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ʕ ˵ ̿ ౪ ̿ ˵ ʔ He-he, niceee

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popping in with a question... do you have any horny Sark headcanons?

ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ I wasn’t too sure if I can cook smth about commander Sark but c’mon… an old unhinged man/program AND a villain? I see a vision now and my senses are tingling!

Sugg stuff under the cut! Thank you, fellow user for your patience!

1. The Armor Stays On, Baby (Mostly): Sark's polished, imposing white and red armor isn't just for intimidation – if you remember some posts back about me rambling about Grid’s fashion? Yeah. Yeah, it’s for THAT purposes as well. No program or user (who DEFINETLY do not exist) will ever forget who’s in charge. He is intensely aware of the power dynamics it represents. The idea of being serviced by a program while he remains fully armored - a god being worshipped by a lesser being - is a massive turn-on for him. The cold, hard plates are a stark (gettit) contrast to the living, pulsating energy of MCP’s commander. Mind the helmet ;)

2. Sark doesn't just demand loyalty; he savors it. If you bend over for him, go on your knees without any fight – it arouses him so, so much. It's not even about the act itself, but the proof of his absolute authority. He'd draw out the moment, giving soft, almost affectionate commands ("Kneel," "Look at me," "Thank your commander") just to feel that surge of submissive energy from you.

3. Our bad guy appreciates beauty, but only when if it is contained, controlled, or broken. A perfectly dancing light ribbon is pretty. A light ribbon he is directing to its climax or destruction is art. He is fascinated by the glow of a program's energy at the moment of derezzing, and that morbid fascination translates to his more… intimate encounters - he's obsessed with the peak of sensation that borders on overwhelm, the point where pleasure and system error feel indistinguishable. That being said, you are beautiful to him… if you belong to him and him only.

4. We gotta talk about that voice, man. Sark's voice is a tool as much as his armor and disk are. He will whisper praises that are laced with condescension ("You're doing so well for a simple script"), and degrading insults that sound like endearments in his tone ("My beautiful, useless creature"). And he also likes to be heard – that way, any other program outside knows what their commander is capable off.

5. He demands eye contact. You will watch him. You will see his smug satisfaction as he takes what he wants. Looking away is an insult. Closing your eyes is a denial of your place. He wants to see his own power reflected back at him in your gaze. So watch him. Remember him. Thank him for allowing your code to circle in his presense. And he might just let you live a bit longer.

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how do i say "horror novels these days are too woke" without sounding like a right winger. what i mean is: this one is about a woman serial killer who kills Bad Men, that one is about ~anticapitalist activists~, this one is ~queer~, that one is about *spins wheel* someone dealing with the ghosts of their immigrant roots, all of them are about intergenerational traumaaaaa. okay. cool. but is it good though. is it fucking scary

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Anonymously or not, ask me something you’ve always wondered.

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Part 2 to that rdr2 oneshot when? 🙏 it was so amazing and u are so talented xx

In best Mama Bear tradition it took me ages to get to your request, anon, but oh boy do I bring something DELISH to the table! This time, since it's already september, I wanted something cozy and very fall-like, so enjoy reader and her old men getting into quite a predicament during a pumkin heist ʕ♥ᴥ♥ʔ

NSFW under the cut! Not beta read! First part here

The air was brewing with the rich scent of harvest and the first shy whispers of upcoming cold weather. You’d been in a bargain with Pearson for weeks now – telling him that vegetables in his stew would in fact improve the taste, not ruin it. You were worried about little Jack, too – if the winter was harsh as the last one, the boy (and frankly, everyone) needed as much nutrients and vitamins as they could get. So, for once, you decided to steal not money or goods, but food – straight from the field. The farmer was rich enough, surely, to lend his harvest to those in need. And you were in need. Hosea said he’d come with you and you couldn’t say no. It wasn't just that hauling pumpkins would be hard on your own; it was the glint in his eye, and the hand on your shoulder and the whisper you remember in the dark. He appreciated a clever, low-stakes scheme, especially if you were the one doing it – he was as proud as a teacher could be.

“Now then,” he whispered as you both crouched at the edge of the vast pumpkin patch, the dying sun setting the orange globes ablaze.

“Don’t mind the biggest ones on the end. The farmer will count those. Take from the middle of the row. It’s the art of being missed, not the act of not being seen.”

You nodded, a smile playing on your lips. Learning from the master. You moved together in a comfortable silence, a well-practiced dance of grabbing, stuffing, and retreating into the shadows. His satchel was already half-full, and he’d barely made a sound. It was as you were wrestling a particularly stubborn pumpkin from its vine that a voice, rich and familiar, cut through the twilight from behind a nearby haystack.

“I should have known I’d find my two favorite thieves going out for grocery shopping.”

You jumped, but Hosea didn’t even flinch, a slow smile spreading across his face. Dutch van der Linde stepped into view, his own bag slung over his shoulder, looking for all the world like a landowner surveying his property rather than a man mid-robbery.

“Dutch!” you hissed, your heart hammering.

“What in the hell are you doing here?”

It was weird seeing this big man, who always wanted to follow his own plan to sneak after you just to get some food. But you knew, deep down, Dutch cared about you – or was playing good enough to make you believe so. In fact, you appreciated him and his theatrics – despite the job seeming easy enough, you were still afraid of being caught. With both Dutch and Hosea near, you felt more safe than back in the camp.

“I saw you two riding off,” he said, his voice a low, pleased rumble, pulling you back to reality. He smoked his cigar, the smoke curling lazily in the cold air as he gestured toward the farmer’s sturdy storehouse, its door left invitingly ajar.

“Thought you might need a bigger haul. And while our good farmer is off celebrating his bounty, his entire winter grain supply is sitting in there. Unguarded. A wise man would be a fool not to… redistribute it.”

Hosea chuckled softly.

“Always thinking of others, ain’t cha Dutch?”

“Someone has to,” Dutch replied, his eyes finding yours, gleaming with mischief. The plan changed in an instant. You and Hosea would continue to gather the pumpkins and anything else from the garden - squash, late-season carrots - while Dutch dealt with the grain. The efficiency was breathtaking. You worked as a perfect unit, a triangle of silent, productive crime. It was as Dutch was heaving a second, heavy sack of grain onto his shoulder that the distinct crunch of wagon wheels on gravel cut through the quiet evening. A lantern light bobbed in the distance, coming up the main road.

Early.

Way too early.

Hosea’s head snapped up.

“Down!”

The only cover was a massive pile of dry leaves and straw at the edge of the field. There was no time to debate. The three of you scrambled for it, diving headfirst into the crunchy, fragrant mound. You landed in a heap, a tangle of limbs and suppressed gasps, buried deep as the wagon rolled slowly past. The farmer was humming, oblivious to the three wanted outlaws buried mere feet from his prize pumpkins. The sound of the wagon faded, leaving only the sound of your own thudding hearts and the rustle of leaves. The immediate danger was gone. But no one moved.

The pile was impossibly, intimately close. You were wedged between two old men, Hosea’s chest against your back, his breath warm on your neck. Dutch was facing you, his legs tangled with yours, the rough denim of his pants a stark contrast to the soft hay. The air in your little pocket of space grew warm, thick with the scent of autumn decay and their familiar smells - Hosea’s faint scent of whiskey and soap, Dutch’s of cigar smoke and leather. A long moment of silence stretched, charged and heavy. It was Dutch who broke it, his voice a velvet murmur in the dark, his lips close to your ear.

“Well now… this is a fortunate turn of events.”

You could feel the rumble of Hosea’s quiet laughter against your spine.

“Cozy,” he remarked, his hand, which had landed on your hip to steady you during the dive, making no move to shift away. His thumb began to draw slow, absent circles through the fabric of your skirts. You shifted, just a bit – but it was enough for Dutch’s knee to nudge between your legs.

“We could get caught!..” you hissed, trying to act tough and failing so, so hard.

“Yet we didn’t,” Dutch answered, kissing your forehead, a surprisingly tender gesture, before his own hands joined the fray, moving your hair to the side to expose the column of your neck to his mouth.

“Need to make sure the old farmer is gone,” Hosea added, his thin, skillful hands landing on your heaving chest, one kneading your breast while the other slid down your stomach, palming you through your skirts.

“And need to congratulate our good girl for coming up with this plan. Now, relax, darlin’. You know we can take care of you.”

Hosea’s fingers finally slipped beneath the layers of your petticoats and drawers, finding the hot, aching heart of you. His touch was devilishly precise, a circling, teasing pressure that had you biting your lip to keep from crying out. Still, the ever impatient thing that you are moved, your pleasure an instrument in the conman’s hands and Dutch, unwilling to be a mere specter captured your mouth, his kiss deeper, wetter, all tongue and possession, perfectly designed to melt your bones while Hosea’s fingers worked their magic below. You were utterly surrounded, pinned between the solid, demanding strength of Dutch and the lean, cunning cleverness of Hosea. The crisp autumn air changed into the smell of straw and leaves, filled with the sound of your ragged breathing, the rustle of hay, and the soft, slick sounds of Hosea’s fingers stroking into you.

“That’s it,” Hosea coaxed, his breath hot on your skin as his pace quickened, his thumb finding that perfect little spot that made your toes curl in your boots.

“Let go. We’ve got you. No one can see. It’s just us here.”

Dutch’s free hand was at the buttons of his fly, the sound unmistakable.

“Think you can be quiet, darling?” he rasped, his eyes dark with want.

“Think you can take what we give you without singing our location to the whole county?”

You could only nod, your world narrowing to the two pairs of hands on your body. But it was Hosea who moved with a quiet, deliberate intent. While Dutch held you, a solid, possessive wall of muscle at your back, Hosea shifted. His fingers, which had been coaxing such devastating pleasure from you, withdrew, leaving you achingly empty. You whimpered at the loss, but his eyes, gleaming with a dark, knowing light in the shadows, promised more.

“Patience, my dear,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate thrum that vibrated straight through you. His hands went to his own belt, the leather sliding free with a soft, deliberate whisper that was far more erotic than any hurried fumble. He was a man who understood the art of the reveal, the power of anticipation. Dutch’s hand smoothed over your stomach, holding you firm against him.

“Listen to the man,” he growled in your ear, but it was laced with clear approval. His hand caught your wrist, guiding it down to his aching hardness, already freed and leaking with precum. You started stroking him in slow, deliberate motions, just how he liked it, making the old man purr with delight. Hosea in the mean time freed himself - he was not as thick as Dutch, but longer, and he looked every bit the seasoned predator - lean, elegant, and utterly sure of himself. He guided his dick to your entrance, the head nudging against your slick heat, and let out a soft, appreciative sigh.

“Always so ready for us,” he breathed, his eyes locked on yours.

“Like a good pupil. Eager to learn every lesson.”

He didn’t thrust. He pressed. A slow, inexorable, maddening invasion that made you arch your back, a silent plea for more. He filled you with an aching slowness that had you seeing stars, each inch a deliberate, exquisite torture. When he was finally sheathed to the hilt, he stilled, letting you feel the full, stretching length of him, his hips giving a tiny, experimental roll that made you gasp.

“There now,” he cooed. “All settled in.”

Then he began to move and where Dutch was all power and possessive claiming, Hosea was all cunning art. His thrusts were long, slow, and deep, each one calculated to stroke a place inside you that made your toes curl in your boots. He set a rhythm that was downright sinful, a lazy, rolling grind of his hips that was less about frantic passion and more about drawing out every last shred of sensation.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his breath hot on your skin as his pace remained agonizingly, perfectly measured. His thumb found that perfect little spot again, circling it in time with his deep, penetrating strokes.

“Let go for me. I want to feel you come apart on my cock. I want to feel every last tremor.”

Dutch’s hand slid down from your stomach, his own arousal slick and hard in your palm as he watched both of you, a dominating figure even now, his voice a rough encouragement in your ear.

“You hear him, girl. Let him feel it. Show him what a good teacher he is.”

The dual sensation was too much. Hosea’s deep, knowing thrusts and his clever fingers, combined with Dutch’s rough praise and the need to please him as well. Your climax crashed over you without warning, a silent, seizing wave that clenched around Hosea’s length, milking him, pulling a deep, gratified groan from his chest. He rode you through it, his rhythm faltering only slightly, drawing out your pleasure until you were limp and boneless in Dutch’s arms; the man used it to curl his hand around yours to pump himself and coat you in his cum, groaning a curse and a praise all at once.

Only then did Hosea allow his own control to break. His hips stuttered, his thrusts becoming shorter, deeper, before he stilled with a final, deep grind, spilling into you with a low, shuddering sigh that was more contented sigh than moan. He collapsed forward slightly, bracing himself on a hand beside your head, his forehead resting against yours. His breath fanned your face, warm and shared. For a long moment, the only sound was your collective, ragged breathing, harmonizing with the rustle of the autumn leaves. Hosea was the first to speak, his voice raspy and laced with a profound, smug satisfaction. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen lips.

“Now that,” he whispered, a familiar, charming smirk gracing his features, “is how you properly christen a harvest.”

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Now when my last Predator fic got so much attention I'm kinda afraid of posting anything now, just to gain another ten likes... Not that I particulary care much about likes, but still lmao.

I took a few days off work but once I'm back in Monday I'm sure I'm gonna cook something real good for you guys ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ Thanks for staying at my lazy ahh blog.

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this is a poster i made for my call to action assignment in humanities! it's a bunch of basic and easy stretches for people who sit and work at a desk all day (me)

the idea is that you'd put the poster up above ur desk and do the stretches every 30 minutes or so,, the whole routine won't take more than about 6 minutes to complete and when done regularly it can prevent wrist, shoulder, neck and back pain! :)

all these stretches can be done while sitting (although i HIGHLY recommend you stand up and move around while taking a break from working)

you can get a free digital copy of this poster here on my gumroad!

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PLEASEEEEE write that grendel x reader i'm literally starving to death no one writes him ;-;

ʕʘ‿ʘʔ I shall be a hoe for Predators FOREVER. This might be the biggest fic I've written for this blog, so if you want to, check my ao3 where I cross-posted it! Very self indulgent and NSFW under the cut! Enjoy!

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P.S Part Two and Three are def coming if there will be a demand!

Not Beta Read!

The present for the Warlord was picked perfectly. A prize he captured himself - among the countless soft-skinned prey that had scattered and screamed before his onslaught, you were the anomaly. You were the one who did not run. You had simply… stood. Amid the carnage and the scent of blood soaking the earth, you were a statue of terrified defiance, tears carving clean paths through the grime on your cheeks, your body rigid with a shock that looked remarkably like courage. It was that stillness that had stayed his paw. That had made the Warlord lower his plasma caster and regard you not as another piece of moving meat, but as a puzzle. A trophy of a different kind.

You remembered the blur of what came next in fragments, sensations without context. The deep, guttural click-click-chitter of a language that sounded like stones grinding together. The surprisingly careful but firm grip of younger, eager Yautja as they secured you. The cold, sterile air of the ship replacing the humid stench of the battlefield. Then, the deep, dreamless sleep within a translucent coffin.

The first thing you were aware after waking up was that of the water - not like any water you’d known. It was silken and slightly viscous, lapping at your skin in a warm, rhythmic pulse, carrying away the last traces of your world. They, the silent, red-eyed attendants, were not shy. Their multi-taloned paws were efficient and impersonal, scrubbing every inch of you with a thoroughness that was neither gentle nor cruel. The young ones anointed you in a lotion that hummed with a soft, blue-white glow, sinking into your pores and leaving your skin feeling strangely fortified and smelling of ozone and something metallic.

Then, came the crafting of the offering.

Your human clothes were gone, deemed ruined, unworthy. But the aliens had not discarded everything. A few scraps of your former life were saved - a strip of leather from your boot, a torn piece of your shirt, the zipper from your jacket. These were not for modesty, but for symbolism, tied around your wrists and waist like bindings, a constant, tactile reminder of the origin you were about to loose. Against your skin, they layered bits of polished, unfamiliar armor - a curved pauldron on one shoulder, a gauntlet of woven, fibrous metal on one forearm. It was a mosaic of their culture imposed upon your form, a promise and a prison sentence written in leather and Yautja steel. You were being dressed for a presentation, and the audience of one was the most terrifying creature you had ever seen.

The final two pieces were brought forth. The first was a collar, fashioned not from rough-hewn metal but from a strangely beautiful, obsidian-like composite. It was cool as it was fitted around your throat, clicking shut with a sound that was far too final. It was not tight enough to choke, but its presence was absolute, an unbreakable seal of ownership.

Then came the leash.

A single, heavy link of dark, polished alloy, attached to the front of the collar. From it, a length of supple, braised wire-whip descended. The Yautja handling it did not rush. With an almost ritualistic precision, he guided the cool metal down the center of your body, over the smooth skin between your bared breasts, your stomach, and lower still. You stiffened, a silent gasp catching in your throat as the leash was drawn deliberately between your legs, where you were left bare and vulnerable. The alien attendant gave a slight, testing tug, and the wire slid against your most sensitive flesh with a maddening, slick friction.

“Ah!”

It was the first sound you’ve made in what seem to be ages and the Yautja click-clicked between themselves. They have never heard such such soft, human sound before. Every tiny shift of your hips, every clenched muscle, only served to intensify the sensation that created the links of chain burried between your lower lips, creating a desperate, throbbing awareness that was impossible to ignore. So you moved, with the rest of it following like a serpent’s tail, your head hang low as you tried to fight the unwanted pleasure coiling deep in your belly.

Finally, you’ve arrived at his chamber. The walls were not rock, but the interior of a massive, living ship, ribbed and organic. And at the far end, seated on a throne of fused bone and technology, was the Warlord.

The name Grendel King seemed more than fitting.

He was larger than you remembered, a mountain of muscle and menace. The trophies dangling from his armor clinked softly as he shifted. His own mask was off, set aside on a pedestal, and his face - that terrible, mandibled visage—was exposed. His eyes, deep and ancient, found you immediately. They did not glow like the others'; they seemed to absorb the light, pools of blood and darkness that held a terrifying, keen intelligence. He was a nightmare from which you did not want to wake. The very sight of him, this terrifying, magnificent warlord, should have horrified you.

Instead, it made your cunt clench around nothing, the feeling amplified by the chain pressed hard against your clit while you kneel.

The cold floor seeped through the scraps on your legs. One of Yautja spoke, his voice a series of rapid, respectful clicks and growls. He gestured to you, then bowed his head low. A silence fell, heavy and absolute.

Grendel King did not move.

His gaze was a physical weight, traveling over the scraps on your wrists, the alien armor on your shoulder, the lotion that made your skin gleam in the low light. He took in every detail, every contrast they had so carefully constructed. One large, clawed hand lifted and beckoned. A single, deliberate gesture.

Come here, little one.

That was a voice coming from your collar – must be the built-in translator. The voice was male, deep, gravely, something you vaguely remember hearing while being in stasis – or maybe, imagined hearing. The hunters behind you gave you a slight nudge. This was it. The moment you had been prepared for. You rose on unsteady legs, the greaves feeling suddenly heavy, and walked the last few steps to the foot of the Bone Throne, alone. You forced your eyes up to meet his. He studied you for a long, endless moment. Then, a low rumble started in his chest. It wasn't a click or a growl. It was a sound of deep, profound satisfaction. The rumble of a predator who had found something truly unique among a galaxy of prey. One claw, sharp enough to eviscerate you with a twitch, extended. He did not touch your throat. He did not touch the armor. Instead, the cool, sharp tip of it came to rest with impossible delicacy under your chin, tilting your face up just a fraction more into the light, forcing you to hold his galactic gaze.

Pretty prey.

The other large paw curled around the chain and gave a firm, testing tug. You pressed your lips quickly together to muffle your whimper. His mandibles twitched as he moved his head, tasting the air, sampling the scent your reaction had unleashed - a pheromone-laced cocktail of fear, shame, and unwanted, dizzying arousal. It was something sweet. Something so, so human. And it was all for him.

Crawl.

The command was a low, resonant thrum that vibrated in your bones. He didn't yell. He didn't need to. He patted his own powerful, armoured thigh, the gesture casual and utterly demeaning, all while his grip on the chain remained, a constant promise of the sensation another tug would bring. The younger Yautja fled the room, their backs never turned to Warlord, though his eyes were focused on you as you settled on his thigh – it was big enough that even you, the girl well fed, soft and plump were feeling small.

Pretty, pretty prey. Not running. Good.

The Yautja seemed to appreciate the contrast of his armor on your human form, so his touch moved lower, over the swell of your breast, and his thumb - a thick, powerful digit—brushed over your nipple. The touch was deliberate, a slow, circling pressure that made you jolt, the peak tightening instantly under the foreign, rough touch. A sound, half-gasp, half-sob, caught in your throat. He stilled, his mandibles flaring. He was tasting the air again, drinking in the scent of your body’s helpless response and there was that maddening rumble again. His grip on the chain tightened minutely, a warning and a promise all at once, holding you perfectly in place as his other hand continued its conquest. It slid down the soft swell of your stomach, the claws tracing feather-light, threatening paths over your streatchmarks – battle scars of your own indulgence. Everywhere he touched, your skin burned and prickled with a terrifying, unwanted sensitivity. Finally, his large palm came to rest possessively on the bare skin of your hip, his thumb stroking slow, hypnotic circles into the dip of your waist. He owned every inch of you, and this deliberate, detailed touching was his way of signing his name. He leaned in closer, the heat of his body enveloping you, the click of his mandibles near your ear. The translated word was a soft, guttural command against your very soul.

Mine.

While you were perched on his thigh, he retracted his paw, watch, he said – as he moved the codpiece of his armor aside. His arousal emerged, hard and formidable, a testament to his species' terrifying biology. It was thick and lengthly, the color of dusk-warmed stone, and etched with subtle, intriguing ridges that seemed to pulse with a slow, internal rhythm. A faint, musky scent, ozone and spice and pure, undiluted male, washed over you, making you shudder, making you wonder, clenching with a hot, slick ache. Your mind, traitorous and dizzy, spiraled with forbidden questions: How would it taste? Metallic? Spiced? How would the textured ridges feel dragging against your palms, your tongue, inside you? You leaned forward, a moth drawn to a lethal flame, your body moving on its own accord, driven by a need you barely understood. A low, warning growl halted you instantly.

Not yet. You break. Later, when you are worthy.

With that, the codpiece slid back into place with a definitive click, severing the hypnotic sight. The denial was a physical blow, leaving you trembling on his thigh, aching and empty, more captured than you had ever been. The chain between your legs felt heavier than ever, a constant, aching reminder of the reward you had been deemed unready to receive.

You will taste the palm which will feed you. Then the mouth which you will learn to obey orders from. Then, only then, you will be allowed to fuck yourself on your chief.

You knew what that meant. How he will use every part of his body on you before granting you the privilege of being a vessel of his vitality. He yanked the chain aside, fast, cruel motion, tips of his fingers slipping between your glistening tights to find you soaking.

You humans are always so wet.

He clicked, but the translator purred his words in your ear. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he pushed one thick digit into your tight hole, pleased rumbling chuckle escaping him as he felt your walls squeezing him in return. The thought that even his one finger filled you so completely made your heart skip a beat. Forgetting about being scared, you grabbed his shoulders, the bone armor biting into your palms as you grinded helplessly.

Slowly, torturously, he began to move his finger, a shallow, pumping motion that focused entirely on that first, intense stretch. The ridge of his knuckle dragged against a spot deep inside you that made your thighs tremble. With a soft, wet sound, he withdrew almost completely, only to push back in, a little deeper this time, a little harder. The rhythm was merciless, each stroke stoking the coil of heat in your belly tighter and tighter. You were panting now, little whimpers falling from your lips with every thrust of that single, devastating finger. His thumb, rough and demanding, found your swollen clit and began to circle it with a pressure that was just shy of painful, mimicking the cruel, perfect tease of the chain.

Such an eager little thing. So tight for one finger. You will sing for me when you take your chief. You will scream your worthiness.

He began to move then, a slow, deliberate pistoning of that immense finger, curling it slightly to stroke a spot deep inside you that made you see stars. Each withdrawal was a sweet agony, each thrust a promise of the terrifying, glorious fullness to come.

And come you did, squeezing him more, your head falling back with a loud, submissive wail – the lotion that aliens rubbed in your skin amplifying the sensations almost to infinity. No man, no toy, no hands could ever make you cum so fast or so intense. You trembled violently, held upright only by his unyielding arm and your own desperate grip on his armored shoulders, utterly broken and remade by the terrifying, magnificent creature who owned you.

His finger left your clenching cunt as he observed the slickness of your shameful release. A forked tongue flicked it out.

A taste of prey. Clean it.

You grabbed it with both hands, your tongue mimicking his movements, but more. You were blissed, sore, utterly fucked and in love with your new king.

And he, apparently was very pleased with his new toy.

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built my walls so well so no one can get in but now i can’t get out either

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oh please... tell me more of your thoughts on scratch!casey, nsft or otherwise... there's like nothing for him!! despite how handsome casey is! not that i dont like secretly tender fbi casey but... sometimes he should get to be a little dark, twisted, and cruel... as a treat :)

~☕️

FUCK. I can't remember when this was asked..... I'm sorry for being a shit. It's gonna be quick but I'm hoping it'll grind your gears... whatever they say.

His form of intimacy is more than what goes down between the legs and suckling you. He wants to touch you under your skin. He wants to cut you open from behind, see the spine protruding from between your delicate human meat. He slides his fingers in between your muscles, feeling you twitch underneath him. You drool. Pathetic. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. Does it hurt? Yes, and yet you moan to his touches. More. More. More. You hear a violent crack in your head. How are you still conscious while he does that to you? He must've done something to your brain. He knows you want him this bad. Your body is in desperate need to fight back and you let him in. You can't do anything about it. You don't want to. You enjoy being toyed with by him however he pleases. But it's not enough for him. Before you know, you feel bloated in all the wrong angles. He wants to be part of you. He wants to fuse with you. Darkness clouds your vision as tendrils sew themselves into your whole body. Heart. Lungs. Liver. Nerves. You're being worn as a new meat suit for dear Scratch Casey. So warm and tender. You feel full. Full of him. So good. Your body gave in, this is all you've been waiting for. This is who you are now. You are home. He's in control. You walk into the lake, water chokes on you as death holds you closer. Are you satisfied?

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Thermos is available! Wowza !

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I was about to work through requests in my inbox this week, but alas, some things are holding me back for a moment, so I'm going on a small hiatus! Hopefully for just a week so I can fix some things up.

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Seven roses, two glasses, one night, and zero cares in the world.

Neil Newbon as Chase Lowry in Dead Take (2025) dev. Surgent Studios

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Professor Sam fucking Lake huh? Are you up to write about reader and Sam doing a little sex education in front of the class/anything that counts exhibitionism like reader teaching that old man he can show 'em off in a BDSM club... or a private sex ed just between 'em? Hehehe. No pressure if you rather not have a go at either. Take care hun.

ʕ>⌓<ʔ Hi Caseyy~ Your request is so very yummy good tasty, I had to write it asap! I've kept things a bit more safe, but still sensual and there is def more professor Lake coming in the future. I'm also open to other requests for men behind Remedy... Looking for you, Ilkka lovers ʕ˘з˘ʔ Sigh sigh. I wish someone would adore me as much as Professor Lake adores his favorite student. I’ve given myself an excuse to throw his Finnish ass in medical school, just cause I’ve finished one so many years ago and the mental image of Lake in white coat makes me feel… things. Also, it’s a good excuse for a private anatomy lesson, which is hot af too.

NSFW stuff under the cut and not beta read!

A private lesson. Something that you would spend your hard earned money on without a doubt have been given to you free of charge on one condition.

His apartment. At night. Don’t tell no one.

The secret you were forced to carry for weeks have been burning low in your gut like a forbidden spell. He didn’t name a date, the bastard. Seemed to be caring less and less about your presence in his classroom, didn’t even flinch when you would stare so hard at his back in white coat you could swear you would burn a hole through it.

But professor Lake was the epitome of patience. He carried himself through the sea of white robes like a ship through water, his accent so noticeable that everyone payed attention, no matter how dull the lecture was. When he was in a good mood (which, frankly, was almost always like that) he was showing videos, too; operations, movies, TV shows, pointing the mistakes and making jokes to wake up this sea of sleeping whites.

All of this was before you started studying anatomy and your own body - it’s flaws and imperfections was a dungeon of mystery. You needed a guide – more than that, you needed someone to carve you open, show everything that is beautiful in you, make you see with your own eyes what made you you.

After class, when you passed your finished homework, professor’s hands brushed yours. A silent invitation, his eyes crinkling behind thick glasses, that small, knowing smile being so sincere, you knew it was just for you. The address was whispered between rustling of pages. He asked you to dress casually; the way it would make you the most comfortable. You appreciated him caring for you so much.

It was so, so easy to trust him. It was more than knowing he would not hurt you or make you do something that you didn’t want to. Something about him captivated you and if he would ask you to strip yourself off your clothes in front of the entire class you would do that without a second thought.

You had expected him to taste of coffee he seemed to be always drinking. He was. But there was something else, something more sweet and dark in it, too. You kissed him like you were coming home to him for the million times already. Maybe it was the case. The winter stretched on and on for months and you’ve lost count of days when you last saw the sun. It didn’t matter, as long as between white snow and dark skies he would always find you.

“Lips,” he suddenly whispered, breaking the spell and weaving another one. “Labia oris.”

“Tongue… lingua. Kieli.”

He continued to name the parts of your body. Mapping them with his lingua, his hands, mixing suomi, english, latin, even bits of russian. You were dizzy with his voice alone, with how he effortlessly placed you on large, soft bed, didn’t ask, but rather suggested that you pull off your clothes for him.

And you did.

“Cavea thoracis,” his warm hands cupped the underside of your chest, where your poor heart was beating like a bird in cage. “12 ribs. Two broken and bad healed in my case. The heart… so strong. So young. Pumping blood, every day and every second from the moment it grew in you to you last breath.”

“P-professor…”

“Take notes, rakas opiskelijani. This will be on your exam.”

His lips found your stomach, teeth grazing the rolls and dips, kissing every stretch mark new and old. Sam was savoring you, you realized, your thighs pressing together when he groaned against your skin, not hungry, but reverent.

"Vatsa. Abdomen."

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging lightly, and he chuckled against your skin - a low, pleased sound that vibrated through you.

"Impatient," he mused, switching to English, though his accent curled around the word like a caress.

"But I know you can be good for me."

You swallowed, nodding, because what else could you do? He had a way of unraveling you, of making you want to obey just to hear the approval in his voice. His hands slid lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your last remaining clothing.

"Reisi. Femur. Ja tämä..."

His breath was hot against your inner thigh. You gasped as his tongue found you, slow and deliberate, mapping you in a way that had your back arching off the bed. He hummed in satisfaction, the sound reverberating through you like a second touch. You whimpered, fingers twisting in the sheets as his mouth moved with devastating precision. Every flick of his tongue was a word, every slow drag a sentence - some secret, ancient language written only in pleasure. You were wetting his face, the collar of his shirt, the sheets, everything, but he didn’t care. His fingers joined in your unraveling, so long and thing, burrowing themselves in your pulsation.

Through frantic beating of your heart in your ears, you heard professor speaking again – term after term, his fingers pressing from the inside out, remember, remember how good it feels, it’s your body, your body doing such a good job… You clenched around his fingers.

"Yes, just like that," and he rewarded you with a slow curl inside, pressing up into that sweet, secret place that made your vision blur, hips jerking, choked cry tearing from your throat as pleasure coiled tigher, hotter, yes, there, right there, please!

"Uterus," he continued, lips brushing your trembling stomach.

"Kohtu. Матка. Where life is. Where the light is. So much pain. So much pleasure."

You arched, gasping, as his free hand palmed your breast, rolling your hard nipple between his fingers in time with the thrust of his hand.

"You're perfect like this," he growled, switching to Finnish, the words rough and honeyed. "Niin täydellinen. So wet for me, your hole eager to be filled. Look at you, so responsive. Vagus nerve lighting up like a storm. S-skin warm and red. Pupils dilated. Heart rate - ah, yes, there it is – are you gonna come, my sweetheart? Gonna come for your professor?”

The way he said it – professor - low and possessive, with just a hint of that academic authority still clinging to his voice, sent a fresh wave of heat through you. His fingers worked you with cruel precision, his dark eyes locked on yours, watching every twitch of your lashes, every gasp you couldn’t swallow down. And then Sam’s mouth was on you again, his tongue dragging over your clit just as his fingers crooked there, and you shattered - vision whiting out, back arching off the bed as you came with a cry he swallowed greedily. When the last tremor faded, he pressed his forehead to yours, breath mingling.

"You’re the sweetest," he whispered. "To study. To know. I want to know every way your body works. I want you to know it with me.’”

You believed him.

[tumfullofblue]

when i will fucking stop needing people more than they need me

[tumfullofblue]

Your gman fics have saved me from going insane thank you for the amazing fics !!

Of course! Im glad that you could provide you with some good ol g-man time!