flushing his skin as he exhales heavily, relaxing into his chair as you apply yourself to him, hot lips wrapped wetly around his cock as you lick firmly up the underside of him, pausing to suckle at that sensitive part just below his head before dragging the tip of your tongue over his slit.

Your mate groans, arousal swiftly filtrating through his blood, heating his skin with a burning flame as his fingers tangle in your hair, all previous reservations annihilated as he basks in the wet pleasure of your mouth.

Satisfaction has you widening the stance of your thighs, hand slipping between you legs as you sense his enjoyment, fingers running over the dampened fabric of your underwear, swiping over your clit before dipping down to your entrance.

His grip tightens slightly in your hair, liking the feeling of having control while both of you knowing you’re leading. He has no need to guide you when you know the movements that will bring him to release with such familiarity.

“Where did you even find something like this?” He managed to get out, voice deep and slightly raspy.

“Interested in more?” You ask breathlessly, pulling off him to ask but already eager to return, to feel the thick weight of him on your tongue, the flavour in your mouth…

You don’t weight for a reply, instead taking him back into your mouth, moaning onto him as you grip his base, Eris’ fingers tightening soothingly in your hair. Stroking encouragingly as he allows his legs to part a little further in silent offer.

You’d never decline an opportunity with him, and you take him as far as you can manage, throat willingly constricting around him pleasantly, goading his pleasure to the surface as your fingers slip inside yourself.

There’s little better than when he decides to let you enjoy him.

Lucien: Raspberry

“I should have known it would get some ideas into your head,” Lucien remarks as you anxiously push at his back, hurrying both of you to his bedroom.

“It’s only fair,” you reply, pushing him inside and swiftly locking the doors. “Give it.”

Lucien raises a brow, stood in the centre of your shared bedroom, arms folded casually across his chest, the edge of his mouth quirking. “That’s no way to ask your loving husband. Say ‘please, Lucien.’”

Your lower lip pushes out as a slight scowl narrows your brows, frustrated with his antics. “You’re being a pain. Let me try it already,” you whine, walking over to him and settling your hands over his folded arms. “Come on, Lu, you want to try it too, don’t you?”

His russet eye gleams mischievously, lips quirking at their corners as he remains silent, enjoying how your frustration is becoming more palpable. He has to admit it’s a little fun winding you up—you’re adorable. It makes him eager to have you on your knees.

Your scowl deepens but the flush of arousal that’s heating your skin betrays your emotions to him, able to hear the quickened beat of your pulse as your fingertips press into him lightly.

You look up at him begrudgingly. “Please, Lucien.”

Almost instantly you notice how his arousal intensifies, and you yelp when his arms unfold, hands gripping your hips to tug you against him as he pulls you to your bed. “Alright, since you asked so sweetly,” he muses, liking the slight spark of satisfaction in your eye now he’s giving you what you want, handing the thin object over to you.

You take it hastily, glancing at the packaging. “It’s the same flavour as the thing you used on me, right?” You ask, peering at the small type written on the material.

Lucien rolls his eye, though you’re too focused to notice. “Same one. Like you asked me to get about fifty times.”

You nod to yourself then, a small smile playing on your mouth as your gaze softens, and his pulse flutters at the look. It’s endearing how you’re so insistent you do things together in the same way. Every time he does something for you, you’re always so eager to pay him back, to bring him the same feelings he gives to you.

You make quick work of his trousers, swiftly rolling the condom onto him, before glancing up at him with an almost shy heat in your eyes. “You can lie back, if you’d like,” you say softly, “I want you to be comfortable.”

Lucien’s unable to help the smile the curves his lips, pushing some hair behind your ear as he guides you to meet his gaze. “I want to watch,” he admits breathlessly, thumb stroking across the crest of your cheek adoringly. “You look so pretty with your mouth around me.”

Your thighs press together as you lean into his touch briefly, before wrapping your hand around his base, guiding him to your mouth. Almost immediately you can pick out the raspberry flavour and you hum with pleasure, licking over him hungrily, suckling at his tip before taking him all the way down, gently stroking what you can’t yet reach.

Above you, Lucien groans softly, hand gently gripping your hair though it’s more for reassurance than to have control. You know what to do and how to please him, there’s no need for him to guide you.

You enjoy your freedom anyway, swirling the tip of your tongue around him as you lap up the flavour contentedly, his arousal becoming more and more prominent by the second.

“Gods, you should be able to see yourself,” Lucien breathes, almost to himself. “So pretty, aren’t you? So good to me.”

You glance up shyly from between his legs, both of you knowing what words like that do to you, your hand remaining gently stimulating him while your mouth is away.

“You still enjoy it?” You ask quietly, and the question is sincere enough he can’t help but smile.

“I’ll enjoy you for the rest of my life,” he murmurs tenderly, again stroking him thumb across your cheek. “No matter what.”

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes

[moonstruckme]

Hey lovely! I saw you wanted some doctor rem requests, so I was wondering if you could possibly write something where the Remus wakes up in the middle of the night because the reader has a fever and is burning up right next to her, and he gets up and takes care of her, puts her in a cool bath to cool down and then reads to her to get her to sleep. Just a bunch of fluff haha 💕

Thank you for requesting my love !

cw: non-sexual nudity

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 834 words

It’s not uncommon for Remus to get too warm in the middle of the night. He’s always careful to flip just his part of the covers off, sticking an arm and a leg out without exposing you to the cool air. It is unusual for the heat not to be coming off of his own body.

Remus rolls over, feeling for you without opening his eyes. The temperature under the covers increases before he’s even touching you, emanating from your skin and heating the space around you. He opens his eyes. 

You’re curled up tight, one hand trapped underneath your cheek, blankets pulled up to your chin like you’re chilled instead of burning. Your brow is puckered as though you’re concentrating hard on something in your unconscious, and you don’t rouse when the bed creaks as Remus gets up. 

He plugs the drain in the tub and turns on the tap, feeling for the right temperature before leaving it to fill.

“Sweetheart.” It’s one part exhaustion and two parts love, sleep still clinging to the edges of his voice. You don’t stir in the slightest when Remus touches your shoulder, worrying in itself. 

It takes a few gentle shakes to do it, and you’re none too happy to be woken. Remus can’t help his small smile at your sleepy frown. 

“Your fever’s gotten worse,” he tells you, stroking the baby hairs at your temple. “I’m starting you a bath, okay?” 

You close your eyes, reluctant. “Can it wait ‘til morning?” 

Remus slips a hand beneath your shoulders and brushes his lips under your eye. “Afraid not, lovely girl. Do you need help getting up?” 

He has to smother a grin when you react just as he predicted, grumbling and crawling out of bed. Still, you don’t reject the arm he wraps around your waist to guide you into the bathroom. Your skin is clammy under his hand, and you lean into his side like you weigh more than you did yesterday. 

“Is your head still bothering you?” he asks while you strip out of your pajamas. 

“A little,” you say, your words soft and stuck together by drowsiness. “Not as bad as yesterday. What time s’it?” 

“It’s early yet.” Remus wraps his arms around your shoulders, kissing your nape as he encourages you closer to the tub. “We’ll go back to bed as soon as we get you cooled down. You can sleep in as late as you want.” 

“You’ll make me think I’m dreaming,” you tease. But your smile vanishes as soon as you set a toe into the bathwater. “Rem, it’s cold.” 

“I know, sweetheart.” He smiles, rueful, when you look betrayed. “Like I said, we’ve got to get your temperature down. Your body will adjust.” 

“You’re supposed to be nice to me when I’m sick,” you mutter, but take the hand he offers you to step into the tub. 

A couple of little shivers tremble through you. Remus stays, stroking the lines of your palm, until your taut muscles start to relax and you let your body unspool in the cool water. Then he goes to get you fever reducers. 

He’s not gone long, but you look as though you’ve nearly fallen asleep again in his absence. You’re curled loosely on your side, one cheek resting on the porcelain lip of the tub with your hands folded under it. The arcs of your shoulders are shiny wet, and your lashes droop as if drawn towards their other halves by magnets. 

When Remus sits on the bathmat, you raise your eyes up to his lazily. His reaction is predictable: fondness that sticks in the back of his throat and nestles into the space behind his sternum. 

“Better now?” he asks, and his voice is soft for reasons he doesn’t entirely understand. It’s an instinct, as if to protect some precious part of you that might still be slumbering. 

You hum. “A little.” 

He holds up the water and tablets. “Think you can sit up to take these?” 

Those pretty eyes roll skyward at the question, and you do, finishing the water without him needing to ask and murmuring a thanks when you’re done. Remus sets the empty cup on the floor. He dips a hand into the bathwater, cupping some and spilling it down your back. Not strictly necessary, perhaps, but it’s nice for him and you don’t seem to mind. Your eyes slip closed again. Remus follows the path of the water with his hand, coasting between your shoulder blades and down the curvature of your spine. Your skin is still warm to the touch, but he thinks there’s been some improvement. 

“Don’t fall asleep here,” he murmurs. Your eyes peel open again. “I’m just giving it a few minutes before I check your fever, and then we can go back to bed.” 

“I’m gonna sleep all tomorrow,” you sigh. 

He smiles. “If that’s what you want.” 

You hum satisfiedly. “Will you sleep in with me? Please?” 

Remus huffs a laugh. “Sure, sweetheart. Twist my arm.” 

[yameoto]

knocked up omega cate whos so frustrated w you because you just woke up from a hangover and a night full of girls needing help with their heats, eager to tell you about her pregnancy, just to see you not take her seriously, thinking that she's pulling your leg. frustrated little thing tries hard to get your foggy brain to listen, growing more and more irritated by the second as you consistently dismiss her words as a joke and catching sight of the faint hickeys on your neck, and suddenly, she's whining and begging and— "please, listen to me!"

and oh the poor thing, you sit up blearily the moment she'd started to sniffle and you're pulling her into your lap and hugging her and finally, you're listening to her. she's having your pup and oh— next thing she knows, she's mewling for her neck to be marked, all glassy eyes and whimpers as you continued to rub against her ruined underwear, hands tugging at your hair to try and get you to mark her so desperately.

sobbing the moment you've slipped inside her, finally clenching over something with glittery tears streaming down her cheeks, tugging at your hair because goddamn, just mark her already! but you won't, and she doesn't understand why. you claim it's to get her prepared, and its all bullshit, she knows. she's more than prepared and she's not dumb. she doesn't understand why you just won't mark her. she's been a good girl, and for god's sake, she's carrying your pup! isn't that reason enough for her to be marked?

passes out the moment your teeth make contact with her skin, all limp limbs draped over your body, all too hypersensitive with the pregnancy and christ, a mark has never looked this good on anybody.

xoxo im giving you my liver yam. i keep coming back to your inbox.

the way this made me instantly wet. fuck. of course you don't take her seriously, at first. why would you? you've been the resident panty-dropper of the dorms since freshman year and not once have you even marked anyone. let alone gotten anyone pregnant. because obviously you're more trustworthy than all the shitty alpha men out there. your strength in powers is almost irrelevant compared to the self-control you have to not mark up or breed any of the omegas that knock on your dormroom door; rubbing their thighs together, whimpering and wet. cate hates thinking about them. has something in her stomach boiling and skin prickling, even before she bought the pregnancy test kit.

it doesn't help that cate comes in right after you've finished with another omega, passing them as they limp out of your dorms, blushing and sated. when she comes in, you look it, too. brain all fuzzy from the high you've just gotten—only just got your sweatpants pulled up when cate floats in. anxious, fiddling thing. fidgeting in the middle of your dorm room, fingers twisting the hem of her shirt, psyching herself up like she's been for the past four days before it just spills from her lips; "i'm pregnant. s'yours." rushing out so fast you almost miss it. holding her breath for your reply, head pounding. the words set you on fire, for a moment. line of electricity crackling through your ears and straight to your cock. then, clarity hits. "no, you're not." you snort, suppressing the flush of disappointment (and arousal) that unspools. this is silly. it's probably one of andre's dumbass dares or jordan's version of a joke.

and cate. oh, poor little cate, whose been losing sleep and gnawing at nails and readying for this all to blow up in her face; to drop out of school and become a single fucking mother; rendered utterly stunned in the face of your disbelief. she just stands there, silent, before her shock melts away to annoyance.

"i am!" she stamps her foot. looks a little like a toddler. you bore her with this utterly deadpan look like, c'mon now, that has equal parts disbelief and desperation welling up in her throat. her breathing's coming in fast, now. and she says it again, one more time—in a way that has your eyes sharpening and body sitting upright in bed. pulling her into your arms, and her brain almost turns to static right then and there. all alpha alpha strong alpha gonna take care of me gonna take care of our babies—

when you don't mark her as soon as her plea is murmured into your neck, she lets out the most plaintive whine you've ever heard. cate's heart thrumming fast as she nuzzles into your chest, trembling. is she such a bad omega? she doesn't understand why you don't want to mark her. it's in your biology. she's carrying your pup, for god's sake. it should be the one priority in your head to stake your claim. mark her up and show the world she's yours, forever. why aren't you? fuck. and maybe its irrational but it hurts. because at first you dismissed her claims like they were nothing and now, even as you believe her; run your fingers over her tummy so tenderly it makes her whimper—you're still not marking her. still not mating her. even when she sinks back onto your cock and your teeth are dragging along her neck you're still not biting, and it makes her want to burst into tears. why don't you want to? what about her is so deplorable you're fighting your deepest, most primal, innermost instincts? there's a burning in her cheeks and her chest and her thighs as she bucks herself on your lap, pounding slick cunt to your cock, like she could force you if she could wriggle you in deep enough, make you feel good enough. she could force you, but she wants you to want it. doesn't know what she'd do if you didn't. you're not seriously going to fuck around with the other girls in your dorms while she's pregnant with your pup, are you? the thought has her spiralling, breathing harsh and ragged as she slams so deep against your hips; her eyes rolling back, gasping, "please please please–" "i'll be so good—" "do anything–" and she's crying out and creaming all over your cock. wet, squelching sounds only getting louder. she refuses to pull off until you mark her, delirious and overstimulated and leaving a gooey white ring around your base. she's panting, mumbling, blinking back tears as she presses flush into you "god, i'll be good—be such a good mommy—please—" and that's when you can't take it anymore and your teeth latch down. such a good mommy, you echo, growling into her neck. the way she nods, fast and eager to please—whining happily as she fucks herself back on your cock. she will she will she will she will.

[marichild]

satosugu fics i entreat everyone to read

these are just some of the amazing fics I’ve read! I highly recommend every single one to my fellow satosugu lovers. you won’t regret it, I promise.

Carry Me Home by @valleykey [58.4k, completed, T]

The boy shifts on his feet. “The year is two thousand and eighteen? Common Era?” Slowly, smile still plastic on his face, Suguru faces Satoru. This fucking dumbass. “Satoru,” he says, dangerous edge to his voice, “what did you do?” Satoru makes some bastardization of a sound, half between a laugh and a cough.  “...Whoops?”  “I,” Suguru grits, pinching two fingers together, “am this close to mass murder.” He’s joking.  Probably.  ///OR: Shortly before Geto would have massacred a village, he and Gojo are thrust eleven years forward into a would-have-been future that Geto is conspicuously absent from.

愛のある場所; river of light (that brings me to you) by @yuzudetergent [66.8k, completed, T]

A lesson in love is a lesson in swimming. Except for Suguru, it's getting dropped into the deep end with the tide licking at his neck, no kickboard or life preserver keeping him afloat. (Or: This is how Satoru finds the ocean.)

achilles, only the dead stay seventeen forever by getou_suguru (dheiress) [7.9k, ongoing, T]

He looks like a little kid, insouciant and irreverent, smiling at you like that. This is how you want to remember him. “Winter snow melts into Spring, of course!” You open your mouth to laugh and laugh and laugh and— His breath tastes, inexplicably, like spun sugar and honey on your tongue.  (Gojou Satoru is not a God, not yet. But He will be and you think (you know) that you will be  the first to kneel in worship and offer Him your blood, your flesh. Build Him a temple inside the circle of your arms until He sinks inside your ribcage, there to dwell safe and sound and beating just for you.)  ((Pay attention, now. This is a story about how a boy—the Hallowed one, the enlightenment of all, the one who rose high above others, the one and only—fell.))

Always an Angel (Never a God) by 0atmlk [44.6k, ongoing, M]

"The first time I saw the sunset here, I wanted to send you a picture."  Suguru looked at him, surprised. "Why didn't you?"  "Because I knew you’d been here before on your own, it was probably something you'd seen plenty of times." Satoru paused. "But I almost did. Opened it and everything to send to you. Then I saw the date of the last message you sent. We were pushing year three. So I didn't." . . .  Suguru finds Satoru at fifteen. Satoru finds him at twenty-eight.

I’m Sorry: In Various Translations by @koifishscribbles [45.9k, ongoing, M]

The coffee in Satoru’s stomach curdles. He feels the weight of every one if those eight years roll through his entire body like an earthquake. All the missed sleep clings to his eyes, and the unsent texts threaten to erupt from his mouth. Getou Suguru. It is not that his stitches unravel. Those took years to craft, cinched with vitriol, and won’t be undone in a single moment. It’s his very being that unspools onto the dirty linoleum floor. He wants Suguru to pick him up and untangle the length of him. His fingers once again becoming familiar as they expertly craft him into something new, better.  —— Gojo Satoru has not seen his ex, Getou Suguru, since college. Until he shows up one day teaching in the classroom across the hall from him.

an anthology of bad ideas by ilovegetosuguru [9.5k, completed, gen]

Gojo panics and asks a very attractive stranger to be his fake boyfriend for a wedding.  Here’s the problem — there’s no wedding.  (Fake Dating AU)

april pink by @valleykey [3k, completed, gen]

“Dude,” Satoru says, first thing off the train, glasses sliding down, wide eyes peering over the rim, “you have, like, flowers. In your lungs.” “Oh really,” Suguru says, dry, “I hadn't noticed.”

Puppet On A String by @killjoyproductions [6.8k, completed, E]

“Huh,” he muses. “Are you… saving yourself for marriage?”  “Nope.”  “Are you asexual?”  Satoru shakes his head. “I’m not asexual, just a virgin.”

Autonomic Breath by finalproject [10.9k, completed, E]

She turns to Satoru and asks, "When did you know?"

Lies That Bind by Anonymous [48.1k, ongoing, E]

“Really now,” Gakuganji snorted, doubtful. “How convenient. Who is this alpha, then?” And of course, Satoru had seen that question coming as soon as his claim of having a mate was halfway out of his mouth, but by that point he was already talking and it was too late to stop. “So nosy.” He wagged his finger in a tut-tut motion in the geezer’s face, watching him turn a horrible shade of angry red. “It’s Geto Suguru, of course.” Satoru's sick and tired of all the higher-ups insisting he needs to find an alpha and settle down just because he's an omega, and the simple lie that Suguru is his mate seems like the easiest way to get some peace and quiet. What could go wrong?

like the tides, never standing still. by antepuer [1.1k, completed, T]

“I fucking hate it sometimes.” Suguru taps the ash off and looks at him. Puppy-dog eyes, has no idea what Satoru refers to, but it would be far from the first time. “What do you mean?” “Being queer.” He finally admits. “It fucking sucks.”

once we have sufficiently tortured one another by irrevenance [4.6k, completed, E]

Suguru’s throat goes dry. “You’re no longer a sorcerer,” he realizes, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat in response to the sick joke that has laid itself before him. “And you came to me?” “Yes,” Satoru says pleasantly. “What will you do about it,” and here he lowers both his eyelashes and his tone, a mockery of seduction, “Getou-sama?”

the dream house by irrevenance [6.1k, completed, E]

Suguru adopts two little girls, marries Satoru, and becomes a teacher. It’s not enough.

where shall we go tomorrow? by elivellichor [15k, ongoing, T]

“Who the hell are you, and what the fuck do you want from me?” a raspy voice hisses, breath on the shell of his ear, knocking Suguru out of his daze. Suguru tilts his chin up to better meet his pursuit face to face and goes breathless. Enraged and fiery cerulean eyes stare down at him with a twisted expression. This child is undeniably Gojo Satoru. He can’t imagine any other with a disposition so fiery and confrontational.  Or: an indulgent age-regression fic featuring One (1) Baby Gojo Satoru and One (1) Very Tired Geto Suguru feat. healing <3

Caesura by @cielelyse [85.5k, completed, M]

The first time they meet, Suguru and Satoru do not like each other. Arrogant, cocky, insufferable, they think. Despite the smirks Shoko gives Suguru, or the sighs Yaga gives Satoru, they do not like each other. Until a mission changes that.

it's not gay unless the domains touch by @hollow-lime-green [40.2k, completed, E]

Funny thing is, when you put up walls made of infinity, you don’t expect people to start slipping in. And you certainly don’t expect to start wanting them to. Gojo Satoru never had a chance to get used to people touching him. Suguru gets that, and he’s happy to help. That’s what good friends do, right? Alternatively: Geto Suguru is the most oblivious man alive.

two sorcerers chillin' in a hot tub (five feet apart cause they’re not gay) by @hollow-lime-green

Geto Suguru has almost two decades of practice pretending not to see things that are clearly there, and Gojo Satoru has a well-documented history of being the most socially-stunted motherfucker alive. That’s how they got here. That’s also why neither of them know where the hell they’re going with this.

BONUS! Baby Mine by @seaemberthesecond

There was something just slightly off in every interaction between Gojo-sensei and Fushiguro and once Yuji’d begun to notice it, he couldn’t unsee it. It wasn’t a bad kind of off – at least he didn’t think so – but it was just different from the way either of them acted around everyone else. * Or, Yuji's journey to discovering that Megumi is Gojo's baby boy, featuring: an insane amount of simping, the mundane indignities of being a parent, and a lot of Yuji snooping in places he really shouldn't be.

(aka, that fic I go back to all the time. gojo being megumi’s dad will never not be one of my favorite things ever.) (clearly)

[rivetingrosie4]

Duet

(Part 2/2)

RDR2 | Arthur Morgan x Female Reader | Rating: Explicit (mdni) | Part 1 | tumblr masterlist | Ao3

Summary: Arthur takes you out for a much-needed fancy date. Though you both thoroughly enjoy the whole evening, you’re both eager to get home and make love. When you finally arrive home, Arthur invites you to take a steamy shower with him.

Tags: romantic smut, established relationship, hot date, shower sex, cunnilingus, romantic angst, comfort, loving marriage, parenthood, modern au, post gang

Chapter word count: 7,412

Not sure to whom the credit should go for the Arthur edit above.

𑁦𐂂𑁦

This work is partially inspired by the following song lyrics. It’s been my sincere goal to capture both the spirit of the lyrics and the feel of the song’s music in this work. Please consider giving this beautiful song a listen at the link below.

- Penny and Sparrow, “Duet”

As Arthur lifts a large, roughened hand and barely touches it to your smooth shoulder, he wonders to himself what you might be wearing underneath. Maybe he’ll see a lacy thong, its scrap of fabric tucked neatly between your round ass cheeks and framing them perfectly.

With a glance into your eyes, he thinks on how unspeakably sexy you are to him. Mere thoughts of your body, and he’s nearly slid from a ramp up into the night’s dark and starless sky.

He brings his other hand to your opposite shoulder, and the moment he’s longed for is here. With hardly any movement, his thumbs slip both straps away, and your lovely, tiny silken gown slides to the floor like ripples of lake water from a waterfall.

There you are, wearing no panties.

A powerful flush of desire overtakes and courses through him, quick and hot and merciless. He smothers the involuntary groan that wants to pour from him. All the air is sucked from his lungs anyway, as if he’s withstood a kick to the belly. He’s forced to gulp past the dryness in his throat.

His heavily lidded gaze glides up your form, from your bared sex, over the strapless bra cups that lift your breasts, until he meets your eyes.

The flint-spark look undoes you. He always seems to do just exactly what it takes. So you refocus your gaze to his white shirt and reach up to his chest to release the topmost button. You work downwards, releasing them, one button at a time, their slow undoing a ceremony to mirror his unspooling of all your painful anxieties and insecurities.

At the same time, he reaches around to peel away the strapless cups as you’re tugging his button down from his trousers. It’s hardly fair that you have so little clothing to compare with his journey of undressing. Because he’s thoughtlessly tossing the undergarment away, and now, there you are, completely bare, with him scarcely half-dressed.

Arthur watches you, eyes never leaving the way your breaths come to you deep and slow, gradually lifting and lowering your chest. His gaze rakes over the flecks of life in the forms of scars, stretch marks, and sun-kissed freckles here and there across your skin. He admires your breasts, heavy with milk. The dusty rose blossoms of your areolae, their slightly uneven positions something he’s always loved despite your own chagrin. At the thought, he's nearly brought to an inward laugh, because it seems you never allow yourself the slightest break.

You slowly lift your head and meet his eyes. Before you can think, his lips are just below the corner of your mouth. Their cushion gently recedes as he pulls away.

Without hurrying, you set yourself again to the task of undressing him. You can already feel it—the viscosity of sweet syrup you’re both ensnared by. The perfervid, voracious need to prick oneself to the needle’s sharp tip while at the same time whetting it mercilessly with a nurtured apprehension to press too deeply too quickly, that the red bloom of pleasure may not spread and dissipate and be gone too soon. You both want to savor this. Its every moment.

You unlatch his belt and listen to the jingle of its buckle, letting yourself saturate and shiver with the heady lustiness of the sound. After unsnaking it from the loops of his trousers, it falls to the floor with a clatter. You crumple his crisp shirt as you push it up his body, then pull his white undershirt up from his slacks and over his head, allowing him to slip it from his shoulders himself. It musses his pomaded hair, and he jostles it from one wrist onto the floor, though his attention is on you. He reaches for your jaw and kisses you again, this time landing squarely on the corner of your lips.

When he pulls away, you meet his eyes with a soft smile.

You push his trousers and black boxer briefs together down his trunk and legs in one motion. You hear the unsteady breath he can’t prevent and know that the fabric has necessarily brushed his half-hardened sex. He steps from the heap of his clothing and is now as bare as you are.

Though you’re mere inches apart, the two of you gaze at each other for a few moments, taking in the sights of your bodies. The personage of the only one you know like this. The only one you love like this. And what you can’t know is in the union of your minds, you’re both esteeming the other:

This body that has obeyed him to the uttermost;

this body that has carried her through every day of her life;

that has borne it all;

that has fought so hard.

These bodies that are of the two of you.

There is no Arthur without his body. There is no you without yours. What illimitable comfort to know that you both love all of the other. Not in spite of, but including your bodies. And that all of that love is right here.

The mere nearness of Arthur is enough to send a powerful, heady wave of pleasurable desire through you.

You let your gaze peruse his form. The faint moles on his torso, beneath the bold hair that fans and spreads over his sturdy chest, their whorls of wayward coils unimaginably sexy to you. The wide bulge of his back that veers out from under his arms and narrows towards his waist. Even now, you can see his back in your mind’s eye: the softly rippling dimples of muscle under his pale skin, speckled with dustings of hair.

With lifted palms, you draw closer, until you can rest a hand on each pectoral. One arm slithers over his shoulder, and your softly curled fingers come to rest and drape there now, upon that back you know so well. As your chests are pressed together, your areolae are brushed by his hair, and the meeting of the twain sends deliciously tingling bolts of pleasure through you.

With the other hand, you slide your fingers up his profile and along his temple, letting your fingertips brush lightly into his golden-chestnut hairline.

He is so beautiful, you think almost audibly as you watch his face, just as his eyes shutter at your soft and loving touch.

You’re transported to the first time you ever touched each other as lovers. How thoroughly struck with fright you had been, standing before him, trembling, and quietly heaving to catch your breath. You’d tried to tell him you’d never, ever been touched, did not know how to receive touch, how to be touched.

How did it happen, how did it ever happen to anyone, you had spilled, that they could trust another person to love them enough to touch them in places no one ever had? To meet body to body and trust the other person to go right on loving them, and not throw them away? How could you let his hand be where no other hand had been, let his very body be inside your own, and not fall apart with joy and terror and fulfilled longing and passion and fear? You had been alone so very long, so very, very long, you had sputtered—had always been, and you simply didn’t know how to not be.

And when he saw you, you had groaned your plea through a jaw clenched in near panic, could he please, please not hate you, please?

He’d simply sat on the edge of the bed and had drawn you to him with soulful, cerulean eyes filled with empathy and not a speck of pity, annoyance, or rancor.

You had gasped as you’d let yourself be pulled close, because was it already happening?

You didn’t know anything about what to do for him, you’d explained. You didn’t know anything about this—well—of course, you knew what happens. But you didn’t know anything for yourself. What to do for him, or what it feels like.

In that moment, you’d envisioned his bare chest and belly, both dusted with a fine coat of coarse hair, as you had seen bared many times during outdoor activities. But what could it feel like to touch him there, to feel the warmth of him, to rustle the hair with your fingers, or rest your cheek upon his breathing belly? You could not imagine the feel of any of it. Could only guess or envision it. Because you had never in your life been wanted or welcomed graciously into another’s bared and intimate nearness.

In this way, your rash mouth had gone ahead of you, before your mind could chide it: Didn’t he want someone who knew what to do for him? Who knew what to do because she had been wanted before?

With the last, you had dipped into a whisper to try to hide your breaking voice. But the new runoff upon your cheeks had damned you and could not be hidden.

No, he’d replied, he wanted you.

And your stupid mouth had blurted: Well, you wanted that for him.

No sooner had you said it than you required a shaky breath.

“You— I—” You had struggled to dive into black waters for words to convey to him that you were not interesting, not beautiful, young or fresh or smooth in body, not talented, confident, redeemable, not worth anything. With your trembling chin dimpled in pain, your voice broken and with eyes pleading for understanding, you had come up for air with only a few words in your hands: “I’m just a person.”

His soft, growing smirk had somehow been gentle and kind, and he’d reached up to stroke your jaw with the pad of his thumb. “You’re right,” he’d said. “You’re a person.” His smirk had faded just a little, to something more thoughtful. “Person I love.”

He’d taken your pinked face in his hands and had quietly spoken as he’d kissed your lips, your jaw, and eventually your neck. He’d poured into your heart the words you needed to believe in order to trust, to love, and to find yourself no longer alone: that good love was a choice, and that he would always make it. That your soul overlapped with his. And that if he was right, he knew you could find it in yourself to trust that he’d care for you well, and let him show you his love in each touch, and stay in your life forever after.

And he was right. To this day, you can’t remember removing your clothing. If it had been possible, they’d simply slipped off, as they’ve just done now. Together, you’d proceeded to experience breathtaking intimacy—every moment uncomfortable and new and wonderfully rapturous in its visceral potency. And after your union, he had not left you; and he had not loved you less, but even more, somehow.

Years later, you’re still unable to express all that the meeting of his skin to yours means to you—even something as beguilingly simple as his kiss. What an unfathomable gift, his every touch, after having lived so much life without knowing any at all, without believing you ever, ever would.

Your thoughts return to the present when Arthur brings a hand gently to your profile and cradles your face in his loving fingertips.

Feeling the moment slow, Arthur looks into your eyes. He takes in their shape and shade, the chaff and flagstone flashes in your irises. He even notices that you didn’t don mascara this evening, yet your lashes remain fluffy and feathery, if not fanned and curled. He notes the naturally round glisten to your eyes, blazing with quiet passion and empathy as they are, while returning his gaze.

You feel Arthur’s arms slink around your bare waist, tickling you. His large hands fan out over your back, and the two of you meet in a kiss. It gradually deepens to pulsating, until you’re both on the verge of reeling, both pressing the other closer by the back.

Arthur finally breaks the kiss only to tuck himself into the crook of your neck, enfolding you in a hug.

Your cheek skids against his as you listen to your breathed name from his lips. And, with your eyes faintly ruddled and breathing through an open mouth, you float amidst the hazy, whelming concoction of bliss and arduously tested love in his embrace.

After several moments of holding you, he retreats until his mouth is near your cheek. With a soft smile that you can’t see until after his invitation is quietly spoken, he asks,

“Take a shower with me?”

When you catch a glimpse of that soft grin on his down-tipped face, your mouths hovering near each other, you look up into his eyes. At the thought, you wear your own grin, and it grows as you simply nod.

The next minute’s passage sees him standing inside the stone-tiled, walk-in shower while the hot water streams, holding out a hand to you. He watches with a smile as you take it and step over the shower’s threshold into its balmy warmth. You couldn’t have avoided your own smile at the sweetness of the gesture if you’d tried.

Once inside, he closes the door behind you, and you both wet your hair, hands sluicing back to smooth it. The steamy air is aglow with minuscule orbs of silver, their collected effect coating your nostrils with the same fine sheen that crowns your skin. Their bigger cousins are already congregating on the spangled glass door, shaking and catching the light as though lined with silver foil, until they accumulate and fall one by one like a tear, leaving an empty trail through the veiled layer of mist. A feathery fog rises and envelops you both, until you’re tucked away somewhere celestial, just you two. You smile with lust as your gaze ambles over the shape of Arthur’s body—perfectly plump ass, bold shoulders, strong thighs, and carved hip bones framing his thick manhood—all outlined with slick, glistening light.

Your first impulse is to swing your arms up around his neck and kiss him. As you do, his arms slip into place around your waist, hands resting on your lower back, beneath your wet, darkened tresses. You tip your head to the side and kiss him deeply, pushing your fingers into his wet hair. But you’re quick to briefly tilt your head to the other side, continuing to kiss him.

Arthur can taste the distant remnants of tawny port on your tongue. You notice the day’s-end stubble on his cheeks and dimpled chin as you dip your head back to where you’d started, never breaking the kiss.

You feel him moan a quiet, “Mm,” before the kiss comes to a natural end, and he pulls his lips away from yours.

Your head remains in the position you’d kissed him, stuck in bliss. There is nowhere you would rather be than here, in the shower, wrapped in your love’s arms, your own hooked up around his neck.

He begins to grin as he glances into your eyes and presses another short kiss to your lips. You feel his hands lift from your back and hear them gently turn the bottles and things on the soap ledge behind you.

“Gonna let me bathe you?” he asks.

Your tone is bleary and quiet rather than insolent. “Bathe me?”

“Mm.”

“What about you?” you ask, brushing back a stray clump of wet strands from his forehead.

The first syllable of his answer is a drawled, softly grunted mix of well and yeah. “You can bathe me too.”

You lift your head at the thought, and after a moment, offer, “I get to bathe you first.”

He pauses perusing the items on the ledge and looks into your face with an incredulously annoyed smirk. “You stole my idea.”

“You’ll never get bathed if I don’t bathe you first.”

With a large, open grin, he lifts his head back and chuffs a stuttered laugh. “Ah. I see.” You purse your lips against a burgeoning grin as he gives his head a tip, conceding. “I see.”

His hands return to their home base at your lower back.

Lowering your arms and reaching them past either side of his waist towards the soap ledge behind him in the opposite far corner, you ask, “Which soap?”

Watching your face and fighting the flicker of a smirk, he answers, “River birch.”

Of the two bars on the ledge, you take the one swirled with white and dark green. You pull it under his arm and hold it below his nose.

“Mm-hm,” he mumbles, never taking his eyes from your face, the gravel of his voice warm in his throat.

Gratified, your eyes flit down to the soap, and you take it in a swirling motion through his chest hair. “Have to get a lather.”

His smirk widens to a bright grin, and when he laughs, you smile with him. He’s mesmerized by your beautifully dark, clumped, wet lashes radiating from both your eyes as you begin your work.

You take the bubbly bar up over his shoulder, admiring its striated bulk. You swirl the bar across his large back and pass it to your other hand, then bring it forward over his opposite shoulder.

After passing the bar through the hair under both his arms, you slowly bring it down his gently scored abdomen. You lower yourself to a squat in time with your hands, letting yourself savor the beautiful sight and sensation of his belly—the form of its strong, firm plane, while the skin itself is simultaneously plump and healthy; the smattering of dark hair half-hiding the small mole below his ribs; the soft buoyancy beneath your fingers that bespeaks the natural lack of bone beneath the surface; and the dulcet rim of his perfect navel.

Without thinking, you lean forward forward and kiss that navel—initially a chaste, clicked kiss, then you open your mouth and dip your tongue to sweep the water droplets from its crater.

An airy, broken moan escapes him, and you smile to yourself.

Drawing back, you gaze at the long, taut span of his lower abdomen, just above his pubic bone, that stretches from his navel to his sex. It’s a portion of him that often lowers itself to meet the same portion of you in all your soulful lovemaking, each brushing the other with every lithe undulation of your torsos.

With alternating hands, you let your featherlight fingers dance upwards through his trail of hair there. You lean forward and kiss a path down his lower abdomen, savoring the taut, sloping incline of his pubis.

Giving him a moment to gather himself, you spare him any touch of the soap bar to his erection, swiping it instead through his pubic hair. But you make sure to pass it beneath his testes before finally taking the suds in your palm and gently cupping the base of his erection, its surface like a wooden staff in your hand.

He stiffens and grinds out a windy huff, trying hard to avoid sounding as though he’s been beaten senseless.

“Got frisky hands there,” he says.

“Gotta get you clean,” you almost sing.

“Just remember, your time will come,” he says, smirking at you. “Just remember.”

Your smile flashes wider. “I’m counting on it.”

You stand and draw your body closer to his as you return the bar to his back and reach to swipe it down over his firm ass cheeks. You dip your fingertips into his cleft and swirl the bar in a circle down and around each cheek. You avoid his intent eyes as you let your fingers linger there, clearly taking your time to savor the smoothness of his skin and the gloriously, perfectly round shape of each cheek.

You swipe the bar around both his thighs and squat again to begin gently scrubbing his hairy calves. With your face again so near his tightly erect sex, you can’t help but place a kiss sweetly to the side of its tip.

He hisses and catches himself upon the tile wall. “Baby, don’t, you’ll fell me.”

“I won’t,” you respond, continuing to bathe his calf. “You got plans, huh?”

He nods, his clenched expression still recovering. “I got plans.”

“I think I’ll like ‘em.”

“You will,” he assures. And after another few moments, decides to add in quiet tones, “Ain’t only about me. Not tonight.”

Though you continue to swipe the soap over his leg, the spoken words have you inwardly considering them.

You stand and return the soap to the far ledge as he steps under the water to rinse.

“There,” you sigh as you resume your place before him, slip your arms around his neck again, and kiss him. You feel his hands return to your back and hold you. “Did I do a good job?”

“A very good job,” he says between kisses. When you slip your mouth up his jaw and nibble his slick earlobe, his eyes roll back into his head, and he chuffs an open-mouthed laugh. After taking a moment to recover, he reaches for the items on the ledge behind you, mumbling quietly near your ear, “Come an’ pick one a�� these,”

You turn between his outstretched arms, suddenly feeling as nude and as cherished as a babe when your slick breasts brush against him. Facing forward with him, you smile and nibble your lip, relishing the warmth of his cheek tucked beside yours.

“The almond.”

He mumbles satisfactorily, “Good choice,” and kisses you pertly on the cheek as he reaches for your bottle of almond wash, an oil that turns to a fine, milky lather when met with water.

You watch him pop the back of the cap and pour the amber oil into his wet palm. He sets the bottle back and rubs his hands together, creating the fine white suds.

“Here we are,” he says, his low voice laced with grit.

Arthur wastes no time, flattening his hand against your sternum and slowly taking it straight down, between your breasts, over your belly, and further to the triangle of hair between your legs.

“Gotta get you clean,” he says as he runs his sudsy fingers through the coarse hair between your legs, and the blatant cheekiness is not lost on you.

You sigh, lean slightly back into him, and hook one arm up around his neck, giving him a full, unhindered view to the front of your body.

Bringing his hands to your chest, he cups and kneads your breasts, savoring their silken texture and making sure to flick his thumbs across your beaded nipples. You take a half-step forward, letting the water rinse the suds he’s placed down the front of you.

He leans down and kisses the point where your neck and shoulder meet. You lower your arm from around his neck, though you continue to keep your arm back and grasp the side of his thigh. He swipes the lather over your shoulder and down the length of your arm.

With the residual suds left in his palm, he stretches his hand out across your side, fitting you snugly into the web between his finger and thumb. He slowly brings it down your form, past your waist and over the curve of your hip and sumptuous body. As he does, he watches your shimmering, plump flesh continuously squeeze out from under the web of his hand.

“Goddamn,” he breathes.

After several moments, you feel the rim of his open mouth along the curve of your shoulder. You glance back to find him practically slumped to you with cupidity, his drowsy eyes glazed with longing, upper lip curling as it skids across your skin, ready to mouth any point on you he can get to.

And he does. He abandons the bathing, as you thought he would. With a moan, he takes the round corner of your shoulder into his mouth. His tongue is eager to rake over you, and you watch as he begins to suckle your skin as though it were the sweetest of honey to him, and all he needs.

The far gone look in his eyes does something more to you than merely tell you he’s been given into the arms of desire. At once, it both feeds a previously frail flicker in your chest and melts you entirely.

Without warning, you turn to him and take his jaw in your hand, promptly kissing him deeply. He pours a moan into your mouth. Your tongues meld as he brings a hand to the back of your neck, propping your jaw up with his thumb.

While maintaining the kiss, he backs you to the cold tile wall, gently pinning you there with his body. At the chill, you briefly gasp and break the kiss, but you’re quick with penance, hurriedly seeking his mouth again. You feel the lovely cage of his forearms on either side of you where he braces himself against the wall.

He braces the other side of your throat with his hand and thumb as his mouth traverses your jaw and downward, where he kisses your neck. Such a simple act of loving-kindness as this has you smiling dazedly with a sigh, has your eyes rolling back at the sensation of his sweetly sucking kisses, at the perfect fit of the plane of his cheek tucked flush to the underside of your jaw.

He pecks a trail along your collarbone and licks the soft space between your breasts. He trails further towards the curved swell of one breast and its pursed bead. There he takes you in his mouth and laves you, feeling your slipknot leak warmth, tasting your droplets of sweet milk.

Each drag of his tongue over the face of your nipple sends tiny sparks of pleasure through you, some reaching your belly and causing it to lurch and flip inside you. Letting your head loll back against the shower wall, you sigh and caress the back of Arthur’s head, weaving your fingers through his wet hair.

When he releases your breast and ventures lower as his hair slips from your fingers, your eyes flutter open, and you lift your head from the wall.

“A-Arthur,” you sigh. “What about… I thought you said—”

“Shh-shhh…” he mutters between kisses to your skin as his hands slide down your hips.

Surely he must know you mean to refer to his sentiment, that tonight was supposed to not be about one or the other, but both of you.

“Does this fit into your plan?” you ask.

In the middle of kissing your lower belly, he pulls back. With lifted brows and a flat affect, he answers, “Perfectly,” before hungrily returning his lips and tongue to your skin.

Smiling dazedly, you take liberty to reach both hands back into his hair as he goes on kissing you.

Arthur pauses above your pubic bone, beneath which he knows rests the central, womanly parts of you that will respond to all his loving touch, will coil with the heat of your climaxes, and will be relied upon to radiate pleasure to the rest of you. And he blesses it with a kiss.

As the shower’s stream falls steadily at his back, he stoops ever lower. He peppers your mons and vulva with kisses and parts you with his fingers.

At the first hot flick of his tongue, your breath catches. As you shut your eyes, your lashes saturate amidst the shower’s dew collecting atop your cheeks. He licks up your labia, and you keen, nearly sobbing when you rest your head back against the tile wall and whine, “Oh my God.”

You narrowly avoid squirming when you feel the heated slip of his tongue running against you, delving between your pillowy folds, feel his breath in a sigh of his own pleasure.

Arthur lifts your left thigh until your foot comes to rest on the stone shower seat and hears a growly moan seep from your chest as he dips his chin forward to take you with his tongue, entering you slowly, diligently. He sips at your abundant arousal, then slides his tongue up towards the apex of your sex. He finds your sweet, tender bud beautifully swollen and nearly thrumming with need for him. He swirls his tongue there and relishes in the outcry it elicits from you. It’s better than any music to him, and he can’t restrain his groan against your sex.

He brings the tips of his fingers to your margin, eager to feel each new rush of wetness—one of the best signs from your body that he’s pleasuring you well. He’s further aroused by your canal’s every flicker, by the tightening of your fingers in his hair, and your whimpered gasps. They nearly send him over, and he hurriedly pulls away and stands to his feet.

In a state of desperation and honed purpose, the two of you clamber for each other, hands scrambling and ragged breaths running away like stallions at a gallop. You come off the wall for him, and he turns you to stand before him, facing the shower head. You feel his chest at your back between your shoulder blades, feel the insistent stiffness of his length near your soft rear.

Taking a blessed moment for tenderness, you force yourself to slow and lean back into his solid form amidst the shower’s steam. You rest your head all the way back onto his shoulder, hoping for his mouth to meet yours. You swallow and gasp, your tongue clicking dryly as you hook an arm up around his neck.

“Arthur,” you whine, trying to press all your love and need for him into the simultaneously feeble and glorious shapes of words. “Oh, God, Arthur!”

Before you can say any more, his mouth fully covers yours. “I’m here, baby,” he says between kisses, though his lips never completely draw away from yours. “I’m right here with you.”

A cascade of moaned devotednesses falls from your mouths, each syllable overlied by the return of the other.

“Won’t ever leave me?”

“Never.”

“So good to me.”

“Mother of my child.”

“You’re my home.”

“My soul. ‘Ve told you that before.”

As your kisses halt, you simply nod, gazing into his eyes.

His head dips down again, and he begins to suckle your neck. When you next catch a glimpse of his mountain melt eyes, there’s a shimmer of wry, smiling light to them.

“You my baby?” he hums into your neck, a new playfulness in his tone.

“Yes,” you breath.

He trails his fingers to your side and digs them into a spot he knows very well is ticklish. A grin widens his mouth when your brief, squealed giggle doesn’t fail him.

“You were a downright woman tonight,” he says, his large hand beginning to slide more slowly than a stubborn, clinging water droplet down your chest, over the heavy swell of your breast, and down the front of your body.

“Proper vixen,” he says, his voice husky in your ear. “Had to dig my nails into my palms to keep from gettin’ hard all through dinner.”

You release a low, unctuous moan at the revelation, feeling all inhibitions leaving you completely and the pool of slick between your thighs warming deeply.

“Somethin’…ain’t quite fair about that… Doin’ that to a man,” he says, his ambling voice growing gruff and laden thickly with lust. “‘Specially one who loves you.”

Ever conscious of the torturously-paced lowering of his hand, you struggle to heed his words. You gulp as his hand finally, finally begins to reach your pubis.

“You know I need you, hm?”

You nod.

“Gonna let me show you?” As Arthur takes your mons into the pocket of his palm, he watches you from over your shoulder—watches the way your lips quiver when enraptured. And he is stricken by the gentle sincerity of your trust him, by the mere thought of having your body, sweetly warm and swollen with need, in his hands. He lowers his mouth closer to your ear and nearly growls, “Gonna let me take you?”

You nod hurriedly, chest heaving. Your hissed breath hitches at the sensation of his other hand reaching beneath your buttocks and lower, to the folds of your femininity, heated and tender and swollen, slick with arousal, and more than ready—famished with need for him.

“I just—” you huff and swallow, trying to collect your thoughts amidst the haze of passionate desire just enough to voice your concern for him as you begin to straighten. “Just want to make sure to take care of you too.”

You hear him chuckle with affection behind you. “You are, darlin’.”

Exhaling a soft, bleary whimper, you lower your head and shift your feet to stand with parted legs.

With one hand below your ass, he spreads your labia and dips his fingers into you, and with his other hand, he begins to stroke your clit in loving, syrupy circles. For a moment, the fingers of both hands brush each other between your legs. You shiver and mewl at his masterful handling.

His chest presses snugly against your back, and you feel him languidly enter you. A loud, feral groan escapes you both. You lean forward and reach one hand to the tile wall before you to brace yourself.

He clutches you to him, outstretched fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your lower belly. You both begin to slowly rock and jut, taking your time to delight in devouring every part of each other. Arthur’s hand that isn’t stroking your clit comes up to knead your breast. He kisses your shoulder, now covered with beads of dew. Before long, you’re both moaning and shouting in a sultry duet.

He fills you and reaches deeper with each undulating thrust. Together, one. In that reaching press of a joining, a voice. One without words, inarticulate and formless and spectral, yet communicating to your soul. Yes, I love you here, it says. In the depths of you. And, with each slaking heave: Yes, you mean something to me. Everything.

The overwhelming, intoxicating pleasure begins to reach your brain in a misty stupor. You lift your eyes and notice your hand upon the tile wall, splayed fingers squished tightly against the diamond-shaped inlay of smaller, transparent glass tiles, a shade of dark maple. Their shine winks at you mischievously from under your hand. On any other day, you would have hardly noticed them as you went about your mundane hygiene routine. But today they have become a naughty, scandalized witness to your steamy lovemaking.

With a glance to the glass door, you find scattered swipes through the tiny beads of mist clinging there—another evidence of your heated, rapacious coupling.

You moan and squeal in impassioned delight, each new outcry more desperate than the last. Shutting your eyes, you lift your face to feel the stray flecks of water on your skin. You listen to Arthur’s breathy moans, disbelieving expletives, and unconstrained mumbles of pleasure.

The thought briefly flutters through your mind—what you must sound like together, hidden in such an innocent place as the master bath shower, moans and cries slightly muffled amidst the soft sound of a steadily running stream—and your arousal heightens further. You mewl unintelligible endearments and encouragements to him, calling his name.

“Nah,” you suddenly hear him grind out in a breathy whisper. “Cm’ere.”

In one swift move, he indelicately turns you to stand with your back against the wall, facing him. There’s hardly any time lost as you gasp for breath and he wedges himself between your thighs, quickly sliding forward to bury himself inside you again.

Shuddering, you desperately reach for him, gripping the hair at the back of his head by the root and searching his mouth feverishly, keen to breath his every breath and hold him and feel his smothering love, his nearness bound tightly all around you. It’s in the midst of this fever that you come to realize he’d needed the very same.

With your mouth dropped open and chest heaving wildly, you let your eyes close and feel the warmth of his skin between your thighs, feel his flesh inside you. With roaming hands, you chart a course over the dips of muscle in his back, smooth a path down the dimples above his rear, savor the slick sheen over the pronounced curves of his plump, firm ass—the same ass that flexes and contracts with each sweet, rolling thrust into you.

Somehow, even in this moment, something inside your heart and mind, some niggling frailty, seems to still wish you could be all to him that he is to you—set apart, miraculous in your world, adored. Love of your life.

But maybe there are no such things in the real world.

“I love you,” he breathes with a moan, face hidden in your neck. The bulk of his chest expands, and he exhales it again.

Your face nearly crumples with the sheer force of emotions that crash over you like a surging whitecap. With a strangled, stuttered laugh, you confess it in return to him.

He lifts his face and cradles the top of your wet head in his large hand. “Love of my life,” he whispers before covering your mouth with his own.

The next minutes are a sweltering fit of rolling, jutting hips and clasped fists as you both enter a near frenzy to bring the other to climax. Who will be filled with a leaden plume of delight, will die first, and be revived to shepherd the other?

Your heart thrums a fiery, spasmodic beat. The sounds of your ragged gasps and Arthur’s moans fill the shower. It’s not long and your whole body is clutching tightly to his, clenching with the immediate demand of ecstasy, gripped by the throes of some violently inversive vacuum, desperate to house a proffered portion of his soul within yours. Two vessels pouring back and forth into each other, the smoky incense of life breathed from mouth to nostrils.

Arthur jerks and convulses, and there it is: starlight. That splintered smear of luminosity he’d missed in the murky penumbra of the city tonight, he’s found here with you.

You’re reeling with the massive flood of pleasure that overtakes and saturates you, contracting and groaning with it, and Arthur is almost hiccupping and whining at the tail end of each gasped breath as he releases himself inside you.

Cemented together, you hold him secure as he quivers and trembles against you. Panting hard, bodies a mirror to the other as parts of you both unfurl, one piece at a time, like petals. You stroke his back and feel the rush of his breath against your collarbone. With open hands, you press the pads at the base of your fingers to his cheekbones and gently lift his face from its hiding place. As he emerges, you pull your chin back to look at him and find that his eyelids are lowered. But his eyes are clear and bright, a sated glimmer resting in the irises as a smile—small, but confident and strong—begins to tug at the corners of his mouth. You feel your chest effervesce with quiet rejoicing at the sight, and you press several kisses to his cheeks and the corners of his lips.

When he receives your mouth to his, the grinning kiss is messy and shining with saliva, lips and tongues knitted by a soft, rested laziness.

After a few minutes, Arthur twists the shower’s nozzle. He admires the darkened tendrils of hair stuck to the curve of your neck in beautifully slender waves as the water sluices down the curves of your form in hastened rivulets. As the stream dissipates, you remain clasped together, arms around each other and body to body. When Arthur steps from the shower, you step with him, one leg at a time. You’re held fast to him, letting no space come between you. The thought occurs to him then that the way you cling to each other is both very childlike, and very adult, somehow.

Taking a towel from the rack, Arthur makes measly efforts to dry you both while you remain in each other’s tight embrace. Still holding onto each other, you clunkily walk together to the bed and flop down.

For a long time, you remain quiet, feeling the dew of leftover water droplets gradually cool atop your skin and dry against the sheets. He’s on his back, and you’re lying belly down, halfway overtop of him, chin perched on his chest, one arm curled up with its hand resting on his pectoral, one leg woven between his. One of his arms cradles you, pressed between you and the mattress, hand limp at the small of your back, fingers thoughtlessly tracing patterns into your velvety skin.

A moment of perfect slowness, peace. Love.

Arthur reaches up to brush the hair away from your forehead, closing his eyes and opening them to simply look at you.

He folds his free arm up behind his head, and you watch as his eyes venture away for a few moments, up at the ceiling. A few minutes pass, and you listen to his breathing, his swallowing.

“I wonder…” he suddenly begins, his voice quiet.

“What Grace is doing,” you say together, and you both chuckle when you glance into each other’s knowing eyes.

Your head bobs where your chin rests on his chest as you speak. “Think she’s sleeping?”

“Yeah,” he responds softly, tenderly. “Yeah, I do.”

At once, you’re seized by a depth of something raw and incalculable, even fearsome in its size, and you gulp it enough to scoot up just a bit, until you can gaze down into his face. He shifts and looks back into your squinting eyes. You reach up and run your fingertips over his crows’ feet, down his cheek bone, over the outermost borders of his mouth, and across his plump bottom lip.

“I love you,” you breathe, and your voice around the confession is small and hoarse.

A clearness, a staidness, filters over his features. “I love you more than life,” he says, addressing you by name. There is no duplicity or hesitation in his firm voice, and his arresting gaze is sure.

You lean down for his waiting mouth, and he reaches to brush a thumb across your cheek during the gently lissome kiss.

You nestle back down into the sure cleft of his embrace, resting your cheek on his chest. He strokes his big fingers over your temple, attempting to swipe your hair behind your ear, or otherwise dually caress and assure you in his funnily insouciant and sweetly masculine way.

After a few more minutes of quiet, a wry smirk begins to creep onto your mouth at the return of a certain thought, and you venture it aloud. “That was really good, by the way.”

Your smirk blooms into a shimmering grin at the rumble of the chest beneath you in response.

“That was damn good, is what that was,” chortles your lecherous lothario, his deep voice lined thickly with gratified gravel.

Still beaming, you glance up at him as he laughs, because you’re more than thrilled to be debauched by your debonair husband, who clearly still loves you and still wants you every day.

When you return your cheek to his chest, you add mischievously in an intentionally sultry and groggy tone, “My new favorite place.”

The laugh in his chest rattles you again.

“Shower,” he hisses with a snicker.

After a few minutes of stillness, he begins to shift underneath you.

“Well then,” he mumbles saucily, producing the beginnings of a low giggle in you as he tumbles and rotates the two of you until you’re beneath him and he’s splayed over you, kissing your lips and neck. “I’ll just have to remind you how good a place the bed can be.”

His spirit is more exultant than those of the richest of kings at the way your giggle trills, loud and sweeter than any honey, at his quipped tease and at the love that flows through all his sugared, caressing touches.

a/n: Comments are genuinely always welcome, and re-blogs are very, very much appreciated. A sincere thank-you for taking the time to read and for your gracious support.

Taglist: @shootybangbang @photo1030 @appalachiancowboy99 @clevergirl74 @cookiesandcreaminthetardis @subpopizzy @cassietrn

[lipglossanon]

Day 17

Kink: Dacryphilia

Pairing: Cthulhu!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dacryphilia, monster!Leon, tentacles, tentacle sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, indifferent Leon, more horror than smut in this one chat, cut it short for time lol

Not proofread

The desert is cold at night. You knew it would be—not unsurprised by the drop in temperature. However, this coldness settling over you like a second skin feels unnatural. You run your fingers across the amulet a fortune teller gave you earlier. 

“Your third eye will open yet, young Miss.”

You didn’t really think much of it, but after repeating the ritual from the book you picked up in her shop, you’re starting to worry a little about what she meant. 

The small fire you built douses itself until complete darkness fills your vision; eyes adjusting, you can still see the blanket of stars dusting the sky—but as you keep your gaze trained on them, they slowly wink out. 

One…

By…

One…

You shiver, pulling your thin jacket tighter around you, chills racing along your body and not from just the cold. A dark void rolls across the sky, your eyes stinging with the strain as you open them as wide as possible. No light to be found anywhere and in its place fear—so deeply rooted in your hindbrain that you subconsciously start to cry. 

A deep droning sound, like that of a bell underwater, resonates across the desert. Your body is screaming at you to run and never look back, but the fear keeps you frozen in place. Legs tucking up closer until you’re a tight ball of nerves seated next to your dead firewood.

Something touches your shoulder and your eyes roll to the side like a spooked horse.

Empty inky darkness. 

You blink and everything is as it was before. The fire crackles and pops as a piece of wood splits from the heat. The stars twinkle and shine like they always have, millions of miles away in the cold vastness of space. Your body, however, stays locked into place. Breath hitching in your chest like you’re about to hyperventilate, you squeeze your eyes shut and just listen to the stillness and the flame. 

The amulet’s clutched so hard in your fist, its split open your palm like ripe fruit. Blood drips from your skin to stain the sand below. 

“That little trinket won’t do much, I’m afraid.”

A voice slithers from the dark, from the void, from your eyes—

Blinking, you see a strange man sitting across from you—the fire a flimsy barrier against his cold, fathomless gaze. Your throat locks up, voice trapped as your heart races. Who even is he? What is he? How is he here? Did the old woman know this would happen? How—

“Your kind cannot pronounce my true name,” he grins and horror descends upon your mind, making your vision blur. 

“You called for me, yes? And I answered,” he shifts and you can see something wriggling behind him in the dark.

You feel violently ill, stomach coiling like snakes trapped in your intestines. “What sh-sh-should I c-call you?”

A pressure against your cranium and you cry out weakly. He chuckles yet his mouth doesn’t move. 

“Leon,” it spills from his lips like a dying man’s last breath. 

Your thoughts unspool, a strange calmness settling over you, letting you relax. Humming dreamily, you smile at this… man.

“There we go, little one,” he grins wider, too wide, but it doesn’t can’t bother you.

A strange tentacle, at least that’s as close as your mind can come to understanding it, slinks across the cool sand to gently wrap around your bare ankle. The cold slippery feeling sends chill bumps racing across your skin. 

“You are quite sweet, not my usual consort,” his voice rumbles, pleased.

The tentacle slips across your leg and up across your shorts to wrap around your hips. “Why did you summon me?”

Your mind tries to rebel against the lethargy of your thoughts, but it’s exhausting. 

“I wanted to see if it could be done,” you murmur. “I needed to know if there is more outside of this.”

You gesture around at the open desert and his eyes flicker a multitude of colors before settling back on blue. His attention is focused all on you and it makes you break out in a cold sweat. 

“Curiosity has always been a detriment to your kind,” he flexes the tentacle around your waist. “Is knowledge all you seek? No revenge on your enemies? Granting of wishes?”

Faces and names flicker through your mind’s eye along with hazy wisps of forgotten dreams. He hums in pleasure, but you quickly shake your head. 

“No, I’m doing this for myself,” you affirm, voice wavering when he tilts his head. 

“There is a price, little one. An exchange has been made and I intend to collect it from you,” he stands, and walks over to you—at least it seems like he walks; his body is rotoscope movements against the desert background. 

Muscles wound tight, you can’t find room for anymore fear from this creature man. He settles down next to you, seeming to eat up more space than he actually occupies. 

His hand hovers over your temple, fingertips barely touching your skin—

You’re weightless—sightless. Floating in the ether of darkness that makes up his mind. He’s everywhere and nowhere. It feels like a million hands touching your body before it morphs into that smooth tentacle you recall from earlier. 

Crying out, your mouth is filled with one as another notches itself at your cunt, pressing into your hole and fucking you with shallow, rough thrusts. The pleasure thrums behind your eyes, fireworks going off in your brain to the point you weep with the ecstasy. 

You’re suspended in this world he’s created; taking everything he’s giving you. 

It’s too much and not enough; it’s infinite yet only happening to you at this exact moment in time. You’ve orgasmed so much, your thighs are saturated with slick. His tentacles continually fuck you, one pulling completely free before another is filling your clenching walls to the brim. 

You’re openly weeping, wishing for an end to this sea of ravishment. Muscles shake and twitch as another orgasm is wrung from your overwrought body. His laughter fills your head, as cold as it is mocking. He speaks to you in tongues, a myriad of languages that your mind can’t comprehend. 

Although you’re unable to speak, you beg him for an end, an out, anything but the paralyzing sensation overtaking you from your repeated orgasms. Your vision clears and you catch sight of too many eyes..

Then suddenly—

You jump, nearly falling off the log and onto the sandy floor. 

The fire crackles and pops, wood burning brightly against the dark backdrop of the desert. The starry sky yields no answers as your mind runs a mile a minute, holding the amulet in a loose fist at your side. 

You’re alone now…

and yet that brings no comfort.

[saphig-iawn]

Stuffing and String

Something I ask of my subjects and dolls is to think of a little safe space in their mind for the spells I weave in them. I've heard so many different spaces from them, like a heart shaped box, a deck of cards, even a wind-up dancer on a music box.

My subject today had envisioned this safe space as a ragdoll of her, with every new spell a bow I would tie in her hair.

But this got her thinking. Thinking got her feeling. Feeling got her aroused. The idea of a plush ragdoll version of her sat amongst her plushies had her feeling overcome with excitement.

Today was her day to become that ragdoll.

She sank deeply into trance, landing softly in my lap.

It was there that I began to weave the spell in her, gentle threading the sensations of transforming into doll within every part of her.

It starts at her feet, like thick woolly socks are being put on her feet and rolled up. The feeling rolls higher and higher, and as it climbs, she feels the strength in her muscles just melt away as her muscles get spun into soft stuffing.

Up past her hips, her intimate area becoming nothing but a soft plushie bulge. Her stomach becomes full of warmth and giggles as her skin turns to string and her muscles into stuffing.

Then her fingers draw together, like big thick mittens are being put on. Much like with her feet, the feeling climbs, her arms become so limp and loose, barely able to move.

The feelings converge on her chest, her breasts padding out with a little extra stuffing, before climb up her neck.

All the words in her throat unspool until there's nothing left but gentle hums. Then her neck softs leaving her head to rest wherever it can.

It climbs up the back of her head, her hair uncoiling into colourful yarn.

Then finally it reaches her face.

Her lips become embroidered into a permanent smile.

Her eyes become pretty buttons.

In her mind, a brand new bow appeared in her dolly's hair.

After the trance and a little aftercare, I spoke the spell and she went limp instantly. Her giggles became soft hums as I talked to her. I can forgive her for the one-sided conversation.

But being nothing but stuffing and string made her plush bulge ache with need, so I reversed the spell and gave her permission to play.

She was nearing that wonderful climax but suddenly found all the strength leave her body as the spell left my lips.

She hummed in sweet frustration at my denial.

So I reversed the spell and urged her to continue.

She just about to tumble over that edge into bliss and- oops! Nothing but stuffing and string again.

I asked if she wanted to climax, if she wanted to collapse into pleasure.

She hummed affirmatively.

"Well go on then", I sneered.

Her helpless hum was something I wish I could've bottled up because you could taste the frustration.

After her climax, after she was all spent and cared for, we ended our session with something a little special.

There was an extra element to her spell which was that she could be left to fall asleep as a ragdoll, and upon waking up would feel bright and fresh and returned to normal.

So our session ended with me reading to her some of my new pieces, while she could do nothing but lie on her bed, surrounded by her plushies, with nothing but a beaming smile embroidered on her face.

[1800titz]

IF YOU THINK I'M PRETTY | dad's best friend

Up close, he’s a pastiche of a daydream. The kind of face that sticks and lingers. Aged like a fine liquor. The turbid guitar riff you hear from the bathroom. The devil’s hour unspooling across your shoulders when you chase the moon with your feet; the sin you wadded up into a piece of paper to tuck into the cigarette case. Sex. A sandpaper kiss. The scent of gunsmoke. Motor oil across knuckles.

preview

“I know,” you tell him, blinking. “I know who you are.”

He blinks back at you. Amused. “Do you?”

(No. Undeniably, no.)

You clear your throat when he lets your hand go. “Enough. So. Are you in the… like, special forces, then?”

His eyes linger on you for a little longer. He smiles. Leans in a little closer— you can’t help the way the peach fuzz on the scruff of your neck stands when his breath wades into your hair, against your ear. Can’t help the electricity that rides across your synapses. 

“That’s need-to-know.”

(On WeHeartIt, an older man is calligraphy soused in the rose-tinted lens of Valencia. This whole scandalous endeavor of sleeping with an older man— luxuriant in lyrics and picsart stickers. Pinterest boards. Sleep with your professor; that’s a Melanie song— silver fox is in like bows, and leopard print, and the awkward twee of teenagehood making rebirth.)

You fan the heat that congeals you off with laughter that nearly sounds nervous. Clear your throat again. Take a drink that burns down the back of your throat. Cross your legs a little tighter.

“Right. Secrets.”

(A girl on TikTok came onto your feed discussing how she got into being a sugar baby, what websites to use, how to talk to them— it reminds you of the link your friend sent you last month on the Sprinkle Sprinkle lady; look at her, she knows what she’s doing!)

He hums. The kind of rumble that stems from his chest. With the dearth, you nearly feel it in your bones, rattling the junctures of your joints. This— you’re imagining it. You swallow. 

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you, I reckon,” Harry says. Jokes. It’s wry. Acidic. The kind of dryness you expect off a man of his stature. 

(You always thought it was a little sick. Gross. Lolita-steeped. The out-of-touch Electra pillared on the foundation of a taboo— dad looked the other way in disinterest and tucked his affections behind the cage bars of his bones, so now I try to pick at the lock on yours with my thumb.

Only, you have a wonderful relationship with your father, and the man leaning into you from the corner of the bar— letting his eyes roll across your body and your stupid, muzzy face, limned in shadows off the shoddy bar lightning— is not like that at all.)

He blinks. The eye contact is unrelenting. Almost stifling. You nearly choke on your own spit when the corner of his mouth ticks and he tacks on, “...Wouldn’t want to put down a pretty thing like you.”

(Because Harry is older like secrets and cicatrix. Like a gun in the drawer of a nightstand with a bible. The smoke that lingers off a bonfire. The leaden maelstrom on the horizon of the shore, where the waves are still placidly lapping.  

Riding on that hairline fracture of just enough stay away and come a little closer. Skirting the border, where the head of a palisade overlooks the rift of a bad decision.)

[seedsofagony]

Breakfast in Bed (KnY ♡ Kyojuro)

Cherrytober Day 24: Morning Sex // Body Worship

Series: Kimetsu no Yaiba

Characters: Rengoku Kyojuro

Word Count: 1,341

Summary: modern au, x reader (f), vampire Rengoku, fluff and smut, body worship, choking if you squint, marking if you squint, monsterfucking, morning sex, unprotected sex, cream pie, no pregnancy, vampirism, wounds, blood, blood loss

Notes: Aftercare is juice and cookies ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Disclaimer: Underage, ageless, and blank blogs will be blocked. For everyone 18+, FUB free or filter my unique tag for this event: #sweets🍒24

ETA: Since this fic is getting a little traction, I'd like to remind everyone that minors are not welcome here. I block underage, ageless, and blank blogs.

Kyojuro crawls underneath the blankets just as the sun begins to rise, rays of light sweeping across the bed. He pulls the sheet over your heads and hugs you close, enveloping you in a soft cocoon.

"Cold!" You startle awake, flinching as he presses his cool skin against you.

Kyojuro plants a kiss on your forehead. "Sorry…"

Still groggy, you blink at the sunlight filtering through the sheet. "You're late."

He smiles, bright enough to rival the early morning sun. "I was watching you sleep."

You make a wry face. "That would sound creepy coming from anybody but you."

"I love watching you sleep—you're so beautiful."

Bedhead, cheek imprinted with the wrinkles of your pillowcase, oversized pajama shirt turned halfway around—you can imagine just how "beautiful" you look.Your preternatural lover, however, is, as always, an absolute vision.

His golden hair curls softly around his face, framing bright ruby eyes and that dazzling smile, his canines coming to sharp points. Blue veins spider along his temples and down his neck to the bared pale skin of his muscular chest. They flow down his belly and disappear beneath the waistband of his pajamas—incidentally, the bottoms to the shirt you're wearing now.

Eying those veins, you coil a strand of his hair around your finger, then let it unspool. "You haven't eaten yet."

"Not since dinner."

You flick your eyes back to his mouth, the white pearl of his canines. "You want breakfast?"

Kyojuro's face darkens and, for a split second, he is every bit the predator you know him to be. His gaze moves to your neck, lighting on the neat, twin wounds he gave you the night before. You swallow, stomach fluttering at his unabashed hunger. But it's momentary—his expression quickly softens to its usual sweetness.

"Are you sure…?"

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. "I love breakfast in bed."

He hesitates. You ruffle his hair, "That was an invitation by the way."

Kyojuro scrunches his face as you give him the golden retriever treatment, closing one eye as you tousle his waves. He reaches up and catches your hand. Bringing it to his lips, he presses a kiss to your palm.

"You're so good to me," he murmurs.

Shifting, he kneels over you, pulling the sheet tight across his back, pinning it against the mattress with his forearm to block out the morning light.

"You don't want me to close the curtains?"

"I don't mind," he says. There's a slight edge to his voice, an eagerness that tingles pleasantly between your legs.

Matching his mood, you shrug out of your shirt and shove it aside. Your bare skin prickles at the cold emanating from his body, nipples coming to pert buds in the chill.

"You really are beautiful," Kyojuro says.

He cups your cheek with his free hand and strokes the corner of your lips before drifting down to your throat. Your breath catches as the tip of his thumb just brushes one of the wounds.

His brow creases with concern. "Does it hurt?"

"A little," you admit. "But it feels good, too."

Kyojuro hums, his grip tightening ever so slightly, closing around your naked throat. You can see the confliction in his eyes—the temptation to give in to his most base desires warring with his fierce love for you, his fragile and very much mortal mate.

Your pulse quickens and he flinches as it races beneath his fingers. It's frightening, titillating, knowing you're at the mercy of a killer, but there's no question in your mind—Kyojuro would never do anything to harm you.

His fingers loosen, just as you knew they would, and he moves to your breast, palming your soft flesh, teasing your nipple with the flat of his hand.

Kyojuro's touch glides down to your belly. "Do you know what you look like to me?"

"A snack?" you tease.

Your joke sails over his head—he didn't even hear you, he's so transfixed by the dip in your waist, the curve of your hip. "A goddess."

Again, coming from anyone else, a line like that would never work. But, lying beneath him, soaking up his tender, loving gaze, you blush—a fact Kyojuro doesn't miss. He responds immediately to the high color in your cheeks, erection tenting his pants.

Slipping your fingers beneath his waistband, you push it down, tugging his bottoms over the mound of his ass and his straining erection. Kyojuro kicks them off as he pushes your thighs apart, still gripping the sheet with his other hand.

For a brief moment, you each pause to admire the other—his twitching length and the leaking bulb of his head, your hips angled in offering and the sweet nectar almost dripping from between your legs. Then, as if in mutual abandon, you embrace each other.

Kyojuro slides forward, covering your body with his, cock nosing at your slit. You take him easily, stretching around him as he groans, burying himself to his base. You close your hands over his hips as he begins to thrust, rutting into you with smooth, rolling licks.

He presses his forehead to yours, "Feels so good…"

You hum in agreement, basking in the way he fills you up, his length reaching the deepest part of you, your walls stretching deliciously around his girth. You turn your head and Kyojuro buries his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brush over your wounds, a fluttering kiss followed by the drag of his tongue, slick with hungry saliva.

"Can I?" he asks, breath icy on your neck.

Biting your lip, you answer—reaching up, you tangle your hands in his hair, pulling his mouth against your throat. Kyojuro throbs inside you. Groaning, he snaps at your neck, teeth sinking into your flesh. You gasp and moan, warmth flooding your body.

Teeth and tongue working against your skin, Kyojuro's pace quickens. He drinks you up greedily, pulling long draughts from your neck, rutting with primal need. Closing your eyes, you hold him to you as your head begins to spin. You bring your knees up and wrap your legs around his waist, clinging to him.

A whine rises from Kyojuro's chest. He nuzzles your neck, making needy sounds, gulping you down. A swoon presses you back against the pillow. It's hypnotic—the rhythm of his hips, his cock dipping in and out, and his tongue on your bleeding throat. You can feel your climax building, your flush leaking out into Kyojuro's starving mouth. Fingers caught in his hair, thighs clutching his rolling hips, you cum, moaning against his temple.

Kyojuro thrusts through it, feeding your core as it clenches around him. His teeth sink deeper into your throat—the predator satisfying himself, taking everything you're offering. He bucks fast and deep, desperate, urgent. Growling, bite tightening, he thrusts to his base, cock spurting hot inside you.

Still holding you by the throat, he doesn't release you till he's spent his last drop. He eases his teeth from your neck, drawing a shiver from you as he laps once, twice, at your wounds.

Pushing himself onto his elbows, he looks down at you, smiling as he catches his breath. The predator has been sated, and the drape of the sheet over his head looks like a veil, the light shining through, a halo. A healthy flush colors his cheeks, the tracery of blue veins all but vanished from his skin.

You brush the hair from his eyes with trembling fingers. "That was some wake up call…"

Kyojuro's smile widens, "I'll get you something to eat."

You shake your head, "The curtains." His smile fades. "Don't worry about it. I'll eat something when I get up. Just come here."

Kyojuro shifts, stretching out beside you. He slides his arms around your waist, and pulls you close, tucking you under his chin. Pressed against his chest, you can hear his borrowed heartbeat gradually slow as he begins to drift off. You nestle against him, safe and sound in the arms of a killer, and go back to sleep.

[fics-by-noworriesifnot]

Chapter five: "Three's a Crowd."

post one of two. ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

From a window on the second story landing, Draco watched as Hermione greeted a familiar pair of guests at the manor gates. Dark clouds roiled overhead, threatening a downpour. Draco felt much the same.

The portraits glowered as they entered the manor.  “What’s your problem, ponce?” Ron Weasley glowered back at the portrait as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Hermione!” Harry greeted his friend excitedly. “We have amazing news!” He said, as Hermione gestured for them to come through to the sitting room. “Yeah!” Ron added “We passed the field exam! We start as Junior Aurors next week!” “That’s incredible news!” Hermione said, pulling them both into a tight hug. “Oh, I’m so proud of you both!” She said, her voice muffled from their jumpers. Harry and Ron took a seat on a settee as Hermione continued on into the kitchen to fetch tea. Now alone in the sitting room, Harry and Ron each looked around with trepidation. “This place gives me the creeps.” Ron said as he scratched anxiously at the back of his neck. “OOOOoooooooo.” A loud wail seemed to echo through the room causing them both to jump. Harry pulled out his wand and peered around, looking for the source of the noise. “What was that?” Ron croaked, as he glanced nervously at his friend. Harry didn’t respond as he continued to scan their surroundings, until he felt a sharp pull on his shirt front. “H-harry.” Ron said in a small, terrified voice. “Look!” Harry turned and gasped. “Merlin’s tits!” He exclaimed, jumping to his feet with Ron still hanging off him.

“s-s-s-SPIDERS!” Ron uttered, as thick ropes of spiders unspooled from every crevice. There was a slight groan, seemingly from the walls, and the spiders multiplied rapidly, scuttling towards them at an alarming pace. Harry and Ron sprung over the top of the settee, having felt like they’d dealt with their fair share of spiders in their life.

As they ran towards the manor gates, Harry turned to Ron “What about Hermione?” He said. “She’s a clever witch!” Ron replied in a shrill voice, his pace not slowing. “She can take care of herself!” And with that, they were gone. Hermione wandered back into the sitting room, now clear of spiders, with a tea tray held aloft. Looking down at it she mused aloud. “I’m excited to try this tea set, it’s so shiny I doubt it’s ever been-” She halted mid sentence as she raised her eyes to see the spectre of Draco Malfoy sat on the settee before her, Harry and Ron nowhere in sight. “-Used…” She finished her sentence and narrowed her eyes at him. “Sorry Granger.” Draco said. “I’m afraid tea goes right through me these days.” Hermione clenched a fist at her side. “What did you do?” She asked through gritted teeth.

“Over my dead body are Potter and Weasley taking tea at the manor.” He said, folding his arms defiantly over his chest like the petulant school boy from her childhood. “That was precisely my thinking.” Hermione clipped as she turned in a huff and strode out of the room.

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

Mirror, Mirror: Geto x Reader

cw: mirror sex, established relationship, dom!Suguru, spanking // wc: 2.3k // [ao3]

You waited, breathless with anticipation as Suguru lifted your mirror off the wall. “And what are you planning to do with that?” You wanted to sound teasing, self-assured, but he caught the tremble in your voice.

“You’ll see, angel.” He crossed the room and set the mirror down at the head of your bed. Tilted back against the wall, it reflected the questioning look you turned to him. Suguru grinned and brushed his lips against yours in a chaste kiss. “You know you’re the most beautiful person in the world, right?”

Before you could protest, he placed one long finger against your parted lips and pressed you back to face the mirror. “I thought you should see for yourself.”

You watched yourself nod, pink-cheeked and pliant in his gentle grasp. He nudged you onto all fours and settled himself behind you on his knees. Heat pooled at every point of contact between your bodies. The sharp planes of his bare chest loomed over your arched form, his midnight hair falling across his shoulders like spilled ink. 

Suguru tugged down your panties with a wicked grin into the mirror, meeting your eyes as they widened at the shock of cool air on your twitching cunt. He had been kissing you senseless for the last few minutes and you were already dripping for him- you would have been embarrassed if your head wasn’t swimming with want.

He had a way of unspooling the stuff of you- of dismantling and rebuilding you in his image. Or in this case, the image of the two of you reflected in the mirror, one desperate and the other delighting in it. “Look how perfect we are together my darling,” he purred. “You were made for me. Ready?”

You nodded, might’ve gasped a yes, but it was lost in a moan as he pushed one long finger into your tight heat. He curled his finger as he pulled back out, smeared your arousal across your lips, lingering on your aching clit. It felt wonderful, and wasn’t nearly enough. 

“Please, Sugu,” you whimpered, looking away from the sight of yourself begging. He was merciful, stretched you open on two fingers, gliding over the bud of your clit with practiced pressure. It made you dumb, mindless and eager for whatever he had planned, pushing yourself back against his hand.

He slid a hand under your chin and lifted your eyes back to your reflection. “So pretty,” he murmured. And you were, plush thighs folded onto themselves in twin curves where you held your weight on your calves and heels. Suguru’s hands were splayed across the small of your back and the swell of your ass. He squeezed just to revel in the way your flesh dimpled under his grip, the way he could mold you for himself.

“You want more?” He pumped his fingers into you with a lewd squelch and smirked. “Sure sounds like it.” Your cheeks burned as the shame ripened into pleasure.

“Yes, yes, please…” You trembled at the tightening of his fingers on your chin. 

“Want you to watch how good you look when you take me.” Suguru shoved down his trousers and swiped his flushed tip along your folds, collecting your wetness and the mewls that fell from your bitten lips. You watched the flex of his forearms as he fisted himself, spreading your arousal along his shaft in preparation for the first ruinous thrust. 

“Eyes on me,” he whispered into your neck. How could you disobey? You watched in helpless awe as he entered you, slow heat spreading from every steely inch that sunk into your cunt. He swore under his breath and it sounded like singing, pure and powerful.

Suguru moaned when he sheathed himself fully inside of you, the ivory column of his neck bared as his head fell back in bliss. You arched beneath him, chasing his hips as he pulled back slowly. He dragged you along with him as he backed off the bed, standing at the foot of it as he held you at the edge. From this position he had plenty of leverage to bounce you on his cock, your ass in the air as he pressed your torso down into the mattress.

You panted in time with his deep thrusts, shuddering at the smack of his balls against your stretched lips. You wanted to look down, to let your body go limp and sag in his hold, but he sensed your weakening and wound a tight fist into the hair at the base of your skull. He yanked you back up in a sting of pain, in time to see him hook two fingers in the corner of your slack mouth as it fell open. 

Instinct had you trying to suck on his fingers, and he obliged you with a lazy thrust to the back of your mouth, soft pressure on your tongue. He whispered praises as he folded over your spine, the new angle burning in the pit of your stomach. Sweat smeared across your back where he lay his weight on you, your bodies inseparable and glistening in the reflection. 

The twitch of his lips was all the signal you had before Suguru fastened his hand around your throat, firm enough to make you gasp but gentle enough that you felt no fear. He lifted you by the neck, your body held helpless against him, gravity sinking you further down his cock. You could hardly bear the angle, could do nothing but grind down uselessly against his hips. Suguru groaned into your ear, his heavy-lidded eyes locked on yours in the mirror as they rolled back.

You were lightheaded, from the smug, fucked-out look on his face as much as from the lack of air as you sunk impossibly deep on his cock. With a smirk, he shoved you back down on the bed. Suguru spanked you hard, moaning at the recoil of your cheek as it flamed in the shape of his broad hand.

“Did you see that baby? Lemme make sure you didn’t miss it.” You sunk your teeth into your lip as he smacked you again, but he had no patience for your attempt to keep quiet. Suguru leaned over you to squeeze your lips into a pout, forcing you to release every gasp and moan as he spanked you, timing it with brutal thrusts that shoved you up the bed, paired with torturously slow pulls out of you until just his tip sat tauntingly inside.

Pressure built in your core with each achingly slow drag against your walls, goosebumps rising against your spine where his ragged breath hit. The muscles in his shoulders and arms strained taut with the effort to hold himself up over you. He groped for your tits as they swung underneath you, used them as handles to balance the force of his rutting hips against your body. He was a contradiction: placing soft, adoring kisses to the back of your neck, your shoulders, your spine as he pinched and tugged cruelly at your nipples. The overstimulation of it had you crying out, pressing your shoulders down to try to relieve the pressure, shuddering under his whispered assurances that “you can take it, you’re doing so well, you can handle it”. 

When he let you go, the rush of blood and cool air back to your swollen nipples made your arms give out, falling into his hold again as he laughed. “Such a good girl for me,” he cooed. “I’m not being too rough on my toy, am I?” You groaned, a blush pouring from your cheeks to your abused tits. “You’re so fucking cute, my sweet little slut,” he gasped, tossing his head back again as he slammed into you harder. 

Suguru stayed like that, pulse ticking in his exposed throat, corded arms rock-steady as he thrust mercilessly into your dripping cunt, eyes closed and perfect lips parted in a sigh. He smirked at your debauched reflection before his sharp gaze fell to the place where he entered you, the sight of his cock disappearing into your puffy folds, swallowed up into your warm, wet hole like you were made for nothing more than taking what he had to give.

“Fuuuucckk,” he hissed, and you echoed him.

“Suguru, goddamn it,” you pleaded through clenched teeth. “I can’t, it’s too much…” 

“Yes you can.” He emphasized the point with a mean thrust, bottoming out in you, forcing your slick to gush over his length and paint his tight thighs. “I feel you getting wetter the nastier I am to this pretty cunt, angel.” He tapped a heavy palm on your clit, condescending and incandescent in the sunset that glowed through your curtains, threw an orange halo around his mirror-self.

It made you writhe, legs cramping at the way he had you folded beneath him. He saw the strain on your face and took pity, inching you up the bed by his grip on the plush fat of your hips. He stopped when your face was just before the mirror and laid his weight on your back, pushing you down flat with his shoulders slanted over yours, one hand pinning your wrists. You arched into the curve of his body, helpless to turn away from the sight of your red cheeks and spit-glossed lips.

Suguru was breathing hard, his jaw clenched as he concentrated on pumping into you with a rough and steady rhythm, but his eyes were soft and loving when they fell on you. You squeezed around him, an orgasm building in your gut, your moans shattering into pitchy whines that gave your need away. 

He bent over you and whispered honeyed praises against your skin, of your beauty, your desperation, the way he was losing his mind in the sucking warmth of your tight cunt. He gathered your hair in his fist again, made you face the mirror as he smiled over your shoulder, the slightest stubble from his close shave sharp against your cheek and shoulder. You both felt the way you softened in bliss, the way your walls spasmed and stretched for his long, slender cock. The hollow smack of your sweaty skin meeting echoed in the room.

He grew impatient, bottomed out, grinding his balls against your clit. You saw stars, scrabbled for purchase in the silky sheets as he used you like a cocksleeve. Your bodies rocked back and forth where you were joined and Suguru forced your neck back to capture your lips in a messy kiss. The taste of him was your undoing, and you came with a cry that he eagerly drank down, your limbs tensing and trembling in the aftershocks as he fucked you through your orgasm. 

“Good girl, such a good girl,” he laughed. “I’ve been treating this greedy pussy so well and a little kiss gets you to cum on my cock?” He kept up a steady stream of filth in your ear, his voice fading to a rasp as he chased his own high. It was too much, your cunt still twitching as he drilled into you mercilessly. You couldn’t hold yourself up anymore and this time he let you fall, shoved your head into the mattress as he used you. 

Suguru was massaging his cock with your walls at this point, rolling his sharp hips to hit a different spot each time, every stroke a new angle that made you scream into your pillows and tore ragged moans from the man above you. He grinned down lustily as you grimaced and squirmed, your face contorted in overwhelming pleasure. The reprieve of sprawling limp on the bed as he rode you was short-lived- Suguru wanted you to watch him watch you when he filled your womb with his cum.

You whimpered, tried to stay down, but he had no pity. “Ah ah, beautiful. Eyes on me. I want you to look at yourself when I fuck you dumb, when I cum inside this perfect body-” He lifted your head one more time, tears sparking in your eyes from his harsh hold on your hair. 

He sighed dreamily. “Look at you…” And you did. You had no other option. You watched as your lips trembled, eyebrows meeting over watery eyes as you scrunched up your face under his assault. You tried to squeeze your eyes shut, but he tapped your cheek and laughed again, low and dangerous. “I said watch.”

You forced your eyes open, fell into the violet-brown pools of his blown pupils, drowning and dizzy. He was graceless, for once in his life, spiraling toward his peak with uneven thrusts and broken gasps of your name. You reached a shaky hand back and tangled your fingers in his hair, returned the favor of his rough treatment with a sharp tug to his silky locks that made his mouth fall open. 

Suguru spilled into you, his body slumping over yours as his cock jumped in your depths, painting your bruised walls white with his thick cum. You smiled sleepily, letting his face fall against your neck as he came down and caught his breath. He always went boneless after fucking you, his cockiness simmering into a sweet, thankful glow at the tableau of your spent body beneath him, sweat-sticky and bright in afterglow.

The two of you made eye contact in the mirror and his smile settled along your ribcage, curled around your heart. “You were right,” you whispered. 

“Hmm? I mean of course I am, but. About what?”

“We do look perfect together.”