#plus it's not wrong

[baileylockheart]

Stuck.

Honestly, the more I think about it, the more I feel like I'm in a weird spot. I wish that I wanted to fall in love, but I don’t truly want that. I mean, it's still the fastest way to verbalize it, but what I think I really want is just... Emotional closeness and physical but non-sexual touch. I don't want to be in a romantic relationship with someone. I want deep trust and communication and understanding without guilt or anxiety or fear of being abandoned, and I struggle to picture any of those things in a romantic way. But I've never really been close enough to my friends to see it platonically either, so I'm just stuck.

I feel the want to want someone, and I feel it strongly, but it's more like wanting a piece of a stranger’s soul and hoping they'll take mine, because I know full well I can't imagine anyone in my life that way, and I can't imagine myself being physically near anyone without feeling uncomfortable. It makes me sick to even try to picture myself in love, especially since I realized that I have never once loved a person (in that way). When I think about what I want, I can’t imagine any one person, so all I end up wanting is a stranger who, for all intents and purposes, doesn’t exist. I don’t want a perfect person by any means, that’s not what I mean when I say this. Rather, even if this person does exist, I don’t know them yet, but already knowing them is a vital part of how I picture them.

I call myself aego-demiromantic because it joins a truth and a hope. I mean, if I’m being honest, I’m probably just aego with a dash of cupio, but I'll deny it as long as I can. The truth, aego, is that I can't picture myself in anything romantic, and any attempts to make me uncomfortable, but looking at fiction and using OCs is easy. The hope, demi, is that the reason I don’t feel romantically pulled to anyone is because I haven’t met them yet, but I'll eventually meet someone and make friends with them. Actual, close friends, who are there for each other and aren’t afraid to talk to or even annoy each other. And after that, then maybe, just maybe, I might get a chance at really loving someone in the way that people mean when they say the word “love”. And maybe that's the point. I don't want to fall in love, but I want to love someone. I want someone to mean enough to me that I'm willing to actually let them see me. I want to be able to care about someone enough that I trust them to stay. I want to feel loved and fulfilled because they're in my life - not because they check boxes or because they carry out tasks, but because their presence in my life really means something.

The problem with that is, people who want to date? They want to date. From what I can see, especially in early stages, there is no hanging out at each other's houses and playing video games, there is no sitting in comfortable silence and knowing it's okay not to talk, there is no taking turns rambling about the things you’re passionate about, there is no getting to just exist together and feel good because you add to each other's lives intrinsically. People want outings, active social interaction, maybe something to brag about. And sure. Outings can be nice. But even then, from what I've observed, people aren't looking for a trip to an amusement park where you take turns picking out what to do and enjoy every minute, or going to Dave & Buster's and playing all the games as many times as you can manage, or hanging out at an empty playground while you blast music and pretend to know the names of the stars you're gazing at. No, people want an expensive dinner that you have to dress up for, maybe sex, and then a kiss goodnight as you walk away from each other because the interaction is now complete. A good morning text would be appreciated, but while no one wants to listen to long-winded rambles, everyone will be mad if you don’t text first.

I know that I’m oversimplifying this in a terrible sort of way - I’m framing romantic relationships extremely negatively, and even if I wasn’t, queerplatonic relationships exist. But the problem is that I don’t think that covers it for me. A non-romantic relationship that has a stronger bond than the best of friends? I would do anything for that, don’t get me wrong. I want that. But the non-romantic part doesn't always sit right with me. I think I want to love someone romantically - but I know that the obsessive nature of new romantic love, how quickly romantic relationships crumble, how deeply it seems to tie in with sex, the way people tie their entire identities to their romantic partner, and the way that it’s so easily exploited by everyone from said partner to their families to even the government, that I’d never be able to maintain it. I want to love someone romantically, but I can’t bear the thought of it because of all the strings that are attached to it.

Still, that seems simple enough, yes? “I want to love someone romantically, but I can’t bear the thought of it because of all the strings that are attached to it.” And yet, if you asked me five months ago, I would’ve gagged at the thought.

For as long as I can remember, I have had “crushes” from time to time, and by “crushes”, I mean hyperfixations on how people present themselves, but no deeper interest in any part of them that didn’t fit that image. Once I became aware of this, I realized that I’d never actually been romantically interested in a person before, I just didn’t know how else I could surround myself with my hyperfixation. The more I looked at love and relationships, the more I realized that I would absolutely hate being in one. The more love songs I listened to to try to counteract this, the more I felt like romantic love was damaging because clearly, if people feel this strongly, they must be so reliant on their partner that they can’t imagine existing as an individual. The general sentiment was, “why would I subject myself to this sort of mental anguish on purpose?” I couldn’t figure out why people would want to flood their brains with stress hormones and lose rational thought for someone who wouldn’t even treat them well. In my head, the relationships that worked out with all parties happy were a severe minority. Of course, if those involved were happy, I’d be ecstatic for them - it just wasn’t something I typically imagined happening. As much as I thought it was fun to pair up fictional characters, as much as I had reformed my ability to enjoy love songs, and as much I supported those around me who were happy in their relationships, I was genuinely disgusted by the idea of falling in love for myself.

That is, until about five months ago, when an argument with a parent led to the simple idea that I can’t express my thoughts on something that I haven’t experienced. That led to probably the most emotional week of my life, and the general consensus was that I’ll never be able to understand love or heartache unless I go through them firsthand. I hated that intensely. What do you mean? Are you trying to tell me I can’t empathize with my friend who’s trying to recover from a breakup? Are you saying I can’t get chills when I see someone tear up while singing about wanting to be in love again? How does that work?

Ever since then, I’ve been constantly in this loop of wanting to love someone more than anything but not wanting to touch romance in its current state with a ten foot pole. I wish it was as simple as “I want to love someone romantically, but I can’t bear the thought of it because of all the strings that are attached to it”, but the truth is that I can’t even tell if this yearning for the ability to yearn is really me, or just a fabrication borne out of spite. It hurts enough that I think it’s real, but I have no solid way to check. Do I want to want to fall in love, or am I pretending in an attempt to understand the world? I can’t tell, and that scares me.

If a stranger asked me if I want to fall in love someday and framed it as a yes or no question, I’d probably say yes. It’s the easy answer to cling to because it feels so much better and so right in comparison to just saying no, and it would also be far easier to deflect judgement that way. It seems like the default answer, right? And yet, I don’t think it’s true. I want to care about someone. I want to be close to someone. I want to love someone. Somehow, despite all of that, I feel like it would be disingenuous to claim that it’s because I want to fall in love, and even more so if I say it's because I have a lot of love to give. I have the capacity for it, I have to believe I do, but the amount of love sitting there and waiting for someone to find it is shallow at best because I don’t even know if it’s meant for a person or an idea that I made up to make myself feel better. Still, I think that how I phrased it in an old Threads comment actually explained it far more succinctly than this entire explanation of said comment ever could’ve.

“I wish I wanted to fall in love because as much as it would hurt, everything would make so much more sense that way”.

[clearlydusty]

Made some happy mouthwashing fanart, all credit for the images go to @joetastic2739, thank you joetastic for feeding me and everyone else in the MW community <3

Also click for much better quality cuz this looks TRASH now that I’m seeing it again

(close ups and links to joetastics posts below !! )

Anya Steam awards , Anya admiring herself

Daisuke's Daisuke Dance , Daisuke as Yosuke

[noodles-and-tea]

I might colour this later

[rogueshadeaux]

“I hate the script, the vault dwellers sound so cheesy—“ my Brother in Steel you realize that’s the point, right? They were bred to act like the physical embodiment of an HR e-mail. Did you not catch the memo that Vault-Tec put out regarding their experiment facilities?

[princema-k]

arent u tired of being of being nice..... dont u wanna go Apeshitt

(quote in no.3 courtesy of tearay1073's comment on this vid)

[lxvvie]

fuck nasty!Ghost who shows you how much he misses you.

You were out running errands, leaving Simon, home from his latest deployment, to his own devices. All was going well—so you thought—until you heard the telltale ping of your phone and saw that he had texted you.

Simon probably needed you to pick something up for him on the way home. Mm. Doable. You opened the text under that innocent assumption.

And you know what they say about making assumptions.

Because right there in front of your very eyes was a picture of underwear. Your underwear. Your favorite pair of underwear. Your favorite pair of underwear you'd been searching for while you were getting dressed this morning.

They were covered in cum. Simon's cum.

You receive another text not even a second later: Miss you, sweetheart.

It was a miracle you didn't drop your phone.

[st4r-t3ars]

[livecrow]

Gundog!Soap's errand gets derailed when he catches your scent.

A retriever "retrieves" a plump bird.

Shifter/Hybrid Dark!Soap x fat reader

(cw: kidnapping)

Soap’s popping down to the shops.

He just needs to pick up an ingredient for dinner last minute. Ghost isn’t home yet, so he’s off the lead. Unsupervised. Normally, they’d get the messages together, but he only needs one thing. He could manage it. It wouldn’t be more than a wink.

But as he mills about, he can’t help feeling off.

Like he really is a dumb dog wandering around without his owner, his lead might as well be dragging on the floor behind him, collecting lint and stray bread ties—

It’s turning into one of those days where he feels far more mutt than man. 

Without Ghost’s firm hand grounding him, the place is a cacophony of input. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many colors, too much movement—all melding together into a murky emulsion of stimulus under the glaring LEDs. 

He squints down the vast row of isles for longer than he’ll admit.

Eeigit.

He should have written a note.

Thought he could have remembered one bleedy thing. You dinnae need a list for one thing—

Feeling frustrated and dafty, he resigns himself to traipsing down each aisle and hoping something jogs his memory. Pride wouldn’t let him call up Lt. He’d never hear the end of it. He’s a birddog for chrissake, proper braw at findin’ things—when he knows what he’s fuckin’ looking for. 

Least he can skip the sundries. He knows that much. Soap’s more than happy to avoid the detergent aisle. Stuff is bowfin. Stings his nose, makes his heid ache.

Lot of good his heid was anyway, feeling fuzzy, like it was packed with cotton. Might as well be. Nothin’ else between his ears. Certainly not the one fuckin' thing he pulled on his gutties and left the house for—

He let's loose an irritated huff and it's probably a bit too close to a growl than is wise.

Soap's trying to make good time, but he's a solid four isles in and hasn't had any luck. Eventually, he finds himself staring down a sea of tins. Fruit and veg, beans, and the sort. His eyes scanned the labels, but even readin' was a real Herculean task when he's feeling so out of sorts.

The canine part of him can't be convinced deciphering rows of little lines and squiggles is a proper use of his time. Especially when he could be usin' his nose instead.

Some wee bairn has starts greetin’ a few aise down.

—Green beans, peas, sliced carrots, corn, diced potatoes. Nae, that wasn't it—

....who in their right mind buys tinned tatties?

A passing trolley is making an awful racket. Discordant shrill squeaks and clunks of a stuck wheel scraped against his ear drums.

—It’s definitely not the asparagus—shites mingin’, and that’s fresh. Wouldnae faff about with a recipe that called for that. Cannae think how foul tinned would be… 

Soap sighs in exasperation. As he goes to abandon this aisle, he steps back to turn and bumps into something.

Soft. Soft, soft, softness presses into his hip—

The kind of softness that cradles, that molds around him. Softer than any of his toys. Soft an’ cozy as his own bed, maybe—nae, softer. His bed didn't have the same give, the same wobble. It was a softness that sent a literal shiver up his spine, saliva pooling in his mouth. That smell—

Not something, someone then.

An incidental collision, a bird had been trying to slip by him just as he stepped backwards.

The touch was there and gone in a second but he was mournful for its absence. The scent lingered at least, soothed the whine that crawled into his throat. There was no artifice to it, no acrid chemical edges that came with any fragrance found in a bottle.

You had actually managed to catch him off guard. The shiver that rattled through him began with a slight jolt of surprise at the two of your union. He must have been more out of it than he thought, he hadn't even noticed anyone else in the aisle. He'll never get used to being startled, but he wouldn’t hold that against you.

“Oh, sorry,” you muttered apologetically as you stepped back, embarrassment coloring your face. The contact clearly ruffled your feathers a bit.

Soap’s mouth shuts with an audible click, he hadn’t realized his lips were parted. He hurriedly swallows a completely unadvisable pant in your direction.

“Nae bother, hen,” he blinks. Finally finding his human voice, responding like he's supposed to when he's out and about on two legs. It’s a little breathier, a beat later than he should have responded, lower too. There's a rasp there that chafes the very air. 

...Maybe his head wasn't packed with cotton.

Maybe it was your soft, downy feathers that was muddling him up, making itself a sweet little nest in his cranium—

The bird sends him a polite, restrained smile as it scurries off.

His world narrowed, like he was watching through a spyglass. Or was it a scope? Regardless, everything else but you dissolved into blur, even his peripheral was swallowed up. Framed you in a vignette. Every tiny aspect of the minute interaction seared painlessly into his mind.

A pretty, fat partridge.

Wandering too close.

Game like that, ambling by all round and plump, right under his snout? Feathers close enough they almost tickle his nose—

It's instinct, ya ken?

Mind, for a dog that retrieves quarry, it’s in his nature. Cannae help it anymore than the shade of his coat. So, is it the dog's fault then, when he lunges? Snatches the bird up, into his warm mouth? Firm and soft all at once. The delicate control from a pup that can cradle a raw egg without fracturing the shell. When he brings it back to his master, tail waggin’ as he’s done a hundred other times?

Nae. Noone’d blame him.

He can already practically feel the pantomime thumping of your frantic heartbeat in his mouth—echoing his own excited pulse. 

Soap’s keen eyes never left his prey, even as your back was foolishly to him. His hind paws were already ahead of his brain, he followed, trailing at a distance. Stalking.

Thing should know better, he might have been a wolf. You’d have waddled straight into it's gaping maw, mistake the canines for stalactites and his tongue for a cozy spot to lay your little head.

But no, he’s no wolf. He’s safe. Won't take a bite out of you. He's a good boy— 

Good dog.

Bird dog. A Gordon Setter, Si says.

A jack of all trades, proficient at tracking, pointing, and retrieving. A soft-mouth breed. That’s very important. Most dogs cannae do what he can. Pick up a bird without pricking it. Ghost has been working with him, trainin’ him up. Helping him be more patient, learn new tricks.

Your scent—it was so hard to describe, but he luxuriated in it, nose twitching. It was warm, but not torrid. Sweet, but not cloying. Rich, but not heavy—

Familiar, somehow. Like a childhood lovey. Cheek-worn and supple as a lamb's ear. 

He’s struck by a piercing déjà vu.

It should have confounded Soap—but it didn’t. It just was. The strange mix of familiarity and unfamiliarity that shouldn’t normally coexist. He didn’t know you, nae. But it felt like he should. Maybe he’d seen you in a dream? Some sticky remnant from a past life? Nothing else could explain the strength of the reaction that gripped him by the scruff. Commanded him to “fetch”.

...He’s doin’ so well. Being so, so careful—game’s normally still, after all. Not wriggling about anymore. Is much more effort to control his grip on a bird thas tryin' to fly away.

Thing squealing like a squeaky-toy doesn’t help, zaps somethin' in his brain, even though he’s hardly pressing. Ghost will look at you an’ see there’s no teeth marks on you. He’s being good. Knows better. Not even a tiny nibble. 

Soap's so pleased.

Only wish he'd had his tail out, so he could articulate his excitement properly.

He’ll take you home and keep you. Rest a heavy paw on you when he wants you to stay put. Carry you round the house with him. Share his food with you. Show you his other toys. Only roughhouse gently, like he would a puppy. Bat you around a bit. Paw at you real gentle like. This soft, living squeaky-toy that he can nap with. Even let you nest in his own bed, tucked under his chin. He’d only ever mouth at you gently, you'd learn you wouldn’t have to fear his teeth. He’d rasp his tongue over you, help you preen yer pretty feathers.

He ached to sigh happily against you, rut his face against you. Wanted all the rest of his sighs to be against you, pressed into your skin. Nose at your crown, in your soft neck, on your squishy belly. He’s curious where on you that scent would be the strongest.

Ghost will be so proud when he sees, when he proudly lays you at his boots—

You'll like his owner. He'll pet you real nice. Ghost always knows the right spot, even before you do. Thoughtful.

So thoughtful that he won't even mind that he'll have to sort something else out for dinner.

[sunderwight]

It's actually kind of hilarious to contemplate the prospect that the genre shift in SV means that Luo Binghe's harem go the queer route as well and start largely pairing off into lesbian ships with one another.

Mostly because of the sheer scale of Bingge's harem, and the fact that a lot of it was comprised of the members of politically influential families.

Can you imagine the freak-outs that various lords and kings are probably having over the fact that their daughters keep eloping with one another? The practical ones are probably going to be like, well, a political alliance is an alliance, welcome to the family Random Demon Princess! But a lot of them are probably going to be pissed that their bloodline's liable to die out, and that the perfectly suitable match (read: asshole cannon fodder Bingge did away with in PIDW) they arranged for their daughter got interrupted by some lady cultivator kidnapping her from her wedding instead. Imagining several prominent nobles in various realms furrowing their brows together and just being like, is it something in the water? Did some plant do this? Is it like it a cultural ripple effect, the Demon King is gay so now all the youngsters are too?

[ruinix]

recent walk in..sugar daddy quinn mad when he realizes you haven’t been using the black credit card he gave you for expenses

Hello, lovely. Of course, hehe.😏 You did not catch me writing this. I am just a ghost taking over the keyboard. I need to put this out before a new walkin comes out.... (edit not really fully sugar daddy!quinn. But he totally would pay for everything type of boyfriend)

Broken Promise, Broken Cards

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Spanking (pussy slapping??), Edging, Unprotected sex (protections, lovelies, they’re important), Squirting, Just Quinn being so angry that he became calm and he edges you coz he can.

Count: 3356 words | Masterlist

You’re sending him pictures of your shopping. One picture after another. One choice after another. Quinn helps you pick when you ask for his opinion. He has no problem answering your texts while he watch a replay of a game. The only problem is that Quinn has yet to receive a notification from any of your purchases.

With that, he can no longer focus on the game. It’s just white noise now while he refreshes his inbox.

Swipe down. Exit. Close the app. Open it. Swipe down.

Over and over again, whenever you send him a new photo of your successful purchase.

None. Not a single fucking one.

He is getting too agitated when he receives a photo of a paper bag of a particular brand of lingerie with your delicate hand holding it. You have your nails done earlier this morning. It’s so pretty with your favorite shade of pink and flower designs. Just like how you described it will be before you went out. He can’t wait for your hands around him tonight.

‘Focus,’ he reprimands himself.

Shaking his head, focusing on the paper bag instead of your beautiful hands, he gives the purchase a few minutes to process—or whatever the fuck—but again, nothing. His eyebrows meet as he stares into his screen. He remembers having every purchase to be sent over his email too. He set that up long before. So, where the fuck are they?

Are you actually buying things or are you stealing them?

Did you bring cash?

Quinn didn’t give you cash for anything but your nails and the tip for its service today. His frustrations build up that he is so close to calling the bank and making sure that the card is activated.

When he receives another message from you, he takes a moment to calm down, before opening it. He immediately gets distracted by how bright you look. You are grinning so much that your eyes have crinkles on the corners, a blush flushing your face. Your nails are on full show again as you hold up the bag next to your face.

After a solid five minutes, he remembers to refresh his inbox. Only then does it dawn at him. Are you even using the card he gave you? No, that can’t be. You promised him to use that card today. You are definitely using it.

Aren’t you?

One last swipe down to refresh his email. Still nothing.

What the fuck.

You’re definitely not using the card.

Quinn paces. He’s getting angry for you breaking your promise, getting worried because you’re buying a lot of stuff today. More than you usually do. Didn’t you just complain about your depleting savings last night? It’s one of the reasons why he secretly transferred a few hundreds of dollars—exactly three thousand—into your account. He knows you didn’t notice it because you would’ve transferred it back to him after you lecture him about it. If it’s not that, did you suddenly replenish it in your own way? He quickly checks the date and confirms that it’s nowhere near payday, so that’s not it.

Where the fuck are you getting your spending money?

He refuses to acknowledge that you are using your old credit card. The one with a fucking limit.

It can’t be.

There is no fucking way.

Something snaps in his head. He rushes to your office, powers up your computer, and signs in without a hitch. You’ve never put a password on it. If you do, he knows about your little notebook of passwords, which is just under your little plant next to your monitor.

He never really goes through your stuff. He is content and trusts you with everything. Even if sometimes you hide your phone from him, he knows you are just texting your friends about him. It’s always obvious because you keep snickering while throwing glances at him. But, right now, he is losing it. He needs to see. Just this one time. He’ll apologize for it later.

His eyes are locked on the notifications, the receipts, the confirmations. The account number on every single one of them is not the one on the black credit card he has given you. He memorized it, and it doesn’t fucking match. You are not fucking using it.

An ache forms in his chest. It feels horrible like a backhand that could shake up his teeth. So horrible that he had to run his tongue over them, making a clicking sound, as he crosses his arms. His legs are spread wide as he slouches against the backrest, one leg bobbing up and down. He glares at the screen like the emails will disappear if he burns them one by one in his mind. Or the account number would magically change. He rubs a hand over his face. His head pounds at the start of a headache.

His phone pings from another message. It sounds like a blaring siren, making his ears ring. After a few moments, a new mail pops up.

This is so much worse than you realizing the deposit in your debit. Because one, you broke your promise. Two, he feels useless.

If you were not going to use the card, you could’ve let Quinn accompany you during this shopping spree that would at least appease his soul. But then, he can force his card into the hands of the cashiers.

Realization hits him.

That’s exactly why you didn’t let him tag along. Exhaling, a chuckle escapes him. A smirk forms on his face as he gazes up the ceiling. You are such a clever girl, aren’t you?

He’ll give this to you, but you are in so much trouble.

As if on cue, you text him, “I’m on my way home.”

He turns your computer off, standing up. An eerie calm envelope him as he undoes his second top button. He guesses if you really want to use your credit card, you can. You’re your own person, but you should have kept your promise. Such a bad girl.

He walks back to the living room and sits down on the single seater, reaching the remote to close off every curtain, making his place dimmer and dimmer.

Then he waits.

He waits until you come in with your impressive haul. Extremely because you got your arms full but you only put them down so you can go back to get more. It’s amusing how your grin looks so self-satisfied, not fully realizing that he’s just sitting in the corner of the room, until your eyes land on him. Your smile turns sheepish, taking your hands behind you, not daring to come closer. Truly clever.

“Hi, Quinny. Didn’t see you there.” You wave.

“My Love,” he greets, beckoning you with a finger, but you refuse to come, shaking your head. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to put these away.”

He watches you take one bag, telling him about the little nightgown you bought. You’re distracting him and it’s working. Slightly. His amusement grows the more you ramble. It’s clear that you’ve enjoyed your shopping trip. You speak at a quicker pace than you usually do. You have a little bounce on your step as you take everything out of the paper bags that you also fold right after. He knows you’re aware that he knows. That’s why you’re taking your time but he’s aware that you are genuinely delighted with everything you purchased that you distract yourself more than him.

He’s proud and happy that you enjoyed your day.

Truly.

It doesn’t erase the fact that he’s lost it. His anger had turned to this calm that keeps him from pouncing you, from taking you over his lap and slamming his hand on your ass until you got handprints that would bruise and ache for a couple of days.

He can’t believe you’ve broken him just from breaking your promise.

It’s entirely laughable.

Yet heat streaks down his spine, down to his cock.

He’s so fucking hard.

He stands up, silently walking towards you while you’re crouching to pile up the paper bags. You’re still rambling about a pottery workshop you’ve come across, where you want to go back with him, so you can make mugs for each other. So adorable. So clueless about the danger prowling towards you.

He stops, his shadow looming over you. He counts the seconds, but you still don’t notice him. Do you? He sees how your hands start to shake. You do. Silly girl.

A chuckle escapes him as he grabs you by your arm so he can pull you up then lifting you over his shoulder.

“Quinn!” You squeal, hitting his back a couple of times. “Put me down! You’re making me dizzy—”

You let out a moan when Quinn slaps the tender spot under your ass. “Quiet,” he orders, making you whimper like the dirty slut you are. “What did you say before you left?”

“Bye?” You sound so confused.

He spanks you on the same spot, making you groan when he slips his hand under your skirt, fingers trailing up and up, then he put you down on the bed. You flip and look at him like he has taken everything from you. He can already hear your protest on the tip of your tongue. He glares at you, daring you to speak them, but you don’t take the bait. You usually do.

Interesting.

“You bought a lot.” Quinn crawls on the bed, his hand flattening over your sternum, effortlessly pushing you down.

Your pupils are so blown out when he levels his face with yours, his nose grazing yours, your breath mixing with his. He can smell the gum you chewed on before you arrived, the perfume you’ve sprayed behind your ears. Your eyes fall down his lips then up again, perfectly seducing him, but he refuses, moving away when you try to kiss him, tongue even darting out. Not yet.

“Quinn,” you whine.

“Why’d you do it?” He asks, kneeling up and flipping you over your stomach, immediately pressing a hand over your lower back to keep you from doing whatever you’re planning.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say with pout, shuddering as he slips his hand under your shirt, unclasping your bra without a single effort. “What are you doing? I haven’t showered yet.”

Quinn doesn’t fucking care if you showered or not. Since when did he care? He doesn’t care if you come from a workout. He has fucked you like that. All sweaty and dirty. He already licked your sweat as he plunged deep inside your quivering pussy like that. You coming from a whole day of shopping is simple play for him. You’re just trying to get out of the punishment you knew coming.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he rumbles against your ear, sliding his fingers under you so he can touch your tits. So soft. So perfect in his hands. Your nipples are so hard as he pinches them, so sensitive as you moan, hips coming up to grind against his.He pulls away, making you groan. “Uh, uh. Answer me before you get what you want, you dirty slut.”

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp.

“That’s what you are, isn’t it?” He grits, sliding one hand down your front, down into your skirt, down to the wet patch of your panties. “See? So fucking wet. I barely touched you.”

“Quinn, please,” you plead, panting.

Why are you still not telling him about the promise you’ve broken? He’s getting so annoyed that he forces your clothes off, tearing every piece of clothing, ignoring how much you complained, ignoring your little ‘ouch’, because you’re full of shit. There’s no way it would hurt when he is tearing the fabric instead of pulling it against your fucking skin. Do you think he’s fucking stupid? Do you think he’ll hurt you that way? He’s not a fucking rookie.

He keeps you down, spreading your legs, watching how your pussy drips on the silk sheets, how your entrance quivers begging to be filled. Languidly, he feels your folds, making you gasp and moan like you’re already getting fucked. So sensitive.

Then he gives you a slap right there, his other hand gripping over your hip to keep you there. You attempt to crawl away but he gives you another slap. Then another. Another. You are moaning and writhing from the pain, begging him to stop when you keep pushing your wet cunt right against his palm after a brief second of reeling away, when your eyes keep looking over him as if to say, “More, more, more.”

Such a slut.

Quinn slides his middle finger into your heat, observing how red your pussy is from the slaps, smirking at how your walls quivers around him. His thumb teases your other hole, making you gasp and grip the sheets. You’re not running away now, huh? Not when he is fingering you, reaching that specific spot that makes you scream loudly and breathlessly.

He adds another finger, thrusting them into your heat harder. The squelching noises are music to his ears when it’s coupled with your moans and groans. Then he feels the familiar pattern of your walls. You’re going to come. He knows you so much. Knows your pussy more than you. Knows your little tells like how your thighs quivers, how your toes curl. He knows it all.

So, it’s so fucking easy to just…pull away.

You look back harshly, looking so betrayed, panting so hard. He takes his fingers wet from your arousal to his lips and slowly licks them like he’s licking your pussy, groaning at how you taste. Fuck, you’re truly his favorite flavor.

“Quinn, I…” you call, your eyes tearing up. He flips you over, resting your ass over his thigh while your legs are spread forward. “You didn’t…”

“Didn’t?” he mocks, but you only process that as a question because you’ve already been dumbed by your pending orgasm.

“I didn’t come,” you whine, jutting your hips up the air, begging for another touch. “Please make me come.”

“Yeah,” he nods. That makes you smile, sighing in relief. Shaking his head, he says, “No.”

He doesn’t let you say another thing, plunging his fingers into your pussy again. He fucks you fast and deep, thumb swiping over your clit just so perfectly, only to pull away when you’re on the verge of an orgasm. By the third time, you finally understand what’s happening and you’re begging and begging.

Your pleas don’t reach him though.

They can’t because the strange calmness finally starts to dissipate the more you make a mess while not getting what you want. The more beautifully and frustrated you cry.

Oh, his poor, sweet Love.

“Quinn, I’m sorry. I just wanna use my card.” You sob. “I’m sorry. Please. Please. I need to come. It’s been an hour.”

An hour? You’re counting?

Still, he pauses his torture, because you are finally talking.

You cover your face, hiding your beautiful blushing cheeks, hiding how your hair sticks to your skin. “I saw you deposit money in my account again. I thought using my card would be a great revenge. Now, I know it’s not. This sucks! It hurts not to come. We both know you’re just going to pay for the bill when it comes.”

You sob, looking absolutely hurt and exhausted. Quinn quickly pulls you up, soothing you with a hug, sighing as you melt into his touch. You sniffle but your hand reaches between you two, tugging at his pants.

“You have to make me come.” You beg, looking at him with your best puppy eyes. “Please?”

“You always beg so beautifully.” He tucks your hair behind your ears. “Wasn’t so hard to admit your wrongs, was it?”

“I know. I said sorry already—”

He cuts you off by pushing you to the bed, tugging his pants down, pressing his dribbling cock to your entrance. One swift thrust and he’s seated inside of you. Fuck. Your pussy is truly made for him. He perfectly fits. All of him. He can feel every crevice, every texture, every arousal that coats you deep inside. Shit. So good. He can come just by being inside of you. Did you know that?

But he knows it’s not enough for you tonight. You need him to fuck so he does. He fucked you hard and rough that your eyes are rolling up as you come.

Even then you plead for more and more.

So he gives you everything.

Changing the tempo here and there, going slow and deliberate, going back to a fast pace. He gives you everything because you deserve it.

Every time he feels you’re about to come again, he whispers into ears, “That’s my good girl. Give me one more. That’s it. My good little slut. Take what you need. Come, my Love.”

Every time.

He draws out your fifth orgasm before he comes deep inside you, swearing as his eyesight dims as your pussy milks every drop of his cum. How he manages to flick your sensitive clit while he comes so hard is a mystery, but it doesn’t matter when you start to gush.

You’re making such a mess.

You always do.

“Quinn, oh my, fuck,” you cry out.

“It’s okay. I got you. Just let go, my Love,” he encourages, flicking your clit again and again, until you’ve successfully drench both of you. “No more?”

“No more. No more.” You shake your head, so he stops. “Kiss me.”

He kisses you, giving you praises in between. You both spent minutes just kissing until you’ve calm down. Quinn gives you one last kiss before he stands up to run a bath, putting a few drops of lavender and chamomile there. It’ll soothe you. He comes back out to wrap you with a fresh and heated towel while the bath fills up.

You look so spent so Quinn holds you for a few more minutes, whispering more soft praises in your ear, because you’ve earned it. When he hears the bath getting full, he takes you to it.

“Just relax here. I’ll join you in a bit, okay?” He says as you settle. You nod at him as your eyes slowly blink. “I won’t take long. Don’t sleep. Not when I’m not here.”

“Okay, Quinny,” you say as you yawn. Your tummy rumbles. “Hungry.”

“I’ll get you a sandwich then I’ll make dinner after our bath. Sounds good?”

You smile at him, making his heart flutter, his stomach filling up with butterflies. He presses another kiss on your head, before he’s off, leaving you to have a little alone time. He got one thing in his mind.

He made his way to your bag that’s left behind on the floor. Humming a soft tune, he carries it to the counter, setting it down, as he takes out the ingredients for a light sandwich. Just bread and your favorite jam. Washing his hands quickly, he fixes your sandwich for you, placing it on a plate. He also takes a fresh and cool bottle of water. It will do for a light snack, but he doesn’t take it immediately to you.

He sits on a stool, rummaging through your bag, finding your wallet. He smiles at your photo with him there. It’s taken polaroid. He knows there’s another photo behind it that you printed personally of him and you in an ice rink. You’re truly cute.

He touches your face, heart pounding at how breathtaking you always look. Even when you’re so fucked, your beauty never changes. He can’t wait to grow old with you. He bet with everything he has and more that you would still look like the beautiful woman in the world, because you are.

Then he takes the credit card you’ve used today.

His smile never goes away as he stares at it for full minute.

Then he snips it in half and does the same to another and another.

Now, you only have one card left.

[uncharted-constellations]

These two have such a funny vibe, had to take Zelda out of half their games because you know she’d just be telepathically negging him the whole time. Theyre besties, theyre potentially related, she’s mentally whispering ‘Sandwich’ in his ear whenever he’s trying to focus.

Edit: Added funny page in celebration of me not having to rework these designs for the new game

[xxplastic-cubexx]

i LOVE how you draw twink krakoa charles he's so...... twink...... your art is amazing

thank you so much !!!! i have a simple vision in mind whenever i draw krakoa charles next to erik, really:

it's significant he looks like a push pin next to erik it's infinitely better this way..

[screwpinecaprice]

I was trying to eat noodles neatly and for some reason I got sad midway. So I drew them messy eating a biscuit and a strawberry to combat sad noodle blues.

[patopq]

hey. so i nono wanna finish this piece anymore. so i'll just throw it out here for anyone who wants it

[lilithofpenandbook]

One thing I'm never getting over is how James Potter bullied and abused a poor, lonely boy for the mere crime of existing and decided he wasn't worth anything based on who he was

Only for his son to grow up bullied, abused, neglected and lonely just for the mere crime of existing and was decided to be worth nothing based on who he was.

It's a dark sort of irony. It's almost poetic justice, even if it's cruel and unfair because Harry truly did nothing yet he's being punished. But so too did Severus do nothing yet lived his entire life in punishment.

And here's the thing. If James hadn't started it, Sirius wouldn't have either. Severus wouldn't have been bullied that badly. And while he always did have a liking to the dark arts, if he didn't have the trauma of the marauders abuse, he may well have eventually decided on his own that while he liked the dark arts he didn't need to join the death eaters. And here's the thing: James and the marauders essentially did to him what the Slytherins did to muggleborns, just without using the word Mudblood. If the supposed 'good guys' were no better than the 'bad guys' then it almost justifies him wanting to join the death eaters, at least they had a purpose. If James hadn't bullied him, maybe he would have been less able to justify the actions of his classmates because then the bad/good divide would be obvious. And if he hadn't joined the death eaters, he wouldn't have told Voldemort the prophecy. And if he hadn't done that, maybe no one would have, and there wouldn't have been any need to hunt the Potters, because the prophecy was canonically nonsense. It wouldn't have come true at all. None of it was real. But Voldemort heard it and believed it and caused it to happen. If no one told Voldemort about it, he wouldn't have hunted the Potters. James and Lily would have lived. Harry wouldn't have grown up abused by his uncle and aunt for just existing, have grown up being bullied and hated just because he existed.

James Potter ended up creating that fate for his son. Harry literally paid the price for James's sins.

[barbieaiden]

call of the sea