#does the one long intense sniff in the hair

[charliemwrites]

Part 1

Finally finished this! I think I put way too much pressure on myself to get this just right and it gave me some major writer's block. Anyway, please enjoy!

Content: Wet dreams, Somnophilia (sort of), Identity Porn, Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy (through dreams), Uncomfortable Situation, Pushy/Predatory behavior (brief)

“Bad dreams again?”

Drowsy and sluggish, you blink at your aunt. She’s as sleek and coiffed as always, pressed business attire and shiny hair. Shoulders back, spine straight. A woman people respect and heed without question.

Your mother’s voice whispers in your ear, that lovingly patronizing tone. See how professional she looks, dear? Isn’t that nice?

It’s not Aunt Katie’s fault though. She does look professional, and it is nice. It suits her.

You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “They’re not bad, really. Just… intense.”

She hums, elegant fingers tracing the edge of your borrowed desk. “They can’t be very good if they’re keeping you up.”

You’re tired enough that you almost correct her a second time. The problem is that the dreams are too good. You wake up panting, sweating, halfway to – well. You’re not about to discuss the finer points of a kinky wet dream with your CIA aunt. Besides, it’s silly to get so defensive of something that affects you seemingly negatively.

“Maybe,” you reply, rubbing at your heavy eyes. It feels like you’re trying to look through clear jelly.

“Why don’t you take a break?” Aunt Kate suggests.

You frown, a pang of guilt striking your empty tummy. “No… no, I’m okay. It’s not even lunch yet.”

She smiles at you. The same fond smile she’s always graced you with, on holidays and birthdays, whenever she could escape the secretive walls and red tape to be with family.

“You’re already ahead on paperwork. You’re not a bad employee for getting a little sun.”

Your eyes flick longingly to the door.

Apparently, the government doesn’t believe in things like windows or sunlight. Your little desk is at the very end of a long, half-empty hallway in the middle of a concrete cube and drowning in awful blue fluorescence. You can’t even bring yourself to drag a plant to this crappy little island because you’d feel too guilty putting it through this.

“Okay… maybe just for a few minutes,” you allow.

Her smile widens as she nods for you to follow. “C’mon, I’ll walk you out. I think the dogs will be free for some enrichment.”

Well, that certainly gets you out of your squeaky office chair.

Honey sunlight drizzles over your neck and shoulders, dripping syrupy-slow down your spine. It diffuses through your chest, chasing away the artificial chill of the office. The sleepy haze retreats like frost melting from glass.

You sigh into the fresh air, ignoring the tang of gunpowder lingering on the breeze, and turn your face to the sun. Summer is coming to an end, the heat broken into mellower warmth. There won’t be many days like this left before autumn bites down and shakes the leaves from the trees. A shame you’ll likely waste most of them in your administrative prison. 

The dogs stretch out in the grass around you, tongues lolling and eyes bright, keeping you company. A furry bouquet of black and tan in the manicured grass, their ears and tails like stalks to strange plants.

You bury your fingers in Zeus’s coat and get a fuzzy white tummy for your efforts. He’s a young and handsome thing, the newest addition to the K-9 unit, still a bit fluffy around the ears. You try not to think of how that will fade and harden, just like the older dogs in the unit, just like his human counterparts. Just scratch at that itchy spot by his ribs and smile when his hindleg kicks.

Friga stands and stretches on your right side, leaning her shoulder into yours. Then picks her way around the others to sniff at Zeus. Offended by her interruption, he flails onto his stomach and nips at her, one big forepaw thumping the ground.

She goads him into playtime, and you watch with the older pack members as they begin to romp. They tumble and grumble around you, heedless of bumping into any of the others. You laugh, bright and loud—

The back of your neck tingles.

You glance around, not even sure why. Until you see a figure across the field. He’s standing by the track where about two dozen men are jogging. Recruits, you guess. But he’s not observing them or barking orders. No, he’s clearly turned to face you. It’s too far to make out any features, apart from what seems to be an unusual haircut.

You quickly glance away, surreptitiously trying to determine if the man’s attention was on something else that happened to be in your direction. But there’s little else but you and the dogs in this field, the kennels noticeably off to the left.

Then again, someone sitting in the grass with half the K-9 unit is a bit unusual. He’s probably trying to decide if it’s something that needs investigation. You hope it’s not.

Still, you can’t shake the discomfiting sense that he’s looking at you.

You ignore him until it’s time for the dogs to go back - but that prickly feeling of being watched never subsides.

That night, in the guest room of your aunts’ house, the dreams take on new life.

It starts as it always does. A dark room. A lush bed. Silky sheets. Moonlight seeping through blinds like smoke. And him.

He’s behind you. A broad body so solid you’d think he was a wall if not for the heat. It’s so intense this time, like a wildfire raging out of control, crawling from his skin beneath yours. You sense more than feel the big hand around your jaw. Rough fingers clutch at the plush of your thigh. Hot breath fans across the back of your neck, rippling shivers down your spine.

There’s a voice in your ear. No words you can discern, just a thunder-deep rumble with smoky edges. Stubble scrapes the delicate skin of your neck and catches in your hair.

A thick, heavy cock is buried deep inside you, kissing the entrance to your womb. Your pussy twinges a sweet-sharp ache with each deliberate grind of his hips. He’s spreading you open to get as deep as he can, throbbing balls pressed up tight to your sopping entrance.

Your own hands are all but useless. One twists desperately in the sheets, the other clutches at the meaty swell of his ass. Pleasure upends anything like sense or thought, even hazy dream logic. There is just this man fucking you like he owns you, two of his fingers in your drooling mouth, petting your tongue. A ring clicks against your teeth.

“Found you,” he whispers.

You jolt, eyes flying open. The powder blue ceiling of your borrowed room greets you. You’ve kicked the cotton sheets into a tangled mess around your ankles, tiny shirt ridden up your chest. Your panties are soaked.

The taste of metal lingers behind your incisors.

It’s a busy day. For once, you’re free from the confines of your sad little nook. Aunt Kate must have taken pity on your sorry state the day before and has procured busy work. Files that need hand delivery, or physical reports for you to gather. You don’t care if it’s just something to get you out of the office, you relish the stolen moments outside between buildings.

If there’s a downside, it’s the glances you attract. Everything about you projects civilian, despite the access card prominently pinned to the lapel of your blazer. It draws curious once-overs at best and suspicious scans at worst – or speculative appreciation at the very worst. Every time a fresh-faced recruit or overly decorated middle-aged man lingers as you pass, you hear your mother’s voice again.

Don’t you know what those military men are like? Practically animals. I couldn’t possibly let you be exposed to them.

It’s long ingrained to keep your eyes forward, head level, and try to keep your hips from swaying as much as possible. You’re grateful for whatever bit of paperwork you can clutch to your chest, just to hide your figure and have something to do with your hands.

You’re picking up some personnel files from the infirmary, smile brightly at the receptionist as she passes them over. Mallory is only a couple years older than you, and she’s been working here a year already.

“Lunch in the mess today?” she asks, spinning a pen between her fingers.

“As if you even need to ask,” you tease. “Noon?”

“I’ll meet you there.”

She blows you a kiss as you leave, counting the number of files to be sure you have them all. Your eyes skim over one of the names, a white label on the folder fin. “MacTavish, J.” in blocky typewriter font. You shuffle them back into a neat stack and pivot for Aunt Kate’s office.

You’re not in the moonlit bedroom this time. A half-moon grins down from a starry sky, wearing smoky nebulas for lipstick. Beneath you lays cool grass and soft earth, rich and loamy in your heaving lungs. Petals blooming in the dark kiss your overheated skin, little relief for the burn in your veins.

The change in scenery is almost as dizzying as the man between your thighs. Almost.

But it’s not the dew-saturated breeze that muddles your bewildered thoughts. It’s the hot, wet, clever tongue lavishing your drenched pussy. He licks in broad stripes from your aching hole to your throbbing clit, only ever pausing to indulge a slow suck to the bundle of nerves, before resuming that hypnotic circuit.

One thigh is hooked over a wide shoulder, your heel dug into the flexing muscles of a broad back. The other is spread by a big, calloused hand, giving him unfettered access to the softest, neediest parts of you.

You mewl desperately, hand darting down to his bobbing head. Your nails scrape shorn stubble, eliciting a gravelly groan that sends electricity up your tingling spine. It’s nothing compared to the growl you earn when your fingers twist into the longer, soft strands at the top.

For the first time, you’re able to voice more than helpless moans and wanton whimpers.

“Please,” you sob softly, “please.”

You feel him smirking, a wicked curl against your fluttering cunt. Then he focuses the tip of that awful, dexterous tongue on your clit, flicking in purposeful little strokes.

M-A-

“S-so close,” you whine, hips twitching. He pins you flat, pace never faltering.

V-I-

You shudder as your pussy clenches and spasms, finally, finally—

You wake with a sharp sound, head spinning. Your orgasm washes away like the tide, leaving disappointment and exhaustion behind. You nearly scream into your pillow as you press your thighs together. Still half asleep, it even feels like you have beard-burn.

You’re in line at the mess with Mallory, listening to her complain about some rude colonel that just had to share his opinion about her acrylics. She does the best impressions, and you’re grinning and laughing as the two of you shuffle through the options. You’re reaching for a scoop of rice when the conversation behind you catches your attention.

“—came in a couple days ago.”

“The whole squad?”

“With Braveheart himself.”

A snort. “You better not let MacTavish hear you say that. He’ll—”

“Helloooo?” You blink at Mallory, who arches her brows and waves a bagel at you. “Want one?”

“Oh, uh… sure, why not,” you answer.

“Atta girl!” she cheers, tossing it in the toaster. “Carbs for days.”

You giggle but can’t help glancing behind you. The two men have already moved on though. Not that it was any of your business – or anything interesting. You’re not sure why that caught your attention. Men are just loud, you suppose, snatching a couple to-go packets of cream cheese.

As you’re leaving the mess, you happen to glance over your shoulder. A pair of sharp blue eyes catch yours from one of the tables. A group of men, just about to sit. Mallory tugs your shirt to keep you from clipping the doorjamb and you hurry after her.

There’s heat at your back. Not from a body this time, but a fire burning low and hot in a hearth. No, the body is in front of you this time, filling up your watery field of vision. Peachy skin and coarse dark hair, an old scar slashing across a sharp hip, miles of lean muscle.

Not that you have much opportunity to ogle with tears blurring your sight. The fat cock bullying the back of your throat makes it hard to do anything but choke. You dig your nails into a thick thigh and pull back, writhing your tongue along a puffy vein as you go. The leaking head rests on your drenched tongue as you catch your breath. Smoke and leather and musk saturate your lungs, cloud your empty head.

He smells so good; you don’t even like cigars.

A rough thumb caresses your cheek, a silent request for you to continue. You can practically feel the lust-drunk moans vibrating in his chest – so deep, they’re barely audible over the crackling fire.

You hiccup as deep a breath as you can manage and swallow him down again. He’s silky on your tongue, you sigh softly through your nose as the blunt head flirts with your gag reflex. You slacken your jaw despite the ache already crawling into the joint. Even then, your teeth scrape the base a bit, but that only makes him twitch against your soft palate.

“Look here, love.”

Your lashes flutter as you try to focus your gaze, scrolling your eyes up his body. Most of the details are lost either in the haze of desire or the vagary of dreams, but the blue eyes that greet you are sharper than real life.

You jolt back to consciousness with a dry cough, the scent of him still haunting your senses. You stumble to the restroom for water. Don’t even realize that you’re glancing in the mirror over your shoulder, expecting someone to be there, until you realize you’re alone.

Oddly bereft, you trudge back to bed and try to focus on the clean soap smell of your aunts’ detergent.

In moments like this, it’s hard not to blame yourself.

Not because you’ve done anything wrong, or even feel like you have. It’s because the situation is so frustratingly out of your control that it’s almost easier to tell yourself that one decision or another would have avoided this outcome. A sharper response, a frown instead of a smile, a different walking route.

(There’s also your mother’s voice, always. Saying to be smart, to pay attention, to not “put yourself” in a vulnerable position. You silence that voice viciously this time.)

Still, the fact of the matter is, there’s no personal choice you could have made to keep Corporal Callahan from cornering you in this supply closet. You just wanted a box of tissues.

“Look, I know you’re Agent Laswell’s niece, but I don’t see why we can’t go out because of it,” he reasons. As if that’s the reason you’ve been trying to gently dissuade his attempts.

“It’s not that—” you begin, shifting. He’s standing too close, but you refuse to back yourself any deeper into this tiny space. The doorway is right there, he’s just taking up all of it.

“Then just say yes,” he chuckles. His tone is all smooth and easy, meant to be charming maybe? “Just one date, that’s all I’m asking.”

Except you’re not asking, you think with helpless frustration. The sharp words get trapped behind your teeth, cutting up the roof of your mouth. Your heart is beating so hard and loud you can barely hear his “romantic” overtures.

“I’m not really…” You’re not even sure what to say this time; you’ve already told him you’re not looking to date. He’d said some vaguely predatory line about changing your mind.

In the absence of a finished statement, Callahan takes the opportunity to continue cajoling.

“C’mon,” he sing-songs, “I’m not letting you out of there until you say yes.”

You pry your jaw open, about to agree to it just for the sake of getting free. Deal with the fallout later.

There’s a rush of air and suddenly the doorway is empty. You briefly see Callahan against the opposite wall, face blank in unpleasant surprise. Then a big body blocks your view of him. Broad, bunched shoulders and thick thighs. A shock of brunet hair shaved close at the sides and long at the top. Your entire body locks up.

“You come near her again, they won’ stop findin’ pieces of ya, aye?” A growl, low and rough, Scottish accent thick. You shiver.

Callahan stutters something, a few garbled syllables through a strained and winded voice. You think you might hear “captain” in there somewhere. The bigger man shifts, you hear a muffled thump – Callahan hitting the wall again, you think. Then, with seemingly no effort, your savior tosses Callahan to the side like trash. He stumbles, catches himself.

“Away ‘n bile yer heid.”

Callahan flicks one last frightened glance your way then hurries off, proverbial tail tucked between his scrawny legs. You don’t even watch him go, eyes glued to the stranger’s muscular back. He rolls his wide shoulders, cracks his neck, and finally turns.

Familiar blue eyes pin you in place as he steps closer. The scent of cigar smoke and leather teases your nose.

A voice you’ve known for months rumbles in his chest. “Found you.”

Previous | TBC...

Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #hades and persephone inspired #soulmates #john soap mactavish #captain john mactavish #kate laswell

[skamenglishsubs]

Subtext and Culture, Young Royals, Season 3, Episode 2

Episode 2 starts days or maybe a week after episode 1. The curfews and phone ban is in place, so Wilhelm and Simon make the most of their one hour of phone sex talking.

Blink and you miss it: Wilhelm snapped a quick instant picture of himself and Simon at the palace in the last episode, using the camera we saw on his desk. The heart is still on his hand, so maybe it's the next day, or maybe he's been filling it in every day.

Cinematography: Intense red light typically symbolizes their mutual love, and this scene is overflowing with it.

Lost in translation: They both finish the phone call with "puss", which means kiss, but not exactly. It's more platonic, something you can say and do with your parents, or your kids, or end phone calls with. The other word for kiss, "kyss", is more romantic/sexual, and would be super weird to end a phone call with. Simon is using that word when he says he would kiss Wilhelm's collar bone birth mark.

Subtext: Of course Vincent doesn't believe anyone was bullied. He's the biggest bully, but what he does is just a joke, or the other guy deserved it. This is gonna be a recurring theme™ in this episode, how various characters look back on and remember, or choose not to remember, what happened to them.

Subtext: If you didn't pick up this meaningful glance, you're blind. The initiation porno was totally real, and Nils and August clearly remember it, and weren't as flippant about it as Vincent.

Culture: In Sweden, inner city schools are typically better and have richer students than the poorer schools out in the suburbs. This is the exact opposite of the typical US school demographical pattern.

Subtext: Wilhelm avoids Farima's question by evading it. Note that it does make sense that she doesn't know what's going on at these schools since she's an employee, she's not upper-class herself. Wilhelm's parents know though since they attended Hillerska, but they would of course never admit it either.

Culture: Ironically, this is exactly how the real-world Danish royal family handled the Herlufsholm scandal in 2022 involving prince Christian. Only when the media storm in Denmark got too intense did they pull him out of the school, while furiously denying knowledge of the abuse or that he was involved in any way.

Cinematography: We're in the cursed music room, but the light is soft and golden, and the scene is just cute. No fight this time.

Subtext: We're touching the theme™ again, but from Simon's perspective. He has the same outsider perspective we have; speaking up about abuse is always good, and if the school's closing because of it, that's an obviously good thing. There's plenty of scenes in this episode showing that most Hillerska students don't share this perspective, they really love their school, as fucked up as it is.

Subtext: Although it sounds like a rehearsed PR line and Felice is thinking about her girl group here, it's gonna come true for her and Sara.

Subtext: Yuck. No further comment.

Cinematography: The immediate cut to Felice getting her aggressions out in gym class shows us exactly what she thought of what the principal said and how much it pissed her off.

Blink and you miss it: Simon audibly sniffs Wilhelm's hair.

Blink and you miss it: Micke made dinner for both of them, but in her depression, Sara ignores the cooked food (Pyttipanna, btw), and makes herself a cucumber sandwich instead.

Subtext: Micke is a man on a mission, and he is constantly steering the conversation towards helping Sara get her driver's license. For him, it's a way to make up for having been a shitty parent.

Culture: Sweden has long been a holdout of stick-shift cars, and if you don't do your practical test in a stick-shift, you'll get a restricted license, so it's not out of the ordinary for Micke to be teaching Sara how to drive one. However, automatics have seen a sharp rise in the last decade, and in 2024 automatics will finally overtake them.

Culture: The green ÖVNINGSKÖRNING sign is compulsory in Sweden if a car is being driven by someone on a learner's permit, with a parent or friend as the instructor. There's also a red version of the sign, which indicates it's a student driver with a professional instructor in a dual control car.

Cinematography: The room is filled to the brim with things to do, there's a bazillion board games, they have books, magazines, fidget thingies, they're drowning in stuff, and yet the girls are still soooooo boooored just because they don't have their phones. Except Madison, who is knitting.

Subtext: Here comes the theme™ again, and Fredrika is firmly in camp denial. Everyone else is just lying and exaggerating! The wheels are starting to turn in Felice's head though.

Subtext: Nils and August are finally talking about the initiation without Vincent being present, and they can finally be honest about what they actually thought about it. It happened, they didn't like.

Subtext: Their idea of fixing it however is not to go out publicly and talk about it, but to just quietly stop the tradition, hoping they'll be the last ones. (Since there are no second-year students in the show, we have no idea what happened to them, so we're just gonna ignore that.)

Subtext: And here comes the reason that August wanted to put a stop to it. He was completely humiliated by it, and he doesn't want anyone else to know that he was humiliated, because that just makes it worse. This is also the reason that traditions like this keep on going, no-one wants to blow the whistle on it, because everyone was abused, everyone was a victim, it's hard for abuse victims to speak up.

Cinematography: The talk with Nils triggered an anxiety attack for August, and being inside his small room doesn't exactly help. Him going so close to the camera that he almost bumps into it really shows how he feels like the walls are closing in on him.

Culture: This, kids, is a standard Swedish landline telephone jack. For the longest time I thought phone jacks looked like this everywhere, but it turns out that this particular design was only used in Sweden and Iceland(!?!). You won't find these in newer buildings because landlines are pretty much dying out, and if there are phone jacks they'll probably be using the much more common RJ-11 standard.

Culture: This, kids, is an Ericsson Diavox phone. The former government phone monopoly in Sweden, Televerket, only allowed certified and approved phones to be used on the network, and they only approved a very small set of phones, so everyone had pretty much the same phones in their homes. However, in the 1980's the market started getting flooded with "illegal" phones from other countries, so the monopoly simply stopped enforcing the rule, and you could finally, finally, plug in that novelty Garfield phone that you always wanted.

Blink and you miss it: Sara is studying for her driving test, and she's reading about driving in the dark.

Subtext: We're gearing up for the main plotline of the season, dropping more hints that maybe Wilhelm's image of Erik wasn't complete, and what August says sows some seeds of doubt in him.

Subtext: This song is objectively not very good, please don't kill me, but it is very sixteen-year-old-boy-just-singing-from-his-heart, not thinking about the text.

Subtext: Simon isn't wearing anything purple, but just after he posts his song video, he picks up a purple shirt, drops it immediately, and then the camera lingers on it. Colour theory goes brrrrrrrr. He thought about Wilhelm, and then stopped because his music is more important to him or something?

Subtext: Unlike Simon, Wilhelm immediately understands how problematic the text is for him, and how people will interpret it...

Subtext: ...but since he doesn't want to hurt Simon's feelings, he lies about why he thinks the song was a very, very bad idea. And he cushions it by telling Simon that he thinks the song is jätte-jätte-bra. Giant-giant-good.

Subtext: Yes, but also no, and someone from the court really should have given Simon some media training and explained to him why he has to be very careful about what he posts. But it's drama fuel, which is why this disaster is allowed to happen.

Subtext: A nice little throwback to season 1, this is exactly what Erik told Wilhelm in the first episode, about making sure that their public image is carefully curated.

Subtext: That's some on-the-nose foreshadowing there, since Felice is one of the main causes for the school ultimately closing.

Subtext: We're back to the theme™, Fredrika is saying pretty much the same thing as Vincent. It didn't happen, and if it did, it wasn't that bad.

Subtext: However, Felice isn't playing along this time, she's starting to speak up about the issues, and the result is a long, awkward silence, because her friends are not willing to do the same.

Subtext: Wilhelm and the rest of the rich kids are of course all wearing pretty expensive high-end hiking gear, in contrast with Simon who is simply wearing one of his usual hoodies and his usual winter jacket that we've seen before. That's a damn fine jacket from Fjällräven, btw, the same company that makes the weirdly globally popular Kånken backpacks.

Blink and you miss it: Henry is getting dragged for his actually quite reasonable objection to the tent groupings.

Subtext: Felice physically distances herself from her friends, and joins Simon and Wilhelm, in a nice little foreshadowing of the show's ending.

Blink and you miss it: Did you miss the line in last episode where Ayub said they were also gonna go camping at Talludden with their classmates from Marieberg? Well, here they are, because they pitched their tents nearby, and decided to go check out the Hillerska camp. It's not just Rosh and Ayub randomly walking through the woods.

Subtext: In season 2, we learned that Stella has a crush on Fredrika that she thinks is one-sided, but Fredrika sure has some kind of reaction to seeing Stella being close with Rosh. Jealousy, perhaps? Not clear at this point in time.

Subtext: Read the room Fredrika, for fuck's sake. At least Wilhelm has started learning to recognize privilege. The other rich kids probably recognize their privilege, but they're mostly just enjoying how much better they are than the poor regular kids.

Subtext: But Wilhelm's still got a lot more to learn. Yes, technically he is forced to spend his summer studying, and technically it is a kind of work, but the underlying reasons are completely different. If he skips it or fails, nothing bad will happen to him, unlike the Marieberg kids who rely on their summer jobs to have any sort of spending money.

Lost in translation: Wilhelm's dad says that the queen is going to be "sjukskriven", which is more serious than someone deciding on their own to take some time off or to use some sick days. It means that a doctor has evaluated you and decided that you are not fit to work, and that if you're a regular person, you are eligible for sick pay for the foreseeable future.

Cinematography: Yeah, mommy is really sick and Wilhelm is feeling the weight of responsibility, but take a look at that sunrise! It's so pretty! Wilhelm is completely in shadow because trouble whatever, but look at how that light just pops, with the sky and the water and the sun on the trees! Beautiful!

#young royals #young royals subtext #young royals analysis #young royals season 3

[violet-eng]

Neuvillette NSFW Headcanons.

NSFW +18 kamino eru did the 🎨

Since his work is exhaustive and drains a lot of energy from him, most of the time he is a bottom.

He lets you ride him because he knows you like it - and he doesn't have the strength for that.

When he's bottom he cums fast.

He's very, very, very vocal. You are going to hear him say your name many times, he murmurs, moans and pants a lot.

He always tells you how good you are at taking it.

He asks for more, he asks for it with tears in his eyes when you guys are on your third or fourth orgasm.

He cries during sex? YES, he cries because he likes doing it with you, because of the overstimulation you cause in him with your circular movements on his fat cock.

He cries and whispers "I love you, sniff sniff".

You ask for one more round, you lean over him and he accepts -with tears rolling down his eyes- even though he is almost drained. He would do anything for you… when he is bottom.

"Baby, I can't take it anymore," he would say, shiny pearls rolling down his cheeks. "Just a little more, Neuvi, please" you would say back.

---WHEN HE'S ON TOP.

If he had few judgments that day, he will come home early and if you didn't run away… pray, because you will be tied to the bed until dawn. It's now his turn

Neuvillette has high histamine…seriously, high. He is fit. And if his day at work didn't take much of his energy, then he'll pour it all out on you…and not just the energy.

He's good at pregame, he'd sneak up on you from behind while you're in the kitchen and start with wet kisses on your neck.

Lubrication is not a problem for him… Hydro vision…

He has a breast sucking kink.

He is a god, literally a god when eating pussy, like a starving man.

He grunts as the head of his fat cock begins to enter your tight, steaming little pussy. He growls a lot, it's almost animalistic.

Lots of compliments, damn, he praises your body a lot, especially your pussy for the way it sucks him.

His thrusts are soft: Neuvillete not only has sex, no… he makes love, and he wants to show you how much he loves and appreciates you.

Missionary is his favorite position when he decides to be on top, because he can see you cry for him, ask for more, he can also hide his face in the crook of your neck and let you hug him while he speeds up the pace.

He whispers a lot of "I love yous" as he cradles your cheek with his hand.

He likes it when you caress his hair while doing it, he also caresses yours.

He does it all... night... long... and then goes back to work the next day.

He avoids cumming inside because he knows that you are both busy and don't have time to raise children.

AH.... but when he's in heat!!!!! Gurl, look for a place to hide yourself…

He is a dragon, and he smells when you are ovulating.

That thing about not having children because you don't have time for parenting… it was a lie… Neuvilette in heat has a powerful breeding kink

If he is in heat, he notifies that he will not go to work, and at the same time he tells your boss, because girl… you are not going to leave the room for at least two weeks.

His cock grows at that time, perhaps twice its size, and his seed load the same… Hydro Dragon must make sure he has offspring, right?

He thrusts you without warning - almost always -

Puts you in mating press pose almost all the time, because that way he can get deeper

Dirty talk, but for real... who's this man? This ain't the soft Neuvi you know:

"Loving what your man's cock is doing to you, uh?" "You look so nasty from up here, awful, how is that you were a lady before this, moaning like a slut?" "Beg, y/n, beg for my cock in this danked pussy of yours "

Growls, roars, whimpers, calls you his, uses your name with a low low looooooowwwww and sexy voice.

His voice … Archons … the tone of his voice descends to levels that when he bathes your ear could make you cum asap.

He is rough, ambitious, energetic, intense, you feel that at any time he will break you in two.

Finds your point G almost immediately, and will not stop hitting it with its great, fat and long cock, even if you beg him to stop because of overestimulation.

Doesn't go slowly, moreover, you feel as if he was only faster, fuck, how much stamin does he have?

The thrusts are so strong that it is as if you felt it in your throat

He relies on the back of the bed for more power and stability, and you can see his muscles tense in that pose, attractive as fuck.

Leaves you marks. Many … marks. In the breasts, the thighs, the neck, the groin, the shoulders …

Doesn't stop. He loves your cock drunk face beneath him, and tilts his head while appreciating the view.

"Look at that face you're pulling. Looks like you love my cock, eh?"

He's aggressive, yeah, but when he rubs your clit he's just oh so lovely and tender. And that fucking kills you.

Touches the buldge that shows through your belly, where his fat cock hits your cervix, and it only makes him go faster, and faster... you almost faint a couple of times.

Cums a lot, inside of you of course, he wants to see your swollen belly with his child, and ensures that it stays inside of your abused hole.

And that's only for a day... the next 13 days... gurl... you better grab a wheelchair.

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin smut #neuvilette smut #neuvilette x reader #neuvillette #neuvilette genshin #neuvilette fanart #fontaine

[leighsartworks216]

I love how you write for Astarion, my request is (as long as your comfortable with it) Tav tends to have nightmares from a past sexual assault, one that they've opened up and told Astarion about once their relationship became more official and he opened up. One night, Tav wakes up with a scream bolt upright in their bedroll, hyperventilating. Everyone comes to check on them, but it's Astarion who realizes what's going on immediately coming to their aid and comforting them.

I did not really reference what the dream was about, but I did imply it was about somebody who hurt Tav/Reader in a few lines

This is also my first time writing any of the companions besides Astarion so I hope I did okay with them lol

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Warnings: panic attack, ugly crying, protective Astarion

Word Count: 704

Main Masterlist

Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

The scream shatters the quiet of the night. Everyone rushes toward the sound, weapons drawn and spells at the tip of their tongues. They find no monster, no animal, no criminal - only their leader, sitting up in their bedroll, sobbing uncontrollably.

Astarion is the first to recognize what’s happened. He rushes from his tent to your side, hands held in front of him though not touching you. His face is serious, eyes focused on you with an intensity he shared with no one else.

“It’s alright, darling,” he coos as calmly as he can. “Do you hear me? You’re safe.”

Your whole body shakes. A cold sweat soaks your sleep clothes and sticks your hair to your head. Your breaths come in rapid, shallow. You don’t look at him. The spawn isn’t even sure you see him. Perhaps all you perceive him as is the monster of your past.

He slowly takes your hand in his, loose enough that you could pull away with no resistance. You almost do - until your eyes, wide and teary and fearful, meet his. Whether it is fear of the monster you see in his face or a desperate plea for help, he can’t tell. “Can you hear me, dove? You’re alright. You’re safe.”

Gale dashes over with a canteen of water. Karlach drops her battle axe in favor of rushing to your side. Shadowheart starts kneeling by your side, hoping she can provide any help. Wyll is just starting to approach when Astarion nearly growls and waves them all away with a hand. “Go away! Give them space!”

“They’re-!”

“Not physically injured,” he barked at the cleric. “They’re panicking. Back. Up.”

Shadowheart frowns, but she gets up and backs a few paces away. Gale drops the water by Astarion and retreats. Karlach has to be stopped by Wyll - too blinded by her worry to register how angry Astarion is. Lae’zel watches on, weapon still drawn.

Your eyes have been fixed on him the whole time. The sneer drops once they’re far enough away from you.

“It’s alright, dear, just breathe.” He pulls your hand to his chest. There’s no heartbeat, but, though he doesn’t need to, he makes a show of breathing deeply. His lungs and chest expand with each breath. “Come on, love, breathe with me. You’re safe.”

His words finally seem to reach you. You wheeze and choke as you force your breathing to slow down and follow his. He’s sure his heart would have stuttered with relief if it still beat. “That’s it. That’s it.”

The entire camp is anxious as they watch on. It takes much too long before you’re beginning to breathe normally. Your face is red and wet and snotty from crying, but you don’t have the energy or presence to care. Nobody else does, either.

“You’re safe,” Astarion repeats for the up-teenth time. He squeezed your hand gently. “Nobody is going to hurt you. Alright?”

You shakily nod. The fact you could answer eased his concern immensely. The haze of your nightmare finally lifted. You were now all-too-aware of your sweat-drenched body, of the tears on your face, and of everyone else watching your breakdown. You sighed, sapped of energy. “I’m sorry,” you croaked.

“Don’t you dare,” he chastises immediately.

You sniff as you lean forward, dropping your head against his shoulder. He’s not wholly comforted with the knowledge that snot was getting on his shirt, but, he supposed, it was better than leaving you to suffer. He’d be cleaning it first light, though. He wraps an arm around your back and tangles his other hand in your hair. Your hand falls from his chest and around his waist, where you weakly hang on to the fabric of his shirt.

Over your shoulder, Astarion nods to the others. They’re reluctant to leave, but if they stay they risk being yelled at by him again. Karlach is the last to leave. She gives him a pointed look - silently telling him that she demands answers in the morning - and he nods, if only to get her to leave you alone.

“You’re alright, dear. I’m here.”

“Don’t leave,” you whimpered into his shoulder.

He stroked your hair. “I won’t,” he promised. “I’m right here.”

---

Tag List:

@hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @lynnlovesloki @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @httyd-chocolate @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000

#request #requested #fanfic #fanfiction #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate astarion #baldur's gate tav #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate tav #bg3 astarion #bg3 tav #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader

[cuubism]

I'd love something about Dream who's very aware that he's way too intense romantically while also being not intense enough sexually because he's ace. His partners usually prefer it the other way around. If that's something you'd be willing to write (if not that's okay too)

hmm yes, we can always do ace dream. though we didn't quite reach 'aware' 😂 human uni au is what popped to my mind

--

When Hob gets back from class, Dream is lying facedown on the couch, one long arm trailing morosely down to the floor, face smashed so deeply into a pillow that Hob can only see the tufts of his hair. He seems to have been there for some time, and doesn't move when Hob comes in.

"Horrors insurmountable today?" Hob asks as he puts down his bag and heads to the adjoining kitchen to grab a snack. He'll probably need to grab one for Dream, too, now that he thinks about it. Doubtful he's eaten.

Dream just makes an mmph sound against his pillow. Then, once Hob's returned to the living room with a plate of apple slices, Dream pops his head up, lines all over his cheek from the pillow, fluffy hair going every which way, and says, "How much do you care about sex?"

Hob nearly trips and flings his apple slices everywhere. "What?"

"In general," Dream persists, heedless of Hob's shock. "Do you subscribe to the belief that individuals past puberty, particularly men, think about sex constantly, or is that an exaggeration? Which do you think is more important in a partnership: compatible personalities, or compatible sex drives? And why?"

"What is this, a sociology assignment?"

"Answer, please," Dream insists.

Hob sighs and gives in to the mad questioning. Joke's on him for having an insane roommate. "I thought about sex all the time when I was thirteen, maybe. Right now I'm just thinking about how I haven't eaten since breakfast and I'm fucking starving but we're playing Twenty Questions instead of eating. And as to the second one, I don't know, Dream, I think both are probably important."

"So you think about sex an amount you would consider 'frequent'," Dream presses.

Hob's cheeks heat. Sex is not really a topic he wants to discuss with Dream of all people. Those two thoughts don't meld together into anything good for polite company. "I don't know, I guess!? Doesn't everyone?"

Dream lets out a despairing wail and thumps his head back into his pillow. "I am outnumbered."

Hob still has no idea what the hell he's on about. He finally gives up and just starts eating the apple slices. He offers one to Dream, holding it by the corner of his eye until he finally sees it and takes it, turns his head to the side just enough to start nibbling on it.

"You'll choke if you eat that lying down," Hob warns.

Dream begrudgingly pushes himself up, collapsing against the back of the couch, and goes back to nibbling on his apple slice.

"So," Hob continues, awkwardly, when Dream doesn't say anything else, "sex life not going so well, then?"

Dream glares at him, though it's not very intimidating considering the apple halfway into his mouth. "Too well, by most standards," he finally sniffs, and eats the rest of the slice.

"Oh, yeah?" Dream having sex is another thing Hob doesn't really like to think about. Why'd he bring that up again?

"Indeed. I have suitors falling over each other to bed me," Dream says.

Do all classic literature students talk the way Dream does? Hob doesn't know. It's been two years that they've lived together and he's still yet to definitively figure out if it's an affectation or just the way Dream is. He's leaning towards the latter.

Unfortunately, he can believe Dream's statement. Dream is a snitty little prick most of the time, but he's also unbearably beautiful.

"So what's the problem, then?" he asks.

"I don't want them to bed me," Dream says.

Hob's not following. "Say no, then?"

Dream rolls his eyes. "I don't want them to bed me, I want them to want me." His voice loses some of its determination halfway through the sentence, and he looks away.

Ouch. "Sounds like they do want you?"

Dream snorts. "Only so long as it suits them. Only so long as I fit their parameters. Today I spoke to Cori--"

Ah, yes, Cori, Dream's most recent ex-boyfriend. Dream's had a lot of ex-boyfriends, but Cori really tops the list, and not in a good way.

Now that Hob thinks about it, all of Dream's relationships kind of go the same way. Dream comes home after the first date bouncing off the walls with stars in his eyes insisting this person's the one, and within two months the thing's somehow torpedoed into the Underworld and Hob's scraping Dream up off the bathroom floor.

He's starting to see where the initial line of questioning might have come from.

"--and he, at last, was straightforward with me when no one else has bothered to be all this time. I demanded to know, truthfully, why he ended things, and he told me that I 'care too much, but won't put out'--"

Hob winces.

"--which does not make sense, as we had sex frequently? I do not know what else I am meant to be 'putting' and where. I said as much, and he laughed, and said--" he imitates Cori's voice with a surprisingly passable American accent-- "'It only counts if you at least pretend you want to be there, doll. Next time try initiating occasionally.' He left before I could question him further."

Hob doesn't like the picture this is painting. And Dream is looking at him beseechingly, like Hob might be able to explain the bizarre encounter. "So... now you're trying to figure out if your understanding of sex is wrong or something?"

"I felt that, as a neutral observer to the situation, you would be appropriate to survey," Dream says.

(Neutral is a stretch, Hob thinks.)

"So I ask you, Hob Gadling, as a man demonstrably unbothered by 'hookup culture'--"

"Are you calling me a slut?"

"--what do you think is the correct amount that one should care about sex? Because I--" he breaks off, twisting his fingers in his hair, suddenly anxious-- "I do not know what I am doing wrong."

Hob moves to sit beside him, lays a hand lightly on his arm. He's about to say, you're not doing anything wrong, except... that may not precisely be true. At least in terms of how Dream is actually handling it with his partners.

"How much do you care about sex?" he asks.

"Not as much as I am supposed to, evidently," Dream says. Hob just waits for him to elaborate. "Not very much. I prefer not to think about it." He looks at Hob, weary. "Now you will tell me that this is abnormal."

"I don't know what's 'normal'," Hob says. "But it does sound different from how Cori felt about it."

"I suppose," Dream says, sadly.

Hob doesn't particularly like where the intersection of 'I don't care about sex' and 'we had sex all the time' lands him. "If you don't care that much, why keep doing it?"

"It is what is done, is it not?" says Dream. "Besides. I do not mind so much. But even when I do participate, it is still not good enough. Or so it seems."

It's because they're picking up on the fact that you're not really enjoying it, Hob thinks. No one wants a partner who's not engaging. Least not anyone decent. But not saying anything and then just dipping out suddenly is kind of a dickish move, in his opinion.

"Do you want to participate?" he asks.

This seems to give Dream pause. "Mostly I would prefer to do other things. Like. Dates. Only that does not seem much appreciated either." He twists his hands together. "Perhaps Cori is right. I. Care too much."

"No." Hob takes Dream's hands and untwists them. "Cori's a dickhead. You just need to find someone who's on the same page as you, that's all."

"But it seems that book is rather empty," Dream says. He hasn't taken his hands back from Hob.

"Well, was there anyone that you did like having sex with? Or has it always just been--" he can't help but cringe-- "you just putting up with it because you thought you were supposed to?"

"Calliope," Dream says instantly, and Hob lets out a relieved breath. At least it's not all bad. "Because, no matter that it ended poorly... I felt that she truly liked me. And not. Just sex."

"Okay, see?" he says. "You just have to find someone like that."

It... hurts, to try to push Dream into someone else's path. But Hob's long accepted that Dream doesn't feel that way about him. Dream rarely seems hesitant about trying to date anyone he is interested in. Surely if he felt that way about Hob, he would have made it clear by now.

"Someone," Dream echoes, looking down at their joined hands.

"Just because what you want isn't common doesn't mean it's not out there," Hob says, trying to be encouraging. "And hey, if you know now, you can avoid the whole 'not on the same page' rigamarole, hm?"

"Yes," Dream says. "I suppose so." Finally he takes back his hands, instead taking another apple slice from the plate Hob's left on the coffee table and chewing on it slowly.

I would love you right, Hob thinks, unwanted, unbidden. It's not a productive thought, and it's a painful one, too.

"Perhaps I will take a break," Dream decides, though doesn't sound entirely happy about it.

"Could be good," Hob says. "Get your head on right."

"Yes," Dream agrees. "This has been. Illuminating. I thank you for your counsel. I suppose I will have to also thank Cori, 'dickhead' though he may be."

And with that he retreats to his room, still seeming a little off-kilter. And Hob can't help but feel like he's gone wrong somewhere, said something wrong, though he doesn't know where, or what.

#i don't actually know if you specifically wanted dreamling or what whoops #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing #ask #anonymous #ace dream #left it on a cliffhanger goddammit but they just didn't seem emotionally aware enough to confess their feelings then XD

[bleedingoptimism]

The Stray

part four

“What… are you doing?” Eddie asks him softly, afraid of the answer as if he can’t already tell. 

Steve sniffs and looks at him with an apologetic smile, a single tear hanging off his long eyelashes.

“I talked to Robin. I told her the truth. She wants me to go live with her.” 

Right. Robin. The best friend who lives across the fucking country while she’s finishing a master’s or something. The one Steve didn’t want to find out the truth because he didn’t want her to worry. The only family he has left. Eddie had talked with her once or twice on the phone, Steve told her they were roommates… She seemed nice. He kind of hates her now.

“You want to leave.” He doesn't mean to sound so intense but he can’t help himself. His whole world is turning on its axis. Just like that first morning when he got home to find Steve in his kitchen. 

He hadn’t even thought of the kitchen as his in such a long time. It was theirs. Steve’s and Max’s and Eddie’s. Their kitchen.

Why would he leave?

“No!” Steve tells him taking a step closer and shaking his head, “No, but…” He crosses his arms around himself and does that little shrug of his, “It’s been months, Eddie! And I’m not any closer to finding a job or fending for myself! I can’t keep living off of you! Not when-” But he cuts himself and shakes his head again hugging himself harder.

“You are not! You are so much help! And you make us happy and money it’s not a problem-” Eddie tries to assure him.

“But it is! It is for me! I can’t-” Steve frowns at him and Eddie quickly lifts the notebook back from the floor and walks inside.

“What if I gave you a job?” He asks, a little desperate.

Steve's frown deepens as he looks confused at his notebook in Eddie’s hands, “What?”

“I- I’m sorry I found your notebook and I read your songs and they are so good Steve-” He grabs Steve’s hand and gives the notebook back, “Corrored Coffin could hire you as a songwriter! Or I could put you in contact with my agent and-”

Steve throws the notebook into his open bag and takes a step away from Eddie, he covers his face with his hands and moves them up to his hair, tugs on it. And Eddie fumbles in place because he doesn't know where he went wrong.

“So you- you and Max, you- help me and take care of me and give me support and a family, a ho- a home. And now you want to give me a job?! Eddie I- it’s too much. I can’t-” And whatever he was going to say gets lost behind his hands as he covers his face again, shoulders shaking and taking short intakes of air.

Eddie steps right back into Steve’s space and holds him by the shoulders, hands going up and down in a soothing motion, “Woah, puppy, yes, you can! Of course, you can! I’m not offering it, I’m asking you. I need you.”

Hiccuping, Steve slowly moves his hands away from his face, he blushes and his eyes search Eddie’s as he wipes his tears away pointlessly, since more keep falling nonstop.

“Why do you call me that?” He asks seemingly out of nowhere.

Eddie is so thrown back he chuckles, “You don’t mind, do you?” he asks, moving a strand of hair away from Steve’s eyes. He knows he doesn’t, he’s been calling him that for months, and Steve blushes and bites his lips like he’s holding back a whimper every. single. time. It drives Eddie insane. But he’s never asked him why before.

Steve shakes his head and bites his lip, “Why puppy?” he asks.

Maybe it’s not the confession he was hoping for, but still, Eddie tries to lay it all out there. Instead of answering why he calls him ‘puppy’, he answers why he’s in love with him.

“Because you are cute and kind and bubbly. Because your smile is so bright and sincere when you see us, you make coming home the best part of the day. Because your happiness is contagious, your hair is soft and wavy. Because you are bad at taking care of yourself and always put everyone else’s needs before your own. Because you sing like an angel and you are so pretty it makes me want to cry. Puppy.”

Steve blinks and Eddie caresses under his eye, wiping another tear away, “Not because I'm a stray?” Steve murmurs under his breath and before Eddie can answer, Steve grabs Eddie’s hands away from his face but moves a little closer and holds them between their chests.

He shakes his head with a little frown between his brows, “I lied, I do mind when you call me that. It makes me want to do stupid things.”

“Like what?” If he could move closer he would, but right now they are toe to toe.

“Like fall in love with you.” Steve says looking right into his eyes, “Like stay.”

“Fuck, Steve would you?” Eddie whines and lets go of their entwined hands to grab at Steve’s waist and pull him closer, “Would you stay?”

Steve keeps his hands over Eddie’s chest, one palm over his heart and there’s no doubt he can feel how hard his heart is beating right now, “Eddie, I don’t need-”

“I know you don’t, of course you don’t. But I want it.” Eddie interrupts him. And this is it. This is where he comes clean.

“I want you. I want to take care of you, to touch you, to make you feel good, to keep you close and safe. To give you things and stop you from working too hard and remind you when you haven't eaten all day or not to work out too much or forget to take your jacket when it’s cold. I want you to wear my jacket when it’s cold.” 

Finally, Steve’s hands move from his pecs to his shoulders and he circles Eddie’s neck with his arms, the heat of his body warming Eddie from head to toe.

“That sounds like so much work. I’d be so needy,” he whispers shyly, a little unsure. But there’s a glint in his eyes, and Eddie knows he is already in.

“I want you needy,” Eddie says, his lips almost touching Steve’s, “I want to be what you need.”

Steve does whimper at that but he doesn’t move closer. He’s waiting for Eddie to kiss him first but Eddie needs to know. Needs to know if Steve’s still going to leave.

“Puppy, please. Stay.” He begs.

A whine and nod is all he needs.

fin

part 1: 🎸

part 2: 🐾

part 3: 📓

part 4: you are here!

coffee?☕🥐💕

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #i wrote something #the stray #hope you liked it!

[inkyquince]

anyway, Miguel O Hara

content warning. spoiiiiliessssss, stalker and creep miguel o hara, extremely dubious at all times, invasion of the grandes tetas, strong scent kink, rough handling, nsfw but not written sex because its 1am and im sleepy and october is showing me ds2 sims 2 gameplay and i feel myself going insane. oh yeah, and, big ole size kink.

spoilers for the movie under the cut, but yknow its horny

So, canon Miguel sees another version of himself get fucking shot, right? Immediately slips through to prevent a canon event with his daughter, right? Takes over the old Miguel's life. Born to be a single mother, forced to beef with a teenager right?

Well, what if he saw something else in his other life?

He's broken and he's lonely here, but... He has a kid... And he has a partner. And it's someone he knows. Married to a distant friend in this life, but you're his in another one. The one where he's happy, with his kid.

It's hard, tearing his eyes away from what should be. What he should have, carrying his baby in one arm and the other around your waist. His other self looks so happy, so content, so fucking free. Unlike him in his entirety, where he's alone, against the world.

Not only does he become obsessed with this alternative world, he gets stranger and stranger around you. He knows in another life, you lead him into happiness, into being a father. Miguel is usually quiet and stoic, but his presence starts being almost oppressive around you. He seems to stare all the time, his broad, lithe fingers tapping along his muscular arm. Intense and quiet, with something brewing in his deep, dark eyes. He tries to talk more to you, even try to see you away from your spouse, but you never start to look at him like you do in the other dimension. Warm and soft and longing. It starts to irk him, something growing in his stomach. You're fucking his, in another life, yeah, but you're his. But he can't do anything. You're not his. So it builds in his gut.

There's some part of him that believes he can still get this happiness in this world. He can still be who he was meant to be. Miguel spends some evenings climbing the walls to look into your apartment windows, to catch you showering or changing. He doesn't even need to break the window to slip in, the second you leave through the door. A pair of your underwear in his hand, maybe a venture into the bathroom to sniff at your shower wash. Pick up your toothbrush, just to rest it on his tongue. He sits on your side of the bed and rests his broad hand on your pillow, skimming over it, as it to help him imagine stroking your hair as you awaken in the morning.

This isn't what a hero does. He knows that. He knows that Spiderman doesn't enjoy towering over you when the group hangs out, drinking in the size difference. Loves the little expression you look up at him with, like a doe in the headlights. He catches himself dragging a tongue over his canine was he passed behind you, ducking down just enough to catch the scent from your neck.

A hero doesn't follow you when you go out at night. Watches you from outside your window. Doesn't think about how it would be okay if your spouse bled out in the streets one night, and he'd be by your side in minutes.

Each time it all feels too much, he checks over with his other self. Laughing with his daughter jumping into his arms. His other self's hand on your knee as you sit next to him on the couch with a yawn. The way it slowly traces over your thigh as he lean over to give him a kiss.

The feeling builds even more.

Then, the day happens. He watches himself get shot, and he leaves his other life behind. Steps through and becomes someone new.

That night, your husband comes home. Miguel seems to walk straight past you to go to your daughter's room. You were surprised, but gave it no thought as you continued to make him some empanadas, rain lashing against the window.

Miguel hadn't wanted to look at you, not yet. Needed to look at his daughter, needed to take a moment. He kneeled down, by her tiny bed, stroking slowly against her hair as she breathed softly. She slept like there was no pain in the world, no loss... And thanks to him, she wouldn't wake up to her father being dead. Gone. Unable to tuck her into bed anymore. So he just tugged the blanket up to her chin and stood slowly. Leaving the room, he paused in the doorframe, giving his daughter a soft look before glancing towards the kitchen again. Not yet. Not just yet. He needs to make sure.

Turning on his heel, Miguel headed deeper into the flat, looking around until he found the master bedroom. Spick and span, but homey. Unlike his old bedroom. Pictures on the walls. Things on both bedside tables. A blanket laid over the duvet. His dark eyes turned towards the closet, and slowly opened the door, exhaling softly. Your clothes. Next to his clothes. His fingers dragged along the fabric, rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb.

A shaky sigh left Miguel's lips as he gripped the garment tightly, almost ripping it. Shoving the item close to his face, he inhaled deeply, almost tasting your scent on his tongue. It's you. It's no one else. It's you and in this world, you're with him. No one else.

Miguel's clawed hands moved on their own accord as they yanked open the drawers below the hanging clothes, finding socks, bras and... Underwear. Few pairs of his, few pairs of yours. Snatching yours up, he crushed them against his face again, inhaling with his lips parted. He got a dizzying head rush. His eyes snagged on the laundry basket, exhaling loud and slow as he smelled the scent of you and detergent from your clean underwear.

He'll get a proper taste of you if he rooted around in there instead-

"Miguel!" He froze up and immediately stuffed your underwear into his pocket, as if he was a thief instead of your husband, and very entitled them. "Food!"

He dragged his tongue over his lips and stalked from the bedroom.

Miguel was acting strange when he got back from checking on your daughter, his darkened eyes drinking you in as you served up his plate first.

"Hungry?" You gave him a soft smile. "She ate earlier at her friend's house, don't worry."

He wasn't worried. He should be. It's one of those things he'll learn to do, as a new father. But for now, he just walks closer, dragging his broad palm over the counter. His fingers twitch as the distance between you two become smaller and smaller. Soon enough, he's at your back, with his hands twitching before settling on your hips. You hummed as he drew you closer to his towering body, lolling your head back to rest against his shoulder (against, not on his shoulder, Miguel was too tall for that).

Your lips were right there. Perfect and soft and unbitten.

He should change that.

Miguel slowly lowered his head to brush his lips against yours, slowly exhaling as he did so. You gave a similiar sigh and leaned into the kiss, which remained sweet and soft, until you teasingly gave his bottom lip a nip.

The feeling in his gut burst.

He ripped his lips away, just to grip your hips tighter and spin you around. You blinked up at him, surprised by the sudden movement, but couldn't say anything before his tongue was snaking back inside of your mouth, licking at your teeth before forcibly pressing down on your tongue. You could feel his hard cock through his trousers, digging into your stomach as he manhandled you.

"Mig-" You pulled away to breath but he quickly covered your lips with his again, desperation rolling off of him.

"Solo callate." He hissed against your mouth, sharp canines digging into your bottom lip. "Por favor, déjame tenerte primero. Si me amas, déjame usarte."

You couldn't even reply when he shoved you down on the kitchen counter, sending the plates crashing down to the floor. It was like you were immobalised, stunned. Miguel was never rough with you, not really. He was always too aware of how big he was compared to you. But all that seemed to have been tossed out the window.

Your husband roughly yanked your legs apart, breathing low and heavy. Lowering one of his hands slowly, he gave your crotch a squeeze, as his cock began to tent the front of his trousers.

"Quieres que te toque aquí? Te gusta?" Miguel whispered, pressing his forehead against yours, slowly squeezing your crotch, his sharp teeth coming in as you struggled not to moan at his ministrations.

He was scaring you enough for you to try and pull away, but he was too fucking big. He encompassed you. Totally and wholly. Miguel's eyes were two obsidian stones, pupils blown wide and staring down at you with an endless hunger that wasn't there before. He leaned down again and you just pressed your face to the side, avoiding his lips connecting with yours, instead pressing against your cheek.

With a low, almost animalistic snarl, his fingers dug into your jaw and wrenched your head back to stare into your eyes.

"You will let me have you. You cannot take this from me. Not now." You struggled to comprehend what he meant, but he took your silence in stride and pressed his tongue back into your mouth with a low groan.

You cannot stop this, Miguel thought, everything becoming hazy as he felt desire roll over him.You can't make him stop. Not when he finally has you.

rough translations (remember, im using my high school level knowledge, so the grammar is fuck):

"Solo callate. Por favor, déjame tenerte primero. Si me amas, déjame usarte." - "Just shut up. Please let me have you first. If you love me, let me use you."

"Quieres que te toque aquí? Te gusta?"- "Do you want me to touch you here? Do you like it?"

#miguel o hara #miguel x reader #nsft #quincewrites #im so sorry to everyone more fluent in spanish than me #but please message so i can fix it #anyway #its nearly 1am #i threatened to piss october's pants #and ive been shaming quiet #all is good #take tHIS #atspv

[firstaidspray]

Each version of Mr Scratch and what they smell like - Scratch and sniff, if you will.

Okay so because I am So Normal about Scratch, the other night I was wondering what he smells like, and more specifically, what each games' version of him smells like. Now the obvious comes to mind with versions like AW2, who is covered in blood and dons a biker jacket- he smells like gore and leather. But at the mall I did some literal sniffing around some different men's fragrances and have come up with a list of what each version of Scratch would smell like in terms of cologne, as well as extra scents (such as the aforementioned blood and leather). Here we go!!

AW1 Scratch

(Sorry, had NO good pics of him)

The smells, generalized: a warm and spicy cologne, freshly printed ink on paper, the woods, cold air.

We don't get to see much of Scratch in AW1, as he's introduced in the ending, but its DLCs do give us more. However that freshness, that just-created copy of Alan, makes me feel like he would not only smell like- very subtly- freshly printed ink on paper, but also whatever Alan may have worn as a fragrance combined with a genuine forest scent of pine needles, dirt, etc. as well as cold air. As for Alan's fragrance and therefore Scratch's, my cologne for AW1 Scratch is...

Gucci Guilty Por Homme. This fragrance is described in this way: A woody, aromatic, ambery fragrance that magnifies the true essence of [the fragrance's] signature. A new and intense vision of masculinity, [the fragrance] opens with a lighter, milder, and more modernized aromatic hook. The true essence of [the fragrance] is magnified at the heart with the deep ambery signature of Spanish cistus combined with the floral richness of orange flower and a spicy hint of nutmeg. Finally, the mysterious elegance of Indonesian patchouli is reinforced with the long-lasting sensation of dry woods and musks. The fragrance family is "warm and spicy," and the type is considered "woody spices."

I feel this vibe fits Alan, at least in the first game, perfectly. If you've smelled this scent, you know what I mean. It's the smell of a man who has enough money to blow on expensive cologne, yet it somehow remains a humble scent, if one can apply that word to a smell. Though this is said of Alan by Scratch in AWAN, not AW1, "you've got money, fame, but you don't know what to do with it!" In my mind, this is translating back to Alan as a successful writer but still a relatively normal dude, and this scent just fits the vibes. Like yes I have enough money to buy Gucci cologne, but I'm not gonna shove it in your face. Likely only wears it in a very very light way. And because of AW1 Scratch being a fresh copy of Alan, he would wear this scent too. He hasn't developed enough of his own self yet, not like he has by AWAN, so I imagine he smells like Alan does.

To recap: AW1 Scratch smells like Gucci Guilty Por Homme because that is what Alan wears (in my mind) and he is a fresh copy of Alan, yet to develop his own scent tastes. He smells also of the literal woods, as Alan likely does from his "adventure." The smell of fresh ink on paper refers to the vibes of being a "copy," and of words being typed with a typewriter's ink. Cold air refers once more to his freshness and lack of real self- it's like he's hollow, and when he enters the room it turns, and smells, cold, like a winter night.

AWAN Scratch

The smells, generalized: a versatile, charismatic, elegant cologne, hair gel, freshly pressed clothes, Campari.

Scratch has developed his whooole own personality by the time we see him again in AWAN, and therefore has also developed his own taste in fragrances. We know damn well this man is spending good money for good cologne- after all, it's Alan's money that he's taking and using for anything he wants, why not spend an extra bit to smell good? Also, his insanely gelled hair, he's got some hair gel smell on him too. His clothes are very nice and neat (when they aren't bloody) and he often straightens them up, so I'd assume they are freshly pressed and ironed and starched and all that, which you can smell. Campari is not confirmed to be the drink AWAN Scratch has, but considering it is the drink of Tom Zane's choice and his similarities to AWAN Scratch, let's say it is. It's the same color, anyway. It looks the same. He has a faint smell of it on him when he's been drinking. As for Scratch's fragrance, my cologne for AWAN Scratch is...

Montblanc Legend Spirit. This fragrance is described in this way: Discovering a breathtakingly fresh woody aromatic territory, this cool and confident scent blends energizing citrus with intense cardamom and lavender, settling on a sensual woody base. [The fragrance] is a powerfully modern scent designed for a passionate man who yearns to explore new horizons. The fragrance reveals a more casual side of the [designer] man while maintaining the same versatility, elegance, and charisma of the original. It's style is also said to be versatile, charismatic, and elegant.

A passionate man yearning to explore new horizons? Is that not exactly what our dear AWAN Scratch is doing? Sure, his yearning is more like obsession and his new horizons are horrifying, but it still fits. It's said to reveal a casual side but maintain the same elements of the original- Scratch reveals to us his silly, playful, campy side through his tapes and dialogue, but we must remember the original elements of him being an evil bastard. Scratch's versatility in murder and in methods of fucking up Alan's life fits that bit (I will not stoop to making sex jokes). AWAN Scratch is dictionary definition charismatic, the man could charm me out of my clothes just by looking at me. And elegant- Scratch seems to want to appear groomed, clean, neat. He dresses nice, in a suit. I suppose that's elegant enough.

The vibe I got smelling this for the first time hit me straight in the face as AWAN Scratch's smell. It's the smell of that nicely dressed, weirdly charming man you happen upon somewhere in passing. A party, a store, the street. And who knows, maybe that man is a super natural serial killer too? This is a very very charming scent, the vibes are off the charts correct for Mr Scratch.

To recap: AWAN Scratch smells like Montblanc Legend Spirit, because that is a charismatic and charming cologne if I've ever smelled one. The vibes are just off the charts Scratch coded. His hair gel is also probably fragrant, he uses so much of it you'd probably smell it if he got relatively close to you. Freshly pressed clothes get a spot as not only a vibe but a possible applicable smell, as we see Scratch straighten up his clothes and try to look put together, his clothes must be ironed and taken care of. And finally, the Campari- it's not confirmed that's what he drinks, but in my mind it is, and when he does drink, you get a faint hint of it off him.

AW2 Scratch

The smells, generalized: earthy and woody cologne, leather, blood, hotel soap.

By AW2, Scratch has been defeated once, and now, he's just pissed off and wants the Clicker. In every instance we see the man, he's disheveled, and has at least some blood on him somewhere. The other two have to do with Scratch possessing people- the leather from Jaakko's jacket, and the hotel soap as the vaguest, barely there little note you can only smell if you get close enough to, say, kiss him. Which I would. Anyways, that's from Alan freshening up at the lodge, and if we count him possessing Casey, I'm sure he's also been using that soap. I'll elaborate later on what I mean by hotel soap. For now we will see something else. My cologne for AW2 Scratch is....

Burberry Hero. This fragrance is described in this way: The vibrant freshness of bergamot is invigorated with juniper and black pepper and deepened with a heart of cedarwood—a new man, a new hero. Discover [the fragrance], the new [designer] masculine spirit that explores freedom as modern heroism. [Designer's] vision of modern heroism is challenging the stereotypes of masculinity and empowering man to transform and find the courage to embrace who he truly is—to become extraordinary. It's classed in the scent family "earthy and woody" and the scent type is "citrus and woods."

I smelled this and I immediately pictured the colors associated with AW2 Scratch- black, dark brown, deep red. I picked up on a vibe I thought fit him pretty quickly, and this was one of the last colognes I smelled, too. I thought I'd have to settle for one I didn't really think fit him, but then this one fixed that. The earthy and woody description fits for a man who crawled from a lake in the middle of a forest, and the vibes of transformation, embracing your true self, and becoming extroardinary?? All Scratch coded. He wants to transform Alan into himself, or vice versa. He really seems to embrace that raw, visceral, angry version of himself in AW2. And to have the clicker, to be God essentially, is that not extraordinary? The style this stuff goes for is what Scratch goes for. Plus my synesthesia vouches for it.

To recap: AW2 Scratch smells like Burberry Hero cologne, because the vibes are just absolutely applicable to him, and even just smelling it in person I saw his colors. He also smells like leather because, well, poor Jaakko's jacket is now his, and I know for a fact Jaakko takes good care of that leather and it smells great. Blood is obvious, Scratch is constantly covered in it, and if you've never truly smelled blood, like a room covered in it...trust me, you don't wanna. Just take my word that it smells like a sweeter version of rusty metal. And hotel soap, I will now elaborate: you know the little soaps you can get at hotels, how they all smell exactly the same?? Alan definitely freshened up at the lodge, and Casey had been staying there so he likely used it too, and I feel Scratch carried the ever so slight hint of it if you got really really close and he didn't like. Bite your face off.

SO!! That was a lot of work, research, and headaches from sniffing a bunch of cologne for a good thirty minutes. Plus some other stuff that I think fits the Scratch versions. If you have any comments or other ideas of what they may smell like, please reply here or shoot me an ask!! And yes, comments about how unhinged this post is are welcome too.

#mr scratch #alan wake #alan wake 2 #awan #alan wake's american nightmare #ilkka villi #mine #idk what to even tag this as. bro what rhe hell is this. im unwell

[imsodishy]

Relationship Chicken(Soup)

Read On AO3

Steve’s not being clingy. He’s not. 

Billy going radio silent for four days isn’t even weird. It hadn’t even pinged on Steve’s radar. Was Steve sulking at home waiting for his phone to ring? That’s nobody’s business. 

And he didn’t seek Max out as some way to get to Billy through his sister. No, he ran into her and Lucas, totally organically , at the grocery store when he was on a snack run. And she mentioned, completely unprompted , that Billy wasn’t cavorting with a series of gorgeous men, like Steve’s brain sometimes tried to convince him was the case whenever Billy was out of his direct line of sight for too long. On the contrary, Billy was sick with the flu. 

And, well, Steve was already at the grocery store, and chicken noodle soup isn’t even that hard to make. 

So, he’s not being clingy. He’s being thoughtful. Bringing his... long-term booty call? Fuck buddy? Friend with benefits? Whatever. Bringing Billy soup when he’s sick isn’t hovering, it’s just nice. 

So, it’s fine. He can knock on Billy’s door.

And once he’s done that, he can’t flee because ding-dong-ditching someone with the flu would be a dick move.

It takes a while, but Steve can hear shuffling inside the apartment and some faint coughing. Finally, the door opens. 

Billy shouts, “Fuck!” and then the door slams shut in Steve’s face. 

Not great. 

There’s an intense coughing fit happening on the other side of the door though, and that’s also not great. And Steve has soup. 

Once the coughing subsides Steve knocks again. “Billy?” he calls out through the door. 

“What are you doing here?” he sounds rough. Weak and sniffly, and like there’s another cough lurking. 

“I heard you were sick.” Steve explains. 

“What?” 

“Max said you’ve got the flu.” There’s an aggrieved moan and then a thump from inside the apartment, “Did you just die in there.” 

“Gonna kill that shit-bird.” It’s muffled like he’s muttering, but Steve’s pretty sure he’s got his face smushed to the door, so he can still hear it pretty clearly. 

“Come on, open the door.” 

“No.” He sounds so petulant even through the door that Steve actually feels encouraged to push a bit. 

“No? Why not?” 

There’s a long pause before he answers, “M’gross.” 

Steve laughs, “Well, yeah. You’re sick, dumbass.” 

“M’not supposed to be.” 

Steve frowns at no one, “You’re not supposed to be sick?” 

“Not supposed to be gross.” 

“What does- Billy, I feel like your neighbors are going to come out to gawk at me in a minute, and Mrs. Bursett already has more than enough dirt on me.” The old lady across the hall caught him half dressed in the hall the very first time Billy brought him over for sex. Or rather, immediately after, when he kicked Steve out. “Will you please open the fucking door? I brought you soup!” 

The door cracks open, and yeah, Billy is gross. His nose is red and raw looking, and his face is both pale and flushed in patches. He’s sweaty, and his hair is a greasy mess, pulled up in what was probably a ‘messy' bun at one point but is now just a messy bun. He’s wearing a Motörhead sweatshirt that’s about two sizes too big and black sweat pants that should probably have been thrown out a while ago. He’s got a quilt Steve’s never seen wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. 

He also looks utterly confounded. “You brought me soup?” 

Steve holds up the bag with the container of soup inside, “Homemade.” 

Billy looks, if possible, more confused. He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s really struggling to process the information being presented to him. “You... made me soup?” 

“Good for what ails ya.” Steve says like he’s not embarrassed at all by the fact that he cares. Billy just stands there staring at him kind of dumbly, which is odd, because he’s usually so damn sharp. Keeps Steve perpetually on his toes. 

Eventually Steve prompts, “Are you gonna let me in?” Billy sniffs and shuffles aside, hanging on to the door for a bit of support like he’s feeling weak. “Why don’t you go sit, I’ll heat you up a bowl.” 

Billy groans and rubs harshly at his face. “Everything is a mess.” He grumbles, but he does shuffle off towards the couch. Where, Steve can see, he’s built himself a little wallow. It’s dotted with the all the hallmarks of illness, mostly tissues and various packs of over-the-counter meds. 

In the kitchen there’s a sink full of mugs and bowls. From the looks of things Billy’s been subsisting on tea and cereal. First things first: Steve tips a serving of soup into a small pot and sets it to heat on the stove, then stores the rest in the fridge. While the soup warms, Steve sets to work on the dishes, so by the time it’s ready he’s filled the drying rack and has a clean dish to serve it in. He goes for a mug, easier to hold, less chance to spill. 

Billy seems to have made an attempt to tidy the living room, he’s piled all the used tissues on the coffee table anyway, before turning himself into a grumpy lump of blankets on the couch, watching Steve like a hawk in his nest. 

“Soup.” Steve says unnecessarily when he presents Billy with the mug.  Billy glares at him miserably, and cradles the mug to his chest with one hand. 

Steve detours to the bathroom and grabs the bin from under the sink and a new box of tissues. He sweeps all the tissues off the coffee table into the bin and plonks it down next to Billy’s knee. Then he plonks himself down on the couch and sets the box of tissues on the cushion between them. There are commercials playing on the TV, “So, what are we watching.” 

Billy is staring at him like he’s an alien. Slowly, like he’s expecting something (though Steve can’t even begin to guess what), Billy extracts his other hand from his blanket nest and takes hold of the spoon sticking out of the mug, it clinks as he stirs. He only looks away from Steve at last to supervise the spoonful he scoops up, careful not to drip. “Bewitched marathon.” he says, just before he shoves the spoon in his mouth. 

“Cool.” Steve starts humming the theme song. 

Billy cracks a tiny smile, half hidden by his raised mug, “That’s I Dream of Jeannie.” 

“Is it?” As if on cue a new episode of Bewitched starts up with the correct tune, “Oh, right. I always preferred Jeannie, I guess. This is good too though.” 

Billy just hums around another mouthful of soup. He’s wedged in to one corner of the couch turned mostly towards Steve, and over the next half hour Steve becomes ever more aware that Billy isn’t really watching the TV much at all. Every time Steve turns to him to make some little joke it’s to find Billy already watching him over the brim of his mug. Watching him almost suspiciously, like he thinks Steve might swipe his ashtray if given half a chance. 

It’s weird. They've watched stuff together before, here and there. Between rounds, recuperating afterwards, just killing time. Billy doesn’t always kick him out right away anymore, Steve’s even spent the night on purpose a few times, as opposed to the times they just passed out on each other. Usually, they talk over whatever they’re watching though. Billy especially never shuts up. Talks shit about the crappy late-night movies. Explains to Steve, in detail, how they do the awful gore effects. He smiles when Steve says something stupid by accident and cackles when Steve says something stupid on purpose. 

But tonight Billy is silent, and Steve can’t think of a single stupid thing to say to break the tension. 

Even while Steve keeps his eyes riveted to the screen, watching Samantha try to use magic to fix whatever problem magic caused before the last ad break, he’s keenly aware of Billy’s gaze boring into the side of his face. By the time a second episode is wrapping up he’s struggling not to squirm under the scrutiny. 

When he hears the slurp of Billy polishing off his mug of soup Steve can’t help himself anymore. “How’s the soup?” he asks still facing the TV. 

Out of the corner of his eye he watches Billy shrug and set the mug down, “Can’t really taste anything.” he says, and Steve nods along. “Can’t breathe through my nose, so I probably can’t blow you tonight either.” 

Steve stops nodding. Whips around to stare at Billy, who’s still fucking studying him. 

“Um, what?” Steve squeaks. 

Billy swipes at his nose with his sleeve, like there isn’t a box of tissues right there next to him. “I’m just saying. The ‘thank you' is gonna have to wait.” 

“Or, here’s a thought, you could just say thank you, you weirdo.” 

“Thank you .” he says, and Steve hears fuck you loud and clear. 

“Are you pissed at me?” Steve asks, pretty redundantly. Billy’s obviously pissed. 

“No.” Billy drawls. 

“Because I can leave if you don’t want me here.” 

“No.” he growls, then tries to suppress the coughing it causes. 

Steve scoffs, and turns back to the TV a little at a loss. The two of them hunker down to watch an old sitcom in stubborn silence. Steve can hear Billy snuffling and what he thinks is him biting his nails, though he absolutely refuses to look at him and check. 

They make it about five minutes through the tensest ever viewing of Bewitched before Billy huffs, “What are you doing here?” 

Steve stands up, “Oh my god! Fine, I’m going.” 

“No! What are you doing here?” Billy demands. He tries to stand too but he’s tangled in blankets, and Steve feels a pang of sympathy for the loss of dignity Billy suffers trying to shed his cocoon quickly. “You brought me fucking soup? Soup?! Like some kind of asshole grandma.” 

So much for the sympathy. 

“Do you even know what are you’re mad about right now? Because I have no idea.” 

“You. And your fucking soup .” 

Steve laughs, “This can’t actually be about soup. That’s insane.” 

“Fuck you.” Billy snaps, swiping angrily at his face with his sleeve. It’s not his runny nose this time though. Christ, he’s crying. Steve has somehow made him cry. 

“Billy… I’m sorry about… the soup?” 

Billy flops back down on the couch, face hidden in his hands, which are hidden in his too long sleeves. “Why?” he croaks. 

“Because you seem really upset about it.” Steve says helplessly, and Billy coughs, or chokes, or maybe, maybe , laughs. 

“Why are you here?” Billy says into his sleeve mittens. 

Steve sits gingerly back down on the couch, rubs at his own face. “I heard you were sick, and I thought soup might help,” he feels like he explained this already. “And-“ 

Steve flounders, but the pause has Billy looking over at him. His eyes are red rimmed and glassy, and it’s from being sick and from crying, but it makes them looks so goddamn blue. He looks like he’s expecting a killing blow. Steve has no idea if he's about to deliver one.

“-and I missed you,” Steve ruffles his hair. “Look, if I crossed a line showing up like this, I'm sorry. I know we’re not like that. But, I just…” Steve looks at Billy’s sweaty, snotty, blotchy face, and smiles, “I wanted to see you.”

Billy sniffs hard, rubs at his face with his gross sleeves, “My head hurts.” he whines. 

Steve sighs. “You due for any meds?” 

Billy shakes his head no, then keeps shaking his head. He seems lost. “I wasn’t expecting you. I’m not,” he gestures at himself jerkily, “Equipped. This is hardly the fantasy.” 

“Who’s fantasy? My fantasy?" Billy looks miserable and Steve figures in for a penny, "The thing is, it kind of is.” 

Billy gives him a flatly unimpressed look, “Your fantasy is parking it on the couch while I drip snot all over everything?” 

“Well, maybe not the snot part all the time. But people do get sick sometimes, so you’re allowed to get sick.” Steve laughs, Billy doesn’t. Steve studies his face for a minute, “You’re allowed to be a people. A- a person, I mean. You’re allowed to- you know what I meant.” Billy does laugh at that. He’s so gross, and he’s so beautiful. “And, yeah. You’re a person I want to sit on the couch with.” 

“No one’s ever made me soup before.” Billy sounds sort of helplessly lost, Steve thinks he gets it now, a little bit at least. He’s fidgeting with his sleeves when he asks, “You wanna stay the night?” 

He coaxes Billy into the shower, because everyone feels better after a shower, and Steve tackles the bedroom while he’s occupied. He clears out the tissues that are in there and a couple more mugs to be washed. He changes the sheets, which he’s done here before, just usually due to a wet spot not the general sad funk of illness.

Once Billy’s out of the shower, and in clean pyjamas, and medicated (still looking slightly grumpy and befuddled), Steve bundles them into bed together. As Steve wraps around him like an extra blanket, Billy says, “You’re gonna get sick.” like he just can’t stop himself from being a contrary little shit. 

“It’s fine,” Steve smacks a kiss to his temple, “We've got soup.”

#dishy writes #harringrove #harringrove fic #little sickfic

[acoraxia]

i missed you I watched elementals today with my friend, thus, short ficlet about mistyembers (2k words, and a little messy)

———————————————————

Hm.

It’s annoying.

Almost truly tedious. 

Hong Hai’er isn’t one to be sentimental about the past nor does he try to touch anything that comes with it. He leaves the events of the Samadhi Fire behind, he craves nothing of the past even if it means moving on from the fact his father left and his mother rejected every idea he had with a hint of malice. They’re growing now, being better parents, and he dubs everything down to stress and the inability to stop Heaven’s wishes of having his father imprisoned for over a hundred years. He doesn’t linger on it anymore, he moves on; and he stands there, garage and storage room burnt and charcoaled, wondering why he feels such an intense amount of woe over the fact he’s lost contact with her for over a year now.

He doesn’t miss the ice cold touch of the Bone Spirit’s hands, the shrill laugh that came with it—he steps over broken glass shards and his lips twitch in disgust at the ash piles that he steps into when he tries to dodge a car fragment. It’s been… well, a rough start ever since they moved so far out from the city where his Uncle now lingers. He’s kept in touch with him, brought important matters to his attention, and the two often see each other when he comes by, gift in hand, ready to greet his mother and father with a smile. Still, he wishes he has stayed in the underground areas of the giant, technology driven city than having agreed to move to this wasteland of an area. It’s empty and it lacks humidity. 

He misses the beach, all of a sudden.

His relationship with water has always been tied to her, after all, and no matter how many times he refreshes and reloads and pieces his phone back together he hears no word of her. He looks on the positive, as Xiaotian would put it, and thinks she’s merely forgotten how to use the damn device despite his numerous well-written instructions being given to her with the object—he breaks one of the door handles to his newest vehicle and throws it down on the floor, hissing under his breath.

He lost contact with Chenxia for a few months when his father got possessed. She’s an acolyte for the very Master Subodhi that his uncle trained under, her hair long and black, eyes filled with a calmness to them that he could live without, throat drying at the thought of seeing them again after so long; she’s been near him since he studied under Guayin, learned her ways and was handed back to his parents after years of lectures and teachings—and he can never forget the cold, gentle touch of her hands on his, the way his embers seemed to shine brighter around her. She used to smile at him with calm and patience that could rival the lakes of purity that he’s seen in his travels. 

Chenxia is—familiar, to put it simply, and he feels anger boil up inside him when the very last trace of her is ruined and gone by a mere misdemeanor from a bastardous spirit, upset that Heaven could not adhere to her ‘perfect world’. The selfish witch. 

He sniffs. He runs a hand through his hair, annoyed at how easily it flares up into flames now.

Chenxia had always had a never ending flow of patience for him; she combed his hair and calmly asked him to remember to breathe when his fire got too out of hand, her hands untouched by the scorching flames that moved towards her as if she were made of wood. It was beautiful, somewhat, that she managed to find a way to help him control his fire until it did nothing but keep her warm when his emotions got out of hand. She was everything.

He wants to revive every cursed spirit and deity that had a hand in the ice witch’s plan solely to deliver them to Diyu himself. His teeth grind against each other out of habit, his mind focusing on how every rainy day was a reminder of her and her quiet voice against his cheek, pressing cold touches to his skin.

He misses her.

His phone buzzes when he manages to get to the supply closet that was somehow untouched by his flames, broom in hand when he squints at the messages from Xiaotian and Sun Wukong. He opts for the latter, the annoyingly bright comments of optimism that the boy would bring were not favorable for the demon at the moment. He’d rather tell Sun Wukong that he’s busy than deal with his acolyte.

It takes three messages before his patience runs out over the long intervals between texts and he just calls the damn simian, sliding his gloves on as he prepares to start reworking on all his inventions.

“Oh, bad time, kiddo?” Sun Wukong sounds… light, as always. Not the same voice he feigns when talking to Xiaotian or Xiaojiao, it’s a voice Hong Hai’er has grown up with since childhood, light and airy, like a sun’s warm ray on a snake’s back during spring. Warm. “I thought I could deliver you some good news today.”

“Please, Uncle, I’ve no time for your trickery. I have work to do, something you couldn’t even fathom considering you barely even attend all those Heavenly Court meetings about the ‘calamities of the world’ or whatever else happens up there—”

A choked laugh. “Who told you that’s what they do?”

“Nezha, of course.” He slides his goggles on, frowning slightly when he sees how dirty they are.

“Kiddo, Nezha doesn’t even like those meetings.”

“My point stands: I’m not going to waste time talking to you about whatever random person you bumped into or how inaccurate the latest movie about you was when I could be doing something more productive.” Hong Hai’er snatches a rag from his desk and promptly begins wiping the glass on his headwear, narrowing his eyes when the stains don’t come off. “Besides, don’t you have some scroll pieces to sort through?”

“Funny that you mention it, dearest nephew of mine, fellow member of the forged fires trio of the Heavens; did Xiaotian tell you what happened in the scroll during his time there?” He avoids the question. Of course he does. 

Hong Hai’er scoffs. “Of course not. That boy is taking after every single toxic trait that flows through your peach infested vain—”

“So he didn’t tell you he saw Chenxia?”

Hong Hai’er swore, once, that he’d learn to control his emotions. He’s touched water with gentle fingers, watching it curl and coil around his own hand with a tenderness he wouldn’t ever forget. He’s learned to channel his energy into more productive things—his inventions and vehicles, machinery—and he learned to meditate to channel his inner flame.

And yet his phone nearly shatters from the way his hands burst into flames, fire licking at the nearby wrenches and screwdrivers, nearly melting with the intensity that comes with it. His eyes are burning —from tears? desperation?—and he screams into the phone about the information. He rambles and goes off on a tangent, eyes burning harder until he digs a palm into one, squeezing it shut to try and smother the flames out of existence. Sun Wukong waits, disturbingly patient, and asks, “When are you free?”

The remains of his sigil on the perfectly cut green grass of the temple base are going to remain for a solid year, seeing how deep they settled into the earth, and Hong Hai’er stands there with a black shirt and disheveled hair, his goggles sitting skewed atop of his head. The Monkey King raises a brow and Hong Hai’er coughs into his fist, waving away traces of smoke as he vanishes the goggles and fixes the jacket tied around his waist. A hand comes to stop him from moving further, profanity and insults sitting at the top of his tongue when his Uncle—Gods help him—proceeds to dust off his shirt, brushing away traces of ash and smoke.

“Gotta look good for your lady, kid,” he coos and Hong Hai’er almost burns him to a crisp right there and then.

The temple is nothing to bat an eye at; it’s pristine and clean—no doubt taken care of by the several acolytes running around, exchanging jokes and going off about lessons from their master. He eyes the youngest group, watching the way Wukong trails behind just enough that he expects him to tear away from him and go join them in their mischief. They carry on the hallways, the young adults promptly ignoring them as they do, surely already aware of their arrival by Hong Hai’er’s entrance.

(He makes a quiet, small note to open a portal further away from the temple next time, wringing embarrassment out of his system by saying it was a spur of the moment decision, nothing else.)

And—he’s quite sure he’s never felt this awkward to stand on the open area of the tree infested entrance to the temple. It’s hidden away, kept from mortal eyes, and yet, somehow, the group of miscreants had managed to find it—ah, no, they were taken to this place by the immortal master himself. Of course. How else would they have found the very home of the calmest person he knows? The one who stares at him now, with dark gray eyes and uncertainty on her face when they step into the clearing. 

He looks to Wukong for guidance—a loud ‘are you serious?’ leaving his mouth when he finds the simian is absent from his side. He’s alone. With her. With Chenxia. 

Gods.

Her hair is longer. She’s tied part of it into a top knot, her outfit still the same color as the other acolytes in the temple. He remembers her in brighter clothes, more reminiscent of her smile and better suited for her eyes. He wants to ask about it—and then she moves closer to him and he frowns, arms crossing over his chest to try and hide the rapid beating of his heart. Blood pusher. It was messing with his head, somewhat, how calm she was in approaching him. He should be angry—snap at her for not calling or informing him of her whereabouts—and yet when she reaches up to brush a smear of oil from his face he softens, fire soothing into a candle-like ember instead of a raging storm.

It’s terrifying how he leans into her touch, sighing out in relief when she smiles at him, familiar and comforting.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she murmurs, bringing another hand to cup his face in its entirety. “I—your friend, Xiaotian, he-”

“He is not my friend,” he mumbles, turning his face to press a chaste kiss to her palm. It’s funny how she laughs at that, quiet and secretive, and he makes an effort to press another kiss for good effort. “I should be mad at you.”

“I know,” she says. 

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I will,” she lowers her hands onto his neck and then his shoulders, holding her gaze steady as she does. Her eyes are serious and Hong Hai’er’s softness leaves him in small, gentle waves.

He reaches up and grasps her hands, gently, into his hold. “I… was beaten up by Sun Wukong when an immortal bone spirit possessed him.” She blinks, startled, and he laughs at that. Because it’s funny how easily her expression changes. “I’ll… tell you everything. Then you can explain what happened.”

Her lips twitch. “Alright.”

Hong Hai’er inhales, tugging on her hands until she’s closer to him, tilting his head down so he can press his forehead against hers, her skin cool against him. She closes his eyes after a heartbeat and he follows suit, inhaling the smell of the ocean breeze and soothing meadows. 

“I missed you,” she says against his lips.

“Me too,” he answers and then leans in.

#writers note #my writing #hong hai'er #red son #lmk red son #lmk acolyte #lmk chenxia #chenxia #mistyembers #aheM AHEM #i am delusional #good day #AHAHAHAHA #i blame ella for this one #and one of my other friends BUT THATS NOT THE POINT #THE POINT IS BEING DELULU IS AWESOME SOMETIMES #and this one of the only ships i actually enjoy #lmao #anyways enjoy #lego monkie kid #monkie kid

[acediaedeus]

the reason I like Grimmjow so much is, obviously, because he’s a feline-adjacent character and that’s all I really need. and that’s also why my mission in this life is to slap as many feline traits on him as possible.

but before that I need to reinforce my “cat person Ichigo” agenda, because he would definitely be one, and not just because of Grimmjow, no. I just feel like if Ichigo had to get a pet it would be a cat, because cats are rather self-sufficient and independent, they don’t require 24/7 attention (rather hate it even), their needs are easily met and over all they are quiet, calm. cats enjoy a great nap and lazing around, but do get into a playful mood at times, which all sounds to me very much like Ichigo. also I think the ways cats show affection would really appeal to him, as well as their companionable silence, their presence small, but comforting, because they let you know you’re not alone.

so, enter Grimmjow with all his feline grace, a predator to his very core, snappy and yet intelligence shines in all that he does. and when things come down to affection he is still so very cat-like with it. a cat who’s been hurt, had to fight and hunt to survive, bristly and quick to anger and oh so slow to trust. just like the stray that you see on a street, that you get down on your knees for and thrust your hand out so it can sniff it or swipe its claws at or get frightened by, forcing it to retreat, run away, whatever wins out in that stray’s mind: curiosity, flight or fight. and Grimmjow is that stray too, but pride won’t let him run away and he’s been wondering the world long enough to not be so easily swayed into what could very well be a trap by mere curiosity. that is, until Kurosaki Ichigo.

and so Grimmjow meets him and falls into his trap, not willingly, not without a fight. he hisses and growls, he yells and spits venom, he scrambles to get out, claws like daggers swiping at everything, anything, to find something to dig into, so he can pull himself out. and yet he can’t, and with time resigns himself to the fact, that he doesn’t even really want to.

Kurosaki’s presence at first disappoints, nothing, but prey in all his terror, shaking hands, erratic movements, but as the fight goes on the boy feels less and less like prey, and then his mouth is twisted into something deranged, something similar if not identical to Grimmjow’s own smile, all sharp teeth and the promise of violence. maybe not so disappointing after all. every next time they fight each other after that Kurosaki’s presence gets more intense, at times making Grimmjow’s hair stand on end. and then they don’t see each other for a long time, and then they do, and Grimmjow somehow failed to notice when Kurosaki’s presence stopped feeling like something crushing down on him, urging him to fight against whatever it is and destroy it, and more like a blanket, light, but there, seemingly insignificant and yet comforting and warm.

Kurosaki Ichigo doesn’t feel like a fight all the time anymore, although Grimmjow enjoys every second of it when he does, and he finds that he doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. the boy, who’s not even a boy anymore, is there, on his knees before a stray, holding out his hand, ready to bleed, but hoping for softness. and Grimmjow is that stray, ready to claw and yet choosing to trust, if only for a second. and when that trust doesn’t result in hurt, Grimmjow finds it brings security.

anyway, before I ramble even more, oh my god, what is this?!?!?? all I wanted to write was “Grimmjow and Ichigo are like those lions you see in TV programs about wildlife, nuzzling each other’s heads and then flopping down against the other for a nap”??? what is this shit 💀🙏🏻??

#grimmichi #self-indulgent bullshit yet again #they are in love #I trully don’t know what this is #cat person Ichigo bc I said so #am I projecting? nooo… well… okay maybe #feline Grimmjow supremacy what can I say ƪ(˘⌣˘)ʃ #this got away from me #in this episode of ‘the ramblings of a madwoman’ I forget the original point and start waxing poetic but the poetry is bad #shit writing ppl *\(^o^)/* #proffesional yapper if you haven’t noticed #if you noticed me giving Ichigo cat-like traits no you didn’t

[rachelsfav-queer]

Okay, this post will probably be my most outlandish but at this point, I’ve gotten so sexually depraved that my horny brain doesn’t really care anymore lol.

So, more VampRavenWolf thoughts with kinks I’ve never told anyone about. Weeeeeeeeeeee

Enid who can’t get off without her girlfriends’ scents???

So whenever she’s feeling horny, Enid will randomly stick her nose into Wednesday’s or Yoko’s armpit and immediately has to shove a hand down her shorts because the smell of their stinky pits just drives her wild.

And Enid can sniff her girlfriends out from miles away so after Wednesday or Yoko are done with any exercise heavy activity, they don’t even have the opportunity to shower themselves cause Enid’s right at their side, giving her best puppy-dog eyes and at this point they just raise their arm and let their little wolf sniff away. At some point they started making sure that they didn’t shower right away after workouts because Enid is always a little sad when she doesn’t get a chance to smell their stinky and sweaty bodies.

ANYWAY!!!! I’m just thinking about Enid being extra needy one day and so she goes up to Wednesday and asks if she can smell her armpits.

(Side note, lil hc of mine. Wednesday doesn’t wear deodorant both because she doesn’t understand the point of it, Addams don’t view body odor as shameful, but also because Wednesday is allergic to most brands of deodorant and so it’s just more convenient to not even bother with it)

Wednesday obliges of course, though she knows that Enid’s request will easily turn into much more than a simple sniff. She loves her girlfriend and if she’s entirely honest with herself, Wednesday does get off to the sensation of the blonde sniffing her armpits.

So, the two women move over to their giant king sized bed they share with their other girlfriend. Wednesday lies down in the middle of the bed. Enid’s about to join her but is stopped by Wednesday’s hand on her chest. “Remove your clothes first, it’s utterly dreadful trying to clean your cum from them.”

“Oh… right. Hold on!”

Enid swiftly removes her clothes and then finally joins her girlfriend on the bed. Wednesday lifts her left arm and Enid wastes no time burying her nose right into her stinky pit. And just as expected, it doesn’t take long for Enid’s hand to wander down to her own pussy. She’s already soaked just from thinking about doing this, and the actual smell of Wednesday, ugh, she can never get enough of it. Every time, it’s like she’s smelling her for the first time. It’s the same for both her girlfriends. She’s utterly obsessed with both of them and she knows well how obsessed they both are with her.

Enid truly feels like she’s in heaven and as she burrows her nose impossibly deeper into the seer’s pit, she inserts two fingers inside her soaked cunt, letting out a deep moan of relief. Once again, the werewolf doesn’t take much time to speed up her fingers and starts properly finger-fucking herself.

As Enid slowly begins to lose herself in the pleasure, Wednesday decides to encourage her little wolf. “That’s it, good puppy. You look so adorable like this, getting yourself just to my scent alone. My adorable, pathetic little puppy. Keep going, my little puppyslut. Make yourself cum to your Mistress’s dirty, smelly armpits. Good girl.”

Wednesday’s encouragement definitely works, as Enid practically goes into hyperdrive mode and fingers herself fast and hard and she breathes as much of her small girlfriend’s scent as she can.

Within minutes, Enid’s close to orgasm and looks up at Wednesday from her spot nuzzled against her armpit. The werewolf whines with need, her form of asking permission and Wednesday grants it.

Only a few moments later, Enid cums hard, harder than she has in a while and her entire body shakes violently with how intense it is. Her moans are thankfully mostly muffled by Wednesday’s arm. Wednesday smiles and strokes Enid’s hair to help her work through it, muttering loads of gentle praises and comforting words of reassurance.

“That’s it, puppy. You’re such a good girl. It’s alright, Mistress is here. You’re safe, you’re good, you’re okay. Good puppy, goooood puppy. There you go. It’s alright, sweet little pup, get some rest. Mistress will be here as you sleep and I’ll be right here when you wake up. I’ll protect you, Enid. Always. Good puppy.”

End <3

#vampravenwolf #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #yoko tanaka #scent k1nk #armpit k!nk #smell k!nk #my writing #18+ content #18+ only

[ebonyslasher]

Spicy Alphabet: Hinata Hyuuga

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Hinata, naturally, is full of anxiety. She will have a clean up kit prepared hidden near. For a while, she’s embarrassed to show her cute face. Hinata will hide her head under your arm or bury it in the crook of your neck.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Hinata: Soft, supple, and creamy. Her breasts were always a secret ego boost for her. Other girls were envious of her big boobs. 

You: All of you. She’s been obsessed with you for so long. Hinata has focused on each body part. If she was bold enough, she would lick every crevice.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Hinata views this act as an exchange of chakra. Anyway where cum is either on/in her and hers on you is preferred. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Those sweet, quiet girls can be sneaky. If it’s something that they really want, they will get it. This includes Hinata stealing your clothing items, using them to rub her breasts and pussy on. She sniffs the mixture of your scent and hers and it makes her cum.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

None, too shy and her father is pretty strict and scary. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

This

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

She’d rather be serious. Mostly because she would be mortified in you laughed.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Groomed. She has cute little jet black curls. Surprisingly soft as well.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Shyly intimate. Hold her hand. Kiss her. State your love!  Wipe any tears away from her face. Don’t fret, it’s tears of joy or overstimulation.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Masturbates heavily due to the overwhelming thoughts from her crush. It makes her lustful and embarrassed, which fuels the quality of her climax.

K= Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Breeding, light Omorashi, rubber/latex,  breast/nipple play, Train*, fisting

L=Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bathroom or hot spring

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You. Flirting with her. Paying attention to her, helping her. Being encouraging. Flexing, showing off your body. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Being demeaning, doing anything she deems too gross, acting disinterested in her, ignoring her, talking down on her friends

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Both

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Slow to moderate. Soft to hard. It will depend on her mood, how well her body is prepared, and how desperate she is.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Yes! Her favorites are random ones in the village or near a spring during traveling for a mission. She’s figuring out that she might have a thing for almost getting caught.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Somewhat, as long as it doesn’t disgust her. She is okay with some pee, but it's only on her or you. Body only, nothing near face or directly on genitals. However, she will do anything to make you happy.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Varies, depending on how much her body is willing to take. Her orgasms are more extensive and intense than others. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

If your clothing items constitute as toys, then yes. She has plenty. Otherwise, she has gone to a sex shop (disguised) to get some. She would love to use them on you and vice versa. Just let her get over her fainting spells.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Will tease depending on her mood. If you made her mad, expect some.It will range from a lewd outfit to orgasm denial.  But, she's pretty soft, so it won’t go too far. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Starts with whispering and will get louder, especially when hitting her g-spot and rubbing her wet clit.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

She practices her sex skills for you, even wayyyy before you both date.  She will imagine situations and read erotic texts (like Icha Icha) and then practice. Once the internet starts to get popular, videos and pictures will be used. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Her pussy is puffy, clit is is a small marble surrounded by a long inner labia that drapes out. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

High. When you’re obsessed with someone romantically, it’s going to be high as hell.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Not quickly unless y’all really go at it

#black reader #hinata hyuga #hinata x reader #naruto #spicy alphabet #grown folks business #hinata uzumaki

[nemoyr]

sweet love

[ smut no plot mdni or ur blocked ]

when he kisses you, it's intense. he is intense as it is, but his kisses have a way of weakening you, making you feel safe and loved despite his egotistical and rough ways. he's passionate and he's sensitive.

when his fingers caress your back, your neck, and grip your hair lovingly when he opens you up to him even more, it feels like ecstasy coursing through your bones. shivering, you return the heated kiss with fervor, matching his energy. it's slow but he guides you into his way of making love, passionate and rough but so loving and so sweet, especially when he lays you down on his bed (that no one gets to sit on or sleep in except him and you).

his tongue is bullying yours, it's aggressive yet gentle simultaneously. he grips the back of your head and tilts it back to gain more access to your mouth, licking and sucking at your own tongue before he breaks the kiss and leaves a hot trail from the corner of your mouth to your jaw where he gently nips at the skin and bone there. your neck is a feast for him, he bites and sucks on it like it'll be the last time he does this.

your shirt is usually discarded by the time he gets to nibbling on your neck, leaving his marks in oblong, rounded bite marks and hickies. he likes to tease, so your bra comes slowly down your shoulders as his mouth works wonders at the nerves and muscles in the junction of your neck down your shoulder closer to your backside. skillfully, he unclips the bra you wore for him, his favorite color, sliding it away from your body and slowly licking and kissing his way down your chest. his favorite breast is your left one, it just fits so well in his hand even though the other is quite the same, but he treats them equally, as if he never had a favorite. but he always goes for the left first, leaving sucking kisses all the way to the areola before his tongue darts out around the pert bud and slowly he sucks it into his mouth, rolling the nipple in his skilled mouth, between his teeth. he knows you're sensitive there, so he's gentle biting it, but never anywhere else, only where your nerves end.

he takes the other breast into his hand rolls the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, slipping his way into your senses even more as you let out breathy moans for him that fuel his desire for you. he loves when you grab the back of his head when he prepares you for his passionate love-making, or rough fucking.

lately, his desire has been to gently fuck you into his mattress, hoping that your imprint would stick, so when he rolls over on some mornings when he's alone in his bed, he can remember all the disgusting things you did for him and allowed him to do for and to you.

when he moves to the other nipple, the treatment is the same and he switches hands to roll the other nipple between his fingers and gropes your breast. sometimes, when he feels like it, he'll engulf your breast fully in his mouth, or as much as he can fit, and suck on it that way, giving your nipple far more suction than when he's using his lips.

when he makes his way to your lower garments, your leggings come off very slow, slower than your shirt did. and he leaves opened-mouth kisses down your thighs, alternating which thigh to bite and suck on while he removes the offending material. his lips usually find a sweet rhythm when he kisses over your underwear, teasing you over them. but this time, you didn't wear underwear beneath your leggings, surprising him to some degree, but exciting him just as well. when the leggings finally come off, he lifts and spreads your legs, pushing them over his shoulders and taking a long sniff of your vulva, nose diving deep between your folds, pushing the under further against you, sucking between your lips. he smirks to himself and he looks up at you as he licks a slow, hard, teasing stripe from your slit to your clit and to your mons.

he loves the needy groan you offer, his silent beg to remove the panties already and just take you, but he doesn't like his brats too spoiled. he punishes while he rewards, he teases while he gives, he takes and returns, but most of all, he's slow and intense and makes sure you know and understand that he will move at his own pace every single time.

he bites your labia, not enough to startle you, but enough to silence your neediness, enough to let you know he's still playing with you, not ready to dive in yet. he's always testing your waters, as if he would drown if he dove right in. but you both know that he would. he's insatiable.

he uses his teeth skillfully, biting your labia just enough to feel your clit between them, and he moves his head sideways up and down to stimulate your clit through the cloth and your pretty pussy lips. when he finishes teasing you that way, he uses two fingers to press the cloth around your clit before he roughly pokes your clit with his tongue, poking, prodding, sliding, using his teeth to gently swipe against the covered nub. and it soaks entirely through your panties and he takes his free hand, places two digits at your entrance before he presses against it, lightly at first and gradually harder and harder as he rotates his fingers, moves them up and down.

he wants your desire for him to build so when he finally sinks into you...

he isn't quick to pull your panties down, he's deliberate about those too. he finds little ways to let you know how greatly in control he is and how little power you have, but you both know you have more power over him than either of you let on.

he resumes kissing your pussy teasingly when your last article of clothing has slipped off his bed and made it's home on the floor. he dips his head into the apex of your thigh, biting and sucking at the skin there before kissing across your slit to the other side and doing the same to the other thigh. he uses his fingers again to slide against your folds while he brings his lips slowly but surely closer to you. he kisses all the way up your stomach, your chest, and your neck and jaw. he whispers sweet everythings to you on his way back to your mouth, little promises of his love to you here and there. but when he's finally at your lips, he whispers something different, "i know you don't like to wait for me to play with you, so i'll indulge you this time," like he does almost every time because he doesn't like to wait either.

he'll let you give him head, suck his soul into outer space, or heaven as he'd say. he'll allow you to do whatever you want to him and his body but only when you have initiated sex. his time is now, when he has initiated it and when you're in his bed in his home breathing his air and basking in his energy.

when he rids himself very slowly of his own offending material, you always find yourself in awe of his well-chiseled body, of course that is an understatement. but how can you put into words how perfect he is? such words do not exist for such a man as he.

and when he's fully naked, even then easy does it. he's slow to crawl over you, slow to kiss you, slow to rub his tip over your awaiting and glistening vulva, it weeps for him and only him. and he does too. but he doesn't ever say that, he just shows you his precum, palming himself before he looks into your eyes when he sinks into you because he loves the expression you make when he finally stretches you out. you've taken him how many times and you still haven't accommodated his size? damn right. he makes sure of that. he wants to make sure the only one you'll ever need, ever seek, ever ask for such favors will be him. and only him. he is all you need and he will always be all you need forever.

he holds you down underneath him, hands gripping flesh wherever he wants to while he works your cervix open for a deeper penetration. he allows you time to adjust, rubbing your clit to pass through the phase quicker, but he still takes it relatively slow. one hand curls under your back, holding your hip from behind as he finally can sink into that delicious tight ring of nerves that sucks him in so welcomingly, so lovingly and he moans, he moans your name to you, letting you know just how sensitive he is and just how amazing you feel.

he appreciates you. he is blessed to have you. he worships you in little ways that all add up to something big and amazing. he loves you. he respects you. he adores you. especially when you stress him out.

he pulls his hips back just enough to gently push his hips back against yours, his tip catching at the innermost ring of your cervix, causing your cunt to clench tighter around him and he moans every time he repeats this movement. he slowly speeds up his pace, just teasing you with every two seconds your hips meet for twelve seconds. he kisses you again, slows his pace down exponentially, and the arm around your back comes to hold your head up closer to him, his other arm coming from your front to wrap around your back and hold you by the hips, elevating you just perfectly to fuck straight into your cervix, keep you both comfortable, and make sure you don't run away from him when he dives impossibly deeper.

he swallows your moans and whimpers and screams and shushes you with those delicious and sweet kisses he always provides even when you're not making such sweet, salacious love.

he knows your close by the deep whine rumbling from your diaphragm, up your chest and into his mouth. the arch of your back tells no tales, and the way your legs lock around his waist gives him the satisfaction of knowing only he can make you come undone so perfectly. the way your cunt spazzes around his dick makes him go eye-crossed and crazy. he fucks you roughly now through that hot orgasm, eyes rolling into your head, body spasming against his, your juices flowing lovingly and warmly down his balls, soaking the sheets. and he knows he won't stop making a complete fucking mess of you for hours to come.

you just fit so perfectly. how could he not ruin you when you're so cute, after all?

sukuna ][ suguru ][ your fav man whether fictional or otherwise

tagging: @raasclaat @depressio-milkshake you two better read this and give me hella feed back (but it is also ok if you don't ok i still love you either way pls) (and anyone else who wants to provide constructive criticism) @bluwurld ( hope it is okay i tag you, i think it was you who also like suguru ? i still wanna say hi too tho) @poe-daydreams bc daddy kuna @sakuraryomen01 (also hope its ok i tagged you, ik you love sukuna and he was the top one on my mind when writing this) @prettyiolanthe (bc geto and bc i havent written in like forever and i wanted to share with you)

#sukuna ryomen x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #your favorites #your favs #suguru geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #these are the two i had in mind but mostly sukuna #i hope its nice and not ooc for either but #i think sukuna would be an intense lover but still takes care of you #esp if hes a scorpio i still have no idea what his sign is #aries and scorpio energy big time #he better not be no fucking libra #or capricorn #but enjoy

[duchesschameleon]

tying me to you

pairing: tom “iceman” kazansky/pete “maverick” mitchell

rating: g for everyone

warnings: implied/referenced canon character death

a/n: thanks @qvid-pro-qvo for the beta and @topgun-soulmates for organizing this challenge!

Thomas Kazansky and Pete Mitchell have known they are soulmates since the first time they saw each other in the mirror at six years old.

click here to read this fic on ao3

Thomas Kazansky and Pete Mitchell are soulmates.

They haven’t always acknowledged or liked it, but it’s been true for a majority of their lives.

They’ve fought against it, ignored it, tried to break it, but fate has always brought them together. Their bond has always been strong, and only grown stronger since they first saw each other as young children.

——-

six years old

“Are you okay?”

Pete’s head snaps up, blue eyes meeting his. “Who are you?”

“I’m Thomas,” the blonde boy says, introducing himself. “I’m your soulmate I guess.”

“I’m Pete. And what do you mean ‘you guess’? You’re seeing me in a mirror, right? Mama says that’s how you know who your soulmate is.”

Thomas nods. Pete falls silent, feels his face falling again, remembers the news they’d received earlier.

“Pete, are you okay?” Tom asks again.

Pete sniffs and shrugs. “My daddy isn’t coming home,” he says softly.

Thomas’ mouth falls open in shock. “I’m sorry, Pete.”

Pete shrugs in response, still sniffling. “I gotta go, my mama’s calling me.”

“Ok. Bye, Pete.”

“Bye, Thomas.”

——-

That was a long time ago. Pete had treasured the memory at one point, the proof that he had a soulmate and there would always be at least one person who wouldn’t leave him. Couldn’t leave him, actually, considering fate had tied them together.

But believing in fate, believing in people - in Tom - got harder as Pete grew up. They didn’t see each other for a number of years, not even when Pete’s mom passed, and Pete thought that maybe he’d made the whole thing up and he really was alone. He told himself it meant nothing, that it didn’t hurt. It was better this way, because eventually Thomas would just end up being another person who leaves him.

Pete learned to control his emotions, to make sure he never had a moment of high, intense emotion that could pull Tom back to him, make him show up in the mirror again. He checked every mirror he walked by for the blonde haired boy who is his soulmate, double checking that he wasn’t there. Pete did everything he could to avoid seeing Tom again, he stopped thinking about his parents, closing the door on that grief that had brought them together the first time.

But, fate finds its ways. And nothing ever said it had to be sad emotions that brought soulmates together.

Adrenaline could work just fine.

And so as teenagers, Pete and Thomas saw each other again.

——

thirteen

“So, what was it this time?” a now-familiar voice calls out as Pete washes dirt and grime off his face.

He’s been seeing Tom more frequently the last few months, giving in to fate and letting himself hope again that his soulmate really is out there, and does care about him.

Pete feels his lips quirk up as he lifts his head to look into the mirror. To look at Tom.

But his smirk falls away into shock as he sees Tom in a suit and tie, some white fabric-wrap thing around his shoulders.

“What are you wearing?”

Tom rolls his eyes, a little fondly, and smiles softly at Pete. “It’s my bar mitzvah, remember? Praying in front of the congregation and joining the community as an adult?”

“Oh, right.” Pete blushes, embarrassed. He’d definitely forgotten that was today. “So, how did it go?”

“Pretty well, all things considered. I didn’t stumble too much and honestly, I’m just happy that parts over with. Now it’s just the fancy lunch with family.” Tom shrugged before taking a breath and raising an eyebrow at Pete. “Now, what happened to you this time?”

“Patrick Hughes bet me five dollars I couldn’t climb the tree at the park,” Pete says, his lips curling into a mischievous grin. “Made it up, and since he never specified I had to get down the same way I got up, I jumped about half-way down.”

“Pete,” Tom admonishes.

“Oh c’mon, I totally had it. I rolled on the landing and I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding. You have scrapes and I’m sure bruises everywhere. And that cut on your forehead looks bad.”

Pete just shrugs. “Worth it.” Biting his lip, he says the next part softly, “Felt like I was flying for a second.”

———

Pete had always been reckless, and reckless behavior was usually accompanied by adrenaline. And so that was how he and Tom saw each other over the years. Pete would pull off some stunt, usually getting scraped up or hurt in the process, and then he’d get to tell Tom all about it as he cleaned up.

For a while, it worked. It was a good system. Things felt good between them.

Even if Pete didn’t see Tom after every reckless and stupid stunt, he saw him often enough to keep looking for new heights to fly from.

They talked about flying a lot, Pete mentioning wanting to fly like his dad did, join the Navy and go supersonic in a fighter jet, catapult off of aircraft carriers for a living. Tom mentioned it too, how he wanted to fly and how the Navy might just be the best way to do it. They talked about how they’d get there, how maybe they could both go to Annapolis and finally meet in person, not through a mirror.

But as always, fate just had to step in.

——

eighteen

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Pete, please - ”

“No.”

Tom sighs and rubs his head. He doesn’t know what to say, if he should say anything. Pete’s scowling, his eyebrows furrowed tightly.

“They don’t want me because I’m Duke Mitchell’s kid.”

It’s a whisper, so soft Tom barely hears it. But he does, and his heart sinks. He sighs again and looks at Pete.

“It’s not your fault, you know.” Pete shoots him an incredulous look, not believing his words. “That’s the Academy deciding to judge you based on a last name, and not who you actually are. They don’t know you, know how smart you are and how much you want to fly for them. They’re judging you and your application off of something that was out of your control and that you really had no part in. It’s unfair and ridiculous.”

Pete shrugs. “They don’t see it that way. They see I’m Duke Mitchell’s kid and want to do everything they can to keep me out of the skies and away from the Navy. They’ll never accept me.”

“So find a way to make them accept you.”

——

Pete did find a way. He got his degree, did NROTC, and got his commission, got to flight school. He’d see Tom occasionally, and they’d talk a little. But Pete kept the conversations short, still a little mad about Tom getting into Annapolis while the Navy tried every which way to make sure he didn’t wind up in one of their cockpits.

But flight school brought him Goose. And Pete felt a little less alone in the world.

Nick Bradshaw took one look at Pete, at his new pilot, and said, “Hey, you need anything, I’m here for you.”

And he delivers on that promise. Nick invites Pete over to his place a lot, tells him all about his fiancee Carole, and makes sure Pete isn’t alone for too long.

And then Carole comes to visit. She immediately folds her arms around Pete and welcomes him to the family.

It’s nice, feeling loved and wanted again.

It makes Pete yearn for Tom, for that familiar feeling of being loved and wanted. Carole and Nick are soulmates, had found each other when they were younger and from then on out refused to be without one another.

“She’s my soulmate, you know?” Nick says over lunch one day. “I’d see her in the mirror and just…know it was meant to be. That she’d be in my life for a long, long time. And then I met her and, yeah. Rest is history. I knew she was the one and that I’d do anything for her.”

Pete thinks about Tom, about the last few times he’s caught a glimpse of the other man in the mirror. It’s been comforting to see him again, the conversations they sneak in when they get the bathroom to themselves. It’s hard to find that time, living in barracks and keeping their bond a secret.

And then there’s the fact that Tom wears his Academy ring constantly, reminding Pete of what he didn’t get to do. It continues to sting, to dig at Pete and it gets to him. Makes him snap at Tom, makes him want to break their bond, if such a thing was possible. It’s a hum of irritation that lives under Pete’s skin and pushes him to test the limits.

It gets him in trouble. Him and Goose. They wind up getting sent all over the place, and Tom sighs each time he catches wind of Pete’s antics and new assignments.

And then there’s Penny Benjamin.

——

twenty three

“What the hell did you do this time?”

Pete grimaces, not entirely proud of the answer to the question, but he doesn’t regret what he did either.

“I flirted with Penny Benjamin. And may have gotten caught by her father.”

“You’re being sent to a carrier because you flirted with Admiral Benjamin’s daughter?”

“Goose and I got reassigned because the Navy needs us on that carrier."

“Bullshit, Pete.”

“It’s Maverick,” Pete shoots back, chin up, challenging Tom.

He knows he’s being an ass. He knows he was stupid with Penny, getting caught with her, sneaking her back to the house with her clothes disheveled and haphazardly thrown on. But he couldn’t deny that it was a rush to be with someone he chose and someone who was taboo for a different reason than Tom was taboo.

“Fine, Maverick,” Tom emphasizes, “you’re an idiot and I’m calling bullshit. Why are you getting reassigned?”

Pete sighs and rubs his face. “Tom - ”

“It’s Iceman.”

“Okay, Iceman,” Pete spits out. “I’m getting reassigned and the reason why is none of your business.”

“The fact that we’re talking through mirrors means it is my business.”

“And I didn’t ask to see you in a mirror!”

Tom looks shocked for a second, and then he schools his face and nods. “Fine. Be safe out there, Pacific’s been rough.”

——

It’s the last time they talk for a long time. Whenever Pete sees a glimpse of blonde hair in the mirror, it fades quickly.

Pete’s not proud of what he’d said to Tom, regrets his words even if he did mean them in a sense. He didn’t ask for a soulmate, he didn’t ask for Tom to be his soulmate, but that doesn’t mean he wants to change it, if he really thinks about it.

Tom Kazansky is his soulmate, for better or worse.

Time on the carrier passes, with flights and patrols and routines and letters from Carole, now Goose’s wife, and their son Bradley.

Pete never hears from Tom.

Until Top Gun.

Finally meeting in person doesn’t solve their issues. Things don’t magically fall into place and Pete and Tom aren’t suddenly in love and not pissed at each other.

They’re actually pissed at each other the whole time they’re in Miramar.

The whole situation with Charlie doesn’t help either.

Pete knows he’s pushing Tom’s buttons, pushing his limits. But he has to know if he can change fate, if anything he does will change the course of his life and things aren’t set in stone.

He’d been denied at Annapolis because of his dad, but he found a way into the Navy and made it to Top Gun despite everyone telling him he couldn’t do it. So there has to be some way for him to fight fate on this, on his soulmate.

It’s a tense six weeks, the hops and the trainings, the debriefs, the competition.

And then Tom and Pete are flying together and before he knows it, Pete’s in a flat spin and ejecting and Goose is gone. Goose is dead and he can’t help but feel it’s his fault.

He’d tried to outrun fate and lost his best friend.

——

twenty four

“Oh, thank god, where are you?” Tom asks the second he sees Pete in the mirror.

“What do you care?”

Pete’s voice is despondent, hollow. It breaks Tom’s heart even more and he can feel his eyes water. “You’re…you’re my soulmate, Pete. Of course I care.”

Pete’s silent, and Tom just watches his face.

“I’m at the airport. Charlie saw me. I don’t…I can’t do it. I can’t do this without Goose.”

“You can, I know it’ll feel weird, but you’re still a great pilot.”

“Not that great if I killed my best friend.”

Tom sucks in a sharp breath. He knew Pete was blaming himself. Knew Pete always blamed himself for people leaving or getting hurt, thinking himself the common denominator.

And Tom had no idea how to convince him that wasn’t the case.

——

There were a few weeks left of Top Gun when Pete left, and he still had enough points to graduate right behind Tom and Slider. They didn’t get a chance to talk in person, and honestly Tom didn’t know if Pete would want to.

And then they get sent to the Layton, and Pete clears away any doubt that he is an amazing pilot. He hits the throttles and makes it to Tom and saves his ass. The two of them fly together and take down the MIGs, landing back on the carrier for the celebration.

It goes on for a while, crews letting loose for the first time in a while and Tom and Pete get caught up in it, everyone wanting to pat them on the back.

Tom slips away, takes a break from it all sometime in the night, and winds up in the bathroom, studying his reflection in the sink.

Pete appears in the mirror behind him, like he has so many times before. But Tom knows it’s not just a reflection or an apparition now.

Pete’s here. Pete’s onboard the Layton. Pete saved his life and flew like a bat out of hell, like the pilot Tom knows he can be.

Tom meets Pete’s eyes in the mirror, shoots him a smile as he closes the bathroom door and locks them in. “Thanks for today.” Pete gives him a confused look. “Haven’t said it yet, and you did save my ass. So, thanks.”

Pete nods, face guarded and hands in his pocket, entire body projecting how nervous he is. “You’re welcome. And honestly, I just knew I had to. That I could do it, that I needed to do it. I had to save you. Had to make sure you came back.”

“Why?”

“Was just something in me,” Pete shrugs. “And I think I knew I needed to do it. Can’t lose you just yet.”

It’s the first time as an adult that Pete has come close to admitting what they are to each other. That they’re soulmates, meant to be and always connected. Tom waits for Pete to continue, to see what he’ll say next.

“I knew I’d miss you, and I’d be mad at myself for not saying anything to you, not apologizing for what an ass I’ve been in the past and especially about Goose. I know he was your friend, too, and that day wasn’t easy for you either. But really, I had to save you so I could do this.”

And then, Pete Mitchell spins him around and kisses him.

Pete Mitchell is kissing Tom Kazansky.

And Tom never wants Pete to stop kissing him.

Thomas Kazansky and Pete Mitchell are soulmates. It took them some time to admit it, many years and arguments, but their bond has always been strong. The kiss intensifies that, sparks coursing through them as Tom gets his hands on Pete’s shoulders, hauls him in closer, into his arms, and holds on to this man that he loves.

“Took you long enough to do that,” Tom whispers when they break apart for a breath. “I’ve been waiting since that first night in the O-Club.”

“I’m here now, and I’m not losing you. Not if I can help it.”

#my writing #top gun #top gun 1986 #pete mitchell #pete maverick mitchell #tom kazansky #tom iceman kazansky #icemav #fic stuff

[himbo-klown]

Satisfaction

Warning not prof read, grammar mistakes(naw like i suck at writing lmao), this post is just for fun, i also dont know how to use tumbler so like… this kinda looks ugly lol

Theme warnings!! This post does contain themes of mental illness, cannibalism used as a metaphor for love , violence, disruption of a grave, the main character is not a good person but hes not like… a monster??!. (If yall think i need to add other things then just say so pls!!) THE MAIN CHARACTERS CRINGE PLEASE!!!

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Little bit of context: This story is a submission for a creative writing contest! The theme was Taboo romance and I decided that a horror/thriller would be fun! If you know me irl or recognize this… no you don’t lmao?!?

This story is based off of the intense feelings that i have for my partner that i feel i’m not able to properly explain at times(im in therapy do guys lols) there’s also some refs to things we like lol

October 26th, 2023

It was never hard to tell that I was different from the other boys in school, or anybody for that matter. I was the kid girls would say ‘My homeboy wants you’ to or the kinda guy that was asked out as a joke, it got old after 5th grade but never stopped. Senior year was by far the worst one of them all, his name was Keith, and he wasn’t super pretty or anything like that, he was a nerd who would walk me to my bus stop and ramble on and on about how different Pokémon gods symbolized different things. I honestly liked him and he was cute, but i more than liked him, i wanted him all to myself, i still have a few of his leg hairs lying around; i like to sniff them to try and imagine how he tastes slow cooked like oxtail. 

December 15th, 2023

Nevermind he’s a weirdo and it turned out he liked Pokémon in unholy ways[someone check on his dog please], his meat was tainted so I lost interest in him. But my eyes didn't take long to wonder, there was a boy who was Canadian and he seemed rather nice, no he was beyond the kindness that any human should be able to give. He was like taking a bite of my first love [which i didn't know what it felt like, but i was guessing it was nice.] I loved talking to him honestly, he woke up around 8am and went to sleep at 12am but sometimes we went all night. I had no problem risking my sleep for him[it's not like my AP classes would be any better.] He was intoxicating, to say the least.

January 10th, 2024

I wanted him badly, like I wanted to wake up next to him, kiss him, hug him, I wanted to wine and dine him if I ever got the chance . The only problem was that well…he lived in Canada, he always talked of how he had mixed feelings about his country and I always told him that it could be worse. I mean he could be here for all he cares, but I'd never want my meat to be tainted by this land, these people[I'm such a proud American]. So I was going to go to him. I decided to save for the month. It was going to take a few overtime shifts and even snagging a couple of bucks from some buds but I was going to get the money and make it to canada.

February 10th, 2024

 The plane ride was rather boring without being able to text him, and even more so because the woman next to me didn't know social etiquette, like I was supposed to care that she got unlucky with life and contracted chlamydia. There was also this brony, which I found a sin in itself, but he smelled… like bad but it also made me snicker because it just reminds me of keith.

February 11th, 2024 6:27pm

Canada was a beautiful place but I had no reason to stay and admire it when all I cared for was my own appetite. But i couldn't help but let childish implusies pull me into a store full of valentine's day sales, what caught my eyes are the matching trolls cups, i couldn't help but get them wanting to see the response he would give to the gift[I love my adult money privileges].

February 12th-15th[was… busy?]

 I felt bad for him hes so nice and kind, so nice he just took me in without a second thought about how I found him or his home, we took a tour of his room and its nice it was just as nerdish as him, but i came here with a plan and i came here to execute it as such. His skin was nice, so I took some as my own and it hurt a lot. I think I splashed some blood on his favorite blanket, but anywho, why is the human skull so hard ? I thought it was gonna be like a nut and would just take a few hacks to crack it open but noooo he just had to be hard headed. I did get it open[almost breaking my wrist doing so] but I had no plans for a meal, I mean it's not every day you just cook up some brain, but we managed. I ended up using the brain for spaghetti; I mashed it all up to make meat balls and must I say they were delicious. His brain was so tender, it melted like butter, but it also had a slight chew to it, not a taint in sight. The ‘wine’ I had with it was a little thick but it was his so I drank without complaint. I was also quite proud of my cup purchase :D. Poppy was right… trolls do just wanna have fun

???, 2024 2:34 AM

 My head hurt, like a lot, I thought eating my love would make me feel better and full. Yet here I stand before his grave, my arms barely mobile as I dug him out, freeing him from the pits of the afterlife without me. A month he left me alone, a month with this hunger for more of him. His stupid casket was the thing that stood between me and my love, my satisfaction of being full.

There he was, as beautiful as the day I feasted upon him. I took my shirt off to show him that I still kept a piece of him with me. I touched his skin on my chest as I looked at mine on his. Death would never do us part so long as he had me attached to him. I would go through the redemptions of purgatory to see him flutter in the clouds of heaven. It felt like a sin to touch him again, to feel him to embrace him as I laid to rest beside him. Fresh tears poured down my face as I pulled the cover over the casket. This time I am not left behind, this time I am not alone.

“W-why — Why has your body left me so full, so satisfied. Yet I am starved for your love to grace me again.” I murmured softly as I caressed his face.

——————————————————————————————————

I hope you guys liked this… cus um im super proud of it even if it didn’t win!!!

#cannibalistic #horror #tabooromance #creative writing #dont do this shit #i do not condone #pls be nice #idk how tags work