#my body unspooling

[beyondthespheres]

My Body Unspooling by Leo Fox, Silver Sprocket, 2024

[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

Part 2 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!

[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

[shouyuus]

broken rosary, cinnabar dreams

+18, mdni; bc @vifilms inspired me so hard with her insane drabble i had to restart my laptop and bang this out before the words left me for good; so this one's for u raybaebae !

tw: heavy religious imagery, body worship, blasphemy (lol), extremely mixed metaphors, just stream of consciousness at this point

you think that perhaps god made women because he'd looked at men and said i think can do better. but you're convinced that when god made vi, he'd turned to the nearest angel and said goddamn, i'm good.

and you would worship her like she was made to be worshiped, kiss every inch of her skin till her breaths start to sound like monastic prayers, mark her skin with your piety, offer up bloodied palms and bruising knees, press your forehead to the muscle of her thigh and anoint yourself in her essence. you would worship her, yes. and her fingers in your hair would be as the commandments were, an irrefutable intimacy, from your lips to god's ears (or simply the apex of her thighs -- it's been a long time since you've been able to tell the difference).

because you know she's your saving grace, every bead on your broken rosary, cracked ivory and cinnabar dreams, her lips like sin and her body like so much wretched salvation. you would damn yourself for her. for her.

you'd shake her open, swallow down every drop of her violent grace, hollow her out till she's full of nothing but light, fashion her pleasure into angel wings so beautiful the seraphs might start to call her annabel lee. you'd kiss her into a wild messiah, mortal flesh and divine fecundity, curl your apostle fingers until neither of you can wonder if heaven is indeed just a place on earth.

it's here, in the negative space between your body and hers.

and it has always been here, hasn't it? because there's always love and your bodies have been the making. because poetry is only ever the answer to the question of do you love me?

and truth will always rhyme with your voice saying -- please, please, please.

so she answers your prayers with her mouth wide open, her athena-eyes dark as a moon-rocked sea. from here, pressed against her chest, you swear you can almost hear the angel-wing thrum in her thundering heartbeat.

"o-oh -- oh god -- kiss me --"

you anchor yourself to her with a groan, heed her words with hungering lips and a reverent tongue. you kiss her like it's the only thing you'd been put on this earth to do right, as if you'd been given these lips solely for the sake of this. of kissing her.

of kissing her bloody, and kissing her sweet.

of tracing her into more solid lines even as she shakes close to shattering.

"baby, baby -- i'm close -- fuck -- please --"

you nod, tugging back just a fraction to watch the pleasure break across her face, savoring in the splendor, in the gut-deep reckoning.

"yeah? c'mon violet -- show me -- wanna see you cum for me --"

"a-ah -- hah -- fuck -- oh fuck --"

for this, you think, you'd break the world into war. for this, you remedy, you'd paint the world into peace.

you pluck the desire from her like an unraveling thread, unspooling it in gossamer strands, picking it apart till she's undone beneath you -- in all her gold-limned glory, her bright eyes darkened by love or lust, the ridges of her body a study in perseverance -- you remind yourself to take it slow.

because sure, belief is a steady thing, but faith -- faith is running a marathon with no knowledge of the finish line, only the promise of the wind as she whispers in your ear -- just a bit more, just a bit more...

you slow your pace as vi shudders around you; reality shakes loose around your shoulders and truth becomes nothing more than a bedtime story the hungry tell their children on the nights when there's not enough food to go around the table. you gorge yourself on the sight of her, on the leavening skin of her abdomen, rising and falling with her staccato breaths, on the warmth threading from between her legs, slick and sticky as you pull your fingers away.

"holy... shit --" vi breathes, looking down at you with a half-drawn breath. the room around you shimmers in refracted bits of lucidity and memory. you smile, slipping into the space next to her, curling your body into hers, leaning into her as a supplicant to her majesty.

she smiles, reaching out to caress your cheek. you press into her touch, sating yourself on the gentility.

"god... what did i do to deserve you," she asks, her voice corded and breathy.

you blink open your eyes, uncertain of her meaning.

her, deserving of you?

you shuffle forward till your nose is pressed into the junction of her neck, till she is every breath your lungs have the dignity to breathe.

"you're everything, vi," you say, and you hope she understands. you hope she can hear the utter reverence in your voice, the debasement to which you would allow yourself to sink just to convince her of this one, singular truth.

everything.

vi laughs, reaching out to pull you close.

she grazes a kiss by your temple and you try not to whimper.

"and you're everything to me, pretty girl," she says, murmuring the words into the crease between your brows. you tug back to catch the flash of something that looks almost like that self-same adoration in the flutter of her lashes, the darkness of her eyes.

you do not think she understands; you pray she does anyways.

"c'mon doll -- time for bed," she says, chuckling as she hauls you into her chest, littering your skin with a flurry of kisses. your bodies settle against each other as the ocean might a stretch of familiar shore. as raindrops might recognize the specific mirror of the sea -- your souls tied, your breaths sighing in tandem -- ah yes, this is where i'm meant to be.

you let sleep caress you with her silken fingers, let her paint your dreams in shades of violet and blue, let moonlit-silver and midnight-sin sink into your skin. you fall asleep in violet's arms.

you do not hear her say i love you, in a voice singed with holy flames. but you do feel her kiss you. and you think, even in your dreams, that her lips have always tasted like smoke.

[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.

[sterifels-blog]

Last night I had a thought about Simon but I'm not creative enough to come up with a good scenario, so I'll just skip ahead.

Imagine that Simon and Reader had a thing for 1 or 2 months but they never ended up dating, and then Simon disappears and doesn't respond to Reader's messages. A while later Johnny takes Simon and Kylie to spend the week at his house after a mission and there Simon discovers that Reader is Johnny's younger sister, and that the 1 year and 7 month old boy who is very attached to her is actually his son. As if Reader looks a lot like Johnny but her son is identical to Simon.

Feel free to ignore this 👀 Any language errors are Google Translate's fault. Either way I'll spend days thinking about this 🤸‍♀️

this is definitely not a prompt i'd usually cover, but i'll attempt it nonetheless. i had such a hard time trying to conceptualize what an appropriate reaction to this sort of situation would be, but there are so many different ways to validate a reaction. this is the best take i can offer you! ⤵️

A mess of things to fix.

Simon had never imagined that he would be standing in Johnny’s kitchen, staring at a child. A child that he couldn’t fathom, whose heartbeat was unmistakably his own, though he'd never had the chance to know him. The sticky summer heat of a mission’s aftermath still clung to him, sticking to his body in cloying sheets of sweat and travel-worn leather. Simon was a contradiction in flesh: battle-hardened, skin soaked in salt and iron, and yet standing awkwardly in the glow of the kitchen’s overhead light, as if someone had poured an entire century's worth of regret down his throat.

And there you were— you— who had once been just the woman who had made his bones hum beneath the skin. A weekend, a couple of months… something like that. Something forgotten by time, but carved into the ether between you both like graffiti in an alley only the broken remembered.

You were Johnny's younger sister. Johnny, the one who'd so effortlessly pulled him into this twisted little family. But now? Now everything was mangled and unspooled.

His son.

He tried not to blink too hard when he first saw the boy. You were holding him, cradling him in your arms. The little thing was bundled in too many blankets, chubby cheeks peeking from under his small beanie, his large eyes a mirror of someone Simon had never really been sure he wanted to meet. But there they were, those eyes—those identical, goddamn eyes.

Simon didn't remember this. He didn’t even remember the night. But here, in Johnny’s kitchen, surrounded by mugs and heavy laughter that seemed too far off to touch, everything started to settle in his chest like lead.

You didn’t know how to look at him either. There was the hesitation—splayed, unsaid—heavy between you both. The moment when his presence meant more than just the passing shadow of the past. The truth had settled and clung to your face like old makeup. You didn’t want him to see, but you knew. He knew. He knew because his blood had turned to ice, and in his veins, a cold panic spread.

You had a child. His child.

Johnny, ever the oblivious one, smiled as if he didn’t see the earthquake unfolding. “She looks just like me, right? Gave her my best traits. Don’t let her tell you otherwise.”

But it was clear, wasn’t it? Your son. He looked like him, even if the years had stolen what could have been.

“What’s his name?” Simon’s voice was gravel, rough with an unfamiliar edge. He felt nauseous with the knowledge. He couldn’t escape it. The knowledge of a past he’d left behind, unspoken, unresolved, and now here it was—too real to ignore. His son.

You swallowed thickly, keeping the boy close to your side. You told him the name, and Simon didn’t even register the syllables. The truth was louder than any name could be.

"Charlie."

Johnny clapped Simon on the back, misinterpreting the silence. “Oi, mate, just don’t look too long at her kid. He’s already on a first-name basis with trouble, trust me. I’ve seen the future, and it’s got a lot of broken windows in it.”

Simon forced a smile. A bitter curve of his lips. “..Right.” The awkwardness slithered around the table like some beast with too many eyes. Conversation flitted, fragile and half-formed, until dinner had ended and the quiet remained, stretching longer than it should have. The little boy yawned, and it was cemented in the moment it was time for bed. Simon barely heard the clinking of silverware, until Johnny was cooing a cheeky goodnight to his nephew- re-stating that his "favorite uncle" would be there to see him in the morning.

You stood, giving him no choice but to follow. The weight of the moment anchored his feet to the floor like gravity had decided it needed a joke at his expense. As you ascended the staircase with the boy in your arms, Simon’s boots followed behind in a trance. There was something haunting in the way you moved, like a shadow threading through space, one that should’ve been broken long before this— one that felt like a single thread was holding it together.

He hovered by the doorframe of the child’s room as you placed him gently into the crib. The boy squirmed for a moment, settling into the warmth of his sheets, but his little fingers gripped at your sleeve, unwilling to release. Simon watched, his throat tightening like an iron clasp.

You turned to look- and for the first time that night, you made eye contact. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. The weight of the silence between you both felt like it had grown too heavy, and there, in the doorway, he lingered, as if you had just invited the storm into the room.

You couldn’t escape it any longer— the elephant sitting in the room had too many sharp edges. The question hovered between you, thick and suffocating. He was trying to push it back, but it was there, in his eyes, tangled with guilt and regret. Until, finally, he broke the silence.

"..Love. Can I… can I see him?" Simon’s voice cracked the air, raw and desperate, as if he had the right to ask something like that after all this time.

The words felt like they had shattered the air between you. There was an edge to them—like a plea wrapped in anger. He was furious, but at what? Himself? You? The situation? The fact that he was asking this, now—it made everything too complicated, too impossible.

It made your blood boil. Made your chest tight with a heat you couldn't contain. How dare he? How could he stand there and ask, knowing nothing? Knowing how many nights you’d spent alone, how many times you had to bite back tears, pretending you weren’t breaking under the weight of it all? You didn’t even tell him. You couldn’t. You hadn’t. And now, after all this time, after all the silence, he had the gall to ask for what was his—when he hadn’t been there to help raise him.

Your hands balled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms, but you didn’t snap at him. You couldn’t. You didn’t know how to explain it— the hurt, the fury, the helplessness. He didn’t know. And you hadn’t given him the chance to.

You swallowed hard, biting your lip to keep your voice from shaking. "Yeah," you muttered, cold as ice, before stepping aside. The words stung like salt on an open wound, but they slipped from you, like a wave crashing over the rocks. You didn’t know if you could even trust yourself to speak. "Yeah.. Just— don't hurt him.."

Simon’s eyes softened— too late— and he stepped toward the crib slowly, uncertain, like the boy wasn’t his own flesh and blood. Like he had no right. But he was there. He was looking, and you couldn’t stop it.

You stood by the door, back against the frame, arms crossed, watching as he hesitated, before reaching down to lift Charlie, awkwardly at first, as if he were holding something breakable. It was almost a joke— the way Simon held him like he was a piece of glass, fragile and unworthy of the comfort the child had never known he needed from his father.

And then, like a dam breaking, Simon’s face crumpled, his shoulders shaking, and you saw it. The first tremor of realization, of loss, of guilt— flooding over him in waves too powerful to stop. His hands shook, the child still clutched tightly in his arms, and he cried. A tear slipped down his cheek, followed by another, each one a crack in the wall he’d built around himself, and your heart twisted.

The bitter taste of resentment clawed at your throat, but it was drowned out by the ache you’d been carrying for so long. For so, so long. Watching him finally hold Charlie— the son he’d never known— made something snap inside you, something raw and real. And though you were furious— though a part of you wanted to hate him, to blame him for everything that had been missing, you couldn’t. Not entirely.

The tears fell freely now, down his stubbled chin, mixing with the slow, shuddering breath that escaped his lips. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t even apologize in the right way, but you saw the regret in his eyes, and it twisted the knife a little deeper. He was sorry— more than he could ever express— but it was too late.

"You should’ve been here," you whispered, but Simon couldn’t hear you. He was lost in the weight of it all, too consumed by the moment, holding onto your son like he was the only thing left to hold onto in this shattered mess. He didn’t know how to fix it. Neither did you.

But you couldn’t take him back. Not like this. Not now.

And so, you let him hold him. And Simon wept.

[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)

[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.

[fear-is-truth]

okay hear me out. a fic where kit is rough. i know he’s usually a softie but he has to take his anger out on something right. and i know that boy is angry.

mature content; MDNI 18+

jackie’s note: ah yes. being railed by your husband, housewife style over the counter

you know it the second your husband steps through the door. you don’t even get a chance to ask what happened. he’s on you before you can speak—grabbing your wrist, yanking you in, spinning you around until your chest is flush against the table. his hands are rough, calloused, his grip bruising as he shoves your hips back against his.

he’s already hard. already straining against his jeans.

“kit—”

“shut up,” he breathes, pressing his forehead between your shoulder blades, voice tight. “just—shut up. need this.”

need you.

his hands push under your shirt, dragging over your ribs, squeezing at your waist before yanking your skirt down in one rough motion. he doesn’t waste time, doesn’t prep you like he usually does—just spits on his fingers, slicks himself up, and pushes in all at once.

it knocks the breath out of you. makes you whimper, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto.

he’s rough. mean, even. his thrusts are deep, punishing, hips snapping into yours hard enough to bruise.

“fuckin’—shit,” he grits out, panting against your skin. “just had to deal with the biggest goddamn asshole. some dumbfuck at the station—” his hand slides up, wraps around the front of your throat, tilts your head back so his lips brush your ear. “—but it’s fine, yeah? ‘cause i got you. always got you, don’t i?”

you can’t even speak. just nod, gasping when his teeth scrape against your neck. he fucks all the anger out of his system, drains every last bit of frustration into you. only slows down when he’s close, when his hips start to stutter and he presses in deep, cursing under his breath as he spills inside you.

kit stays like that for a second. hands still gripping you tight. chest heaving against your back.

and then, finally, the tension unspools from his body. his hands go soft, smoothing over your skin, tracing over the marks he left.

“shit,” he murmurs. “m’sorry, sweetheart. didn’t mean to—” you turn around, breathless, eyes lidded. he looks at you like he doesn’t deserve you. like he doesn’t know why you’re still letting him touch you.

but you just smile, reaching up to brush his damp hair back.

“feel better?”

his lips twitch. just barely. and then he sighs, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“yeah. now let’s get you cleaned up”

 fear-is-truth 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[ehlnofay]

Martin thinks that he always kind of knew he was going to die today.

But by Akatosh, he didn’t think it would be like this – like Kvatch all over again, Kvatch folded in on itself, the streets overrun with monsters triple-time as thick, all metal and sulphur and blood. They were supposed to make it in time. He was supposed to light the fires. He was supposed to be crowned, and let some new, less visceral kind of horror begin – they were supposed to make it through – they were supposed – they supposed – but the streets are shaking with Dagon’s footfalls, and Martin can’t take a step without kicking a corpse, and the Hero of Kvatch is heavy-too-heavy against his shoulder, and it was always going to be like this. It never could have ended any other way.

He can feel prayer bubbling up from his scraped-raw throat, bitter as bile, held behind his teeth. O Akatosh, first of the gods, steady my hand… He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t mouth it. Tries not to think it, though it’s a rhythm born of years of habit, once a comfort, now just – empty. But it unspools in his head all the same. Pax is leaned heavy against his shoulder, one arm hooked loosely around his, hand pressed against the sticky-dark spot on their armour; they’re short, but they’re not light, and Martin’s arms burn as he tries to hold them up. The sky flares red. His eyes sting with smoke. Grant me the strength to endure. Onward, onward, onward.

Pax’s feet skitter uselessly against the blood-slick cobble. Martin almost trips over a leg, its silver-polished greave shining in the hellish light. The rest of the body is not there. He can taste smoke. He can taste bile. He can see the stained glass, the altars, the prayerbooks, his throat flayed raw begging for a salvation that would never be granted; this is not Kvatch, this is not Kvatch, but the sky burns and the streets are filthy with bodies and there is too much noise to talk, and Pax is damn near dead weight against his side, still holding out their blunt little excuse for a sword. Martin drags her on through the street. Just to the temple doors – just to the temple doors – the side of her head presses fierce against his ear. Martin’s knuckles are white with effort. There is blood on his fine silken robes.

Again, the streets shake; Pax staggers at his side. Akatosh, protect us. Martin doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the red-stained sky blurring against body – he can already see the cobbles cracked under the weight of feet too massive for his mind to make sense of it, a body – man or monster, he doesn’t know – crushed beneath the heel. Pax is gesturing at the colossus’ ankle with their sword as if they could possibly do anything at all. They’re bleeding.

“Come on,” Martin says, shallow and jagged; it stings to speak, and there’s so little point, his ears so filled with the clashing of metal and horrible, inhuman screams that there’s not room for anything else. His grip tightens around Pax’s shoulders. Her face is set, stubborn and pale – and she’s so stupidly young – and Martin –

There is an emotion so large it threatens to split him at the seams, and they don’t have time for that, so Martin runs. Staggers past the barely sketched-out shape of the devil menacing the skies, child hero in tow; every breath stinks of fear and ash. His throat prickles. If he doubles over with coughing, Pax will fall, there, onto bloody cobblestone, with their toothpick of a blade and their empty quiver, their sharp-spined bow slung carelessly over their shoulder, pearl-grey gambeson slowly darkening with blood, so Martin doesn’t cough. Blessed are we, the faithful…

They don’t fall, and they aren’t crushed, darting around the earth Dagon stands upon, slow and sluggard and so astonishingly lucky, and Martin gasps, and he does not cough, and Pax kicks at a scamp that gets too close and waves the sword at it just enough to slice a shallow cut down its scrabbly little arm. Martin’s so focused on holding them up that he can’t even cast. It isn’t even the one prayer running inescapable through his head – it’s a mess of them, all twisted and torn to pieces, shreds of one, half a sentence of another. He nearly trips over on the stairs. In the crowd, armour flashes, bright as steel and thoroughly outnumbered. He should pray for the Blades, too; he would, if he thought it would do anything. But it didn’t, last time. And this time, he has something better up his sleeve than prayer.

“Almost there,” he says through the din, and Pax keeps their sword arm raised even though they don’t know how to use the bloody thing, and there’s blood on their Kvatch gambeson, and there’s blood on Martin’s regal robes. (It was going to be him – that dremora’s blade whip-thin and wicked and dark as soot, jabbed thin as a sewing needle through the slippery-soft fabric, hooked under his ribs or pierced through the soft meat of his gut. Pax, empty-quivered, still drawing his sword, angled his own body to intercept; caught it in the thick pillow of his armour, in his own skin. Martin spat a spell from his fingers that sent the thing crashing to the ground and grabbed Pax well before they began to follow.) The earth shakes, again, and Martin’s shin hits the edge of the next step. He can’t hear anything over it all, but he sees Pax suck in a breath, sharp and pained. She takes another step. He follows.

When they reach the dark-stone door, someone screams, high and terrible, and there is no time to stand on ceremony; Martin throws himself at it, shoving it with all his weight behind his shoulder, and together, they stumble inside the temple, ash blowing in behind them to scatter itself on the sacred, stagnant floors.

The door swings closed again; the sound is swallowed up, faint and muffled. Martin can hear them both breathing, ragged, loud. Pax hasn’t lowered their sword. It looks even more dull, here, contrasted against the stonework. They’re so quiet. He hates that he’s learned how they act when they’re in pain.

(It’s holy ground. It won’t be enough – it barely was in Kvatch, it’s nowhere near it now – but it’s not nothing. There’s blood spilling over the tile.)

Martin sucks in a desperate, dragging breath. He doesn’t let go of them.

There’s not much light in the Temple, but it’s enough; it’s clear of smoke and that all that burning reddish tint, outside, and now that Martin has a moment to look them in the face Pax looks awful. His skin is ash-pale and slick with sweat, fringe sticking to his forehead, brow creased as if with concentrated effort and jaw taut. Every breath rattles in his chest and whistles out between his teeth. One palm sticks to the place in her side where her armour is dark and sodden; Martin is afraid to peel it away. It can’t be a wide wound, the cut not even enough to tear more of the gambeson than is covered by her hand, but shit it’s a lot of blood. It’s so much blood. He was never an especially good healer and he can’t even begin to accurately estimate it but it’s too much; it’s entirely too much. And it was because she was protecting him. It’s enough to make a man sick; but there’s no time, so Martin isn’t.

It's so much blood. Pax’s eyes are unfocused, drifting somewhere over his shoulder. His face is so clammy and so young – by the Nine, he’s a child. He’s a child and a hero and Martin’s friend and he’s bleeding out on the Temple floors. Martin hates himself, a bit, for going along with any of this in the first place, for letting them send a fifteen year old child out to risk killing themselves, only to get them here – this place, bleeding out onto sacred marble, where they always would’ve ended up anyway. All roads lead to this.

Inevitability. It’s an idea that showed up often in the sermons Martin used to help give. The Amulet is blood-warm and heavy round his neck.

“Pax,” Martin says; one arm is threaded under her armpits, and he lifts the other to press gently to her cheek. Just under her eye there’s a dark spot of ash; he swipes it off with his thumb, watches the slow, sticky blink she gives in response. “Hey. Are you with me?”

“Always,” she mumbles; her voice is sludgy, like it’s caught in treacle, but the word comes without delay – like it’s instinct, like there’s nowhere else she’s ever imagined being, and doesn’t that just make a man want, a bit, to throw himself off a cliff. (She’s gone to hell, on his word, who knows how many times over; Martin doesn’t need her half-dying drive to affirm her loyalty to him. He knows. He knows. He thinks he might be sick.) She blinks again, and then her eyes sharpen; she throws a tired look over her shoulder at the cool stone of the door, the world beyond muted, as if this moment occurs on its own; like they’re flies, frozen in amber. She says, “It won’t keep them out forever.”

Holy ground was barely enough in Kvatch; it will be barely anything here.

Martin’s arm is aching. He’s not that strong. “Long enough,” he says, with far more brusque certainty than he feels, and he casts a glance over the smooth marble floors, the well-wrought stonework of each plinth and pillar. “Come on. Sit down.”

Arms burning, he helps them to the side of the room, leans them against the leverage of the smooth white wall; still, they don’t sit, and Martin has to help lower them down. Pax grunts like a shot animal as he slowly sinks down to the ground, Martin’s hands still bruising tight on his shoulders, sword slipping from his sweaty grasp to clatter on the floor. His bow, slung over his shoulder, presses awkward against the wall; his empty quiver lies at his hip, useless. His hand is still pressed to the stain on his gambeson.

Martin watches him breathe out through gritted teeth, his tongue pressed ragged against the gap behind his lower canine. His head tips back against the wall. His gambeson, blood-spattered, barely protective, is tied with a row of neat leather cords; Martin reaches for one intricate knot and begins to tug on the ends.

Maybe it’s because he’s a bit frantic, that he just can’t get it to untangle – maybe it’s that the whole world is ending outside the door and they have a minute to stop it, if they’re lucky. Maybe it’s that Pax’s head is lolling, a little. Maybe it’s that it’s all on his head – has been on his head since any of it began, since he knew any of it at all, and now another city is falling, and he can still smell smoke, and he has a minute, if he’s lucky. He feels like they should have more time. He needs to undo the gambeson. He needs to make sure they’ll be all right. Martin was always going to die today – he feels it, settled comfortable and hazy over him, an unerring certainty in the very marrow of his bones, a knowledge passed down from the man they call his father – but Pax sure as shit isn’t. Not if he has anything to say about it, which he does, because it’s been on his head since the beginning and he’ll shoulder it all but he won’t bear this. His fingers scrabble, desperate, at the ties; every moment he waits is a murder, but leaving them here would be murder, too, and Martin won’t have that blood on his hands. And the knots won’t just come easy. He’s lost so much time and he hasn’t even gotten half.

Pax is looking at him, her eyes blood-dark. “You’re not going to get it,” she says, and her voice slurs, a little, in her mouth; pain or blood loss or shock, almost definitely, but Martin was never a particularly skilled healer and the magic he spent to get them through that horrible crush outside has left him too tapped to be able to probe. “They’re tied too tight.”

Martin can hear the ringing of metal outside. The earth is still shaking.

“Fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the vowel, and turns to rifle through their quiver. He hears them exhale, long and shaky, as he searches.

They don’t even have any fucking potions – he’d take anything, at this point, anything at all, he’d take the foulest cheapest draught as long as it would slow the bleeding, or even just a bandage, but there’s no bottles or flasks and no loose cloth. There’s one salve, pale and sticky in a purple-stained pot, but that can’t be used without access to the skin and probably can’t be good in an open wound in any case. There isn’t anything. There isn’t anything at all. Time is slithering away between his fingers. There are broken bits of prayer sticking like glass shards under his tongue, again. He doesn’t want to say any of it; it sticks in his throat, anyway. Lord Akatosh, sacred dragon, walk ever with me; under your gaze I will not fall short. Pax is looking at him, brow creased, face the very picture of dedicated focus; their hair, done in a long, simple braid back when they were just supposed to be speaking to the Council, has come half-loose, looping strands hanging about their face and trailing over their eye. Martin lifts a hand – notes, with detached interest, that it is shaking – and brushes it out of the way.

“I’m sorry,” he says – and he is, by the Nine, it settles with all the rest of the guilt in his gut, all to be burned soon enough – “there’s not time for me to heal you properly. How are you feeling? Are you all right?” Their skin is still clammy to the touch, sweat-damp wherever he touches; their eyes are more focused now but still screwed up with pain.

Pax gives a short puff of air. It’s not a laugh, not in his state, but it’s not all that far off; his voice is gravel-rough. “Got stabbed, Martin Priest. ‘S not great.”

Stabbed in the gut, while protecting him – bleeding all over the sanctified floors, the grout will never recover, and why is he thinking about that when the blade could have caught an organ and Martin would never know because he’s never been that good a healer. The ground is shaking again. They’ve been in here a minute, maybe, and he already feels like they’re stealing time. The seconds are slipping away quickly. He’s digging his fingers fiercely into the cloth of Pax’s shoulder; if he doesn’t hold onto her somehow he thinks he might fall down.

(He’s glad she’s here, and he hates himself for being glad. She’s bleeding. It should be his blood.)

His face must be doing something truly impressive, because Pax cracks a grin, wide and crooked and sticky-mouthed. “Calm down,” she says, the words thick as treacle in her mouth, “I got at least ten more minutes in me. What’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Martin echoes. That statement is nowhere near as reassuring as she seems to mean it to be; he shakes his head. Looks back at the doorway, still closed – noise of battle still raging, earth still trembling, but none of it imminent, probably, not within the next three seconds – and surges forward to wrap their shoulders in a fierce hug, careful to keep away from their abdomen, his cheek pressed against their hair. They smell of sweat and smoke and blood; he takes a deep breath, anyway. “I’ll do the rest, Pax, just – rest.” His voice cracks, again. “Be okay.”

(There’s more prayer pressed into those two words than in anything else he’s thought today.)

Pax reaches a hand up to pat his sleeve; her head, still, is resting against the stone, the set of her shoulders a little tauter, a little more alert. “I can still help,” she insists. The sword – blunt little instrument that it is – lies on the floor, tacky with monstrous blood; she doesn’t even try to reach for it. The bow slung over her shoulder is jabbing him in the collarbones. Martin pulls back enough to shake his head.

“No,” he says; because they can’t. The rest is for him and him only, so no-one else has to get hurt. Pax got him this far – got him out of the wreckage of Kvatch – got him out of the stagnant mire in his head – got a blade in the gut, for their trouble, and even if Martin had anything else to ask of them he couldn’t ask for more.

Pax glowers, at that, the crease reappearing between his brows; Martin could laugh, if it was another day, if they had another moment. He presses his face to the top of Pax’s head, instead, nose dug sharply into his hair; and he breathes, and he breathes, and he breathes.

He’s not an orator, but the way Pax talks they seem to think he’s accustomed to giving grand speeches; he’s certainly had enough practice lately. His breath shudders. He dredges up what words he can. They’ve been in the Temple a minute already; he doesn’t think they can ask another.

“I,” he says, and breathes; “I cannot stay to help rebuild Tamriel – that must fall to others.” He couldn’t have been Emperor, not ever – he’s never been able to fix things, not on this scale. The weight of the Empire would have run him into the ground. He would have hated it. It would have killed him. (Didn’t it?)

Pax’s hand skims the fine cloth at his elbow again. Voice slow, they say, “What –”

“I know now what I was born to do,” Martin says, and he tries to smile. He doesn’t know if they can feel it. His hands clasp the sides of their face; their hair is tickling his nose. They feel cool to the touch, dead-fish clammy; but it will be all right, because once it’s all over the healers will come in, better at flesh-craft than Martin’s ever been, and they’ll fix it. They’ll fix it all. And the Blades are here, however little Pax usually chooses to engage with them, so he won’t be alone. And the Elder Council, the whole Empire, will owe him a debt of such gratitude – he won’t be alone, again. He’ll have options. He’ll miss him – but he’ll live. And Martin will, for once in his sorry life, have actually fixed something.

His friend’s hair smells like smoke. Their skin is shining with sweat and grime. “You’ve been such a good friend in the short time that I’ve known you,” he says, and he’s smiling, he knows it, a melancholy thing pressed into their hairline. His voice is shaking, just a little. “I’m sorry I couldn’t – I couldn’t stay to know you better.”

“Martin,” Pax says, and he pulls back. Their face is creased, ash and blood smeared over their cheekbone. Suspicion lines the tilt of their brow.

Martin smiles, still. His palms, rough and dry, cradle her face. “But now I must go,” he says, gentle; “The Dragon waits.”

And Martin, for one, is done waiting.

He pushes what magic he has left into his hands, sunshine-bright; Martin is no great healer, particularly not when his reserves are tapped, particularly not when he can’t even see the wound, but he can at least soften the edge, dampen the overwhelming pull of the pain. His hands sting with the effort, his head spins, the ground shakes; and one of those has nothing to do with expending himself. Right on time, it seems; the Amulet of Kings hangs warm and heavy around his neck.

Martin stands, though his legs shake; stumbles a step backwards; turns to face the dais in the middle of the room, the shallow marble dish of it lying cold, the pillars around it as stark and foreboding as the bars of any cage. He runs.

“Martin!” he hears behind him, because Pax is Pax and of course they won’t let him go easy; the earth shakes, anticipation winding up into a wiry coil in his gut. The Amulet is hot enough to burn, bright as the sun – he heaves himself up onto the raised platform, reaches to unloop it from around his neck –

The ceiling caves in, and Martin throws an arm over his eyes, closing them against the implosion of dust and grit, scraping in a breath thick enough to choke. His ears are ringing. He manages to squint up, catches a glimpse of a massive fist swiping the rubble away from the hole, the glint of a battle-axe, a silhouette against the burning red sky, roiling and howling like a column of storm. Martin can’t even make out a face, but he knows, somewhere deep and solid, that it’s looking at him. He meets its gaze, the Amulet raised high in his hand.

All prayer has deserted him, now, all the rote lines and careful patterns he leant on for so long slipping away from his fingertips as if they were never there at all. All he has is please, weighty, guttural, and he thinks it might mean more than any of the rest of it. Please. Please. You owe me this. The Amulet of Kings burns in his hand.

“Martin!” he hears again, hoarse and desperate; he looks. Just once. Pax has dragged himself across the dust-coated floors, bow and quiver abandoned somewhere behind him; his face is covered in dirt, hair come half-loose, eyes stubborn and fierce and wild. He feels his eyes crease, the lightest echo of a smile. He’ll miss them, wherever he goes next. Pax screams, “Don’t!”

Martin Septim was always going to die today. It is, perhaps, one of the first things he’s ever done right.

Martin smashes the Amulet of Kings on the cold marble dais, and the world erupts in gold.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

I was haunted (blessed) by very specific imagery a few nights ago out of nowhere and could not put my finger on the way I wished to describe it but I just stumbled upon this meme: https://x.com/xyzbud/status/1571930302255169536?s=46&t=_O0OAeJ0BLHlTS3EmWLaTA

And it all made sense. It’s that first image, Price face deep in Nik’s chest, grumbling about whatever the sourpuss grumbles about, and then Simon slots in behind him—chest pressing behind him on an equal level, silencing him immediately.

Walk with me. GhostPriceNik chest sandwich.

I think this is a fantastic image.

Nik has all that fur on his chest and he smells so good, so Price buries his face away, but he's grumbling something about an upcoming medical that he doesn't want to go to, and his back hurts, and his computer bluescreened away a report he had been working on, and three rookies dropped out today, and--

Simon had been clambering over the top and he takes the opportunity to just slump down. His weight feels so good, and he's naked, so his cock has nestled right between Price's cheeks. Those big arms wrap around Nik too, and there's a GhostNik kiss over Price's shoulder as he's murring with pleasure. Not quite a purr, but a Price-type vibration of full body unspooling.

But the second image is also delicious. Once Price has had his soul crushed back into his body for a bit, Simon decides he'd like to a nice, slow fuck, but he's gotta work his captain open first. So, he wriggles down until his knees slide off the bed and Nik, who by this point can predict Simon's next move, knees Price's thighs open so Simon can go to absolute town on their shared grumpy lover's sensitive arse.

It doesn't take long for grumbles to become moans to become gasps and pleas. Much better Price noises.

[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.)

[queerliblib]

Hello beloved QLL people!

Do y’all happen to have a list of books written by men of transgender and/or transsexual experience ? Or know where I might find one? I saw the trans* list in the library and will comb through that but thought I’d ask here as well just in case!

Thank you for your hard and remarkable work!!

hello! that list is a really great place to start, but of course it’s not exhaustive. in addition to titles in that list, a few more we’ve got are:

Leo Fox’s Boy Island & My Body Unspooling

To Be A Trans Man by Ezra Woodger

Vantage Points: on media as trans memoir by Chase Joynt

Normal Life by Dean Spade